The victory, when it came, had the bitter taste of poisons that both save and weaken.
A rider covered in dust, wearing the colors of one of Pilaf's elite units, crossed the lines at dawn on the second day. He wasn't fleeing; he was surrendering. His eyes were hollowed out by such deep terror that it had turned into a kind of lucid calm.
"They're fighting each other," he rasped before the Count and his hastily gathered staff. "The Gorges have become hell itself. Men see traitors in their own brothers-in-arms. A commander was slit open by his lieutenants—they thought he was a demon from the old times. The panic is total. They're retreating."
A wave of relief rippled through the gathering—quickly stifled by the glances cast toward the sick tent.
Rhelas's strategy had worked beyond all expectation. Pilaf was in rout, not under the blow of steel, but under the assault of its own demons.
The Count turned to Valerius.
