The battle was over at last, though no side felt any triumph. There was no cheer, no praise of victory, only the muted shuffle of boots and the pitiful groans of the wounded. Men moved through the camp, dragging the defeated from where they had fallen, binding them with coarse ropes.
Alpheo stood apart, watching as twenty-five of Arkawatt's men were hauled forward. Some still trembled, their hands shaking as their weapons were stripped from them. Swords, shields, and pieces of polished armor,once so proudly borne, were tossed aside, claimed almost immediately by Alpheo's soldiers.
Horses, denied their riders in the cramped melee, were rounded up as well. Egil took their reins, his expression unreadable, though Alpheo knew what the man was thinking: more mounts meant more men could be raised later.
And he probably deserved a reward....
Alpheo's eyes moved to the other defeated soldiers.
