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(Back to Mardek… A few hours later, that night…)
Mardek didn't run so much as leak away from the battlefield, a grin scraped off his face and left somewhere in the sand. He came back to the last rally point with a torn sleeve, a stiff shoulder, and a look that made his own men step aside without being told.
Of the thousand he had led into the desert, barely a thread returned with him. It was just over a hundred, counting the ones who stumbled in at dusk after hiding behind dunes. Seven hundred plus died in the sand. The rest had scattered when the roar broke their knees.
They made a camp because they had to, not because they believed in it. The "camp" was three slumped lines of tents around a cook fire that wouldn't catch. The wind had more shape than their banners. The men who could stand tied lines, boiled water, and went about the motions of a night they didn't want to see.
"Count," Mardek said.
