There was a lot of screaming.

Water drenched Radu. Someone had thrown a bucket at the wagon and soaked Radu more than the wood. A flash of movement in the trees caught Radu’s attention, and he threw himself from his horse, shouting as he drew his sword and ran for the enemy.

There was an arm, a scream, a flash of an eye showing white all around the iris, and then—

And then there was a body at his feet, his sword red with a terrible knowledge. Radu threw his head back in a howl of triumph. All he saw among the trees were men running, away from him, away from the wagon train. They had won.

He had won.

No one had been there to protect him, not this time, and he had—

He looked down.

The enemy—the terrible threat that he had single-handedly ended—was a boy. His wrists were knobby, his elbows sharp points. His eyes, wide and wondering with death, were orbs in a gaunt face that told of hunger and desperation. And so very, very few years.

Radu dropped to his knees and reached out. His hand hovered over the hole he had made that tore this boy from life. He had shot arrows at enemies before, had probably killed before, but never like this. Never with a face right there to fall still and cold with the question of why.

“Radu?”

A hand came down on his shoulder. “Radu, are you hurt?”

Radu twitched away with a shudder. “I will scout ahead.” He stumbled back to his horse, galloping beyond the train, beyond the line, beyond the last scouts kneeling on the ground around one of their dead. When he had left them all behind, he gasped for air but could not find it.

For the first time ever, his life had been in danger and no one had been there to save him. He had saved himself.

But no one had saved that boy in the forest, and Radu cried for him, wishing that someone had.

Radu threw down his maps, rubbing his face wearily. “We could burn down the trees.”

“Which trees?” Lazar leaned back, stretching his long legs and smiling with lazy amusement. He spent more time in Radu’s tent than his own as the siege dragged interminably and the lines between ranks broke down. Five months they had been here. Five months.

“All of them. All the trees from here to Italy. All the trees everywhere. Any tree that could hide Skanderberg and his damnable men along any route our supply trains travel.”

“Did you hear? The Venetians have announced they will no longer sell us supplies.”

Radu sighed, the thick pole in the middle of his tent supporting his weight as he leaned against it. “Well, that solves the problem of how to guard the wagons, at the very least. If we have no supplies, Skanderberg’s men cannot attack and steal them.”

“Winter is nearly here. We will freeze before we starve, if that is any comfort.”

Radu stood. “You are late to visit the women of the camp.” Lazar spent much of his free time with the prostitutes that accompanied the soldiers. At first Radu had pretended not to notice, but now, as with everything else, he no longer cared.

“I like to make them miss me sometimes, too. I am generous with my love. I have enough for everyone.” He climbed onto Radu’s cot, lying back with a look that pretended at innocence. He was getting bolder, deliberately teasing when they were alone, and Radu did not know how to handle it. He cared about Lazar, valued his friendship and counsel, but…

He was in no mood to try to answer the question. Rather than facing Lazar, he walked out into the night. Smoke hung heavy on the air. Radu breathed it in, made it a part of himself. He was certain the smoke had lodged permanently in his nose, and he would never be able to smell anything else.

The careful rows they had laid out five months ago had decayed into a rambling warren of tents, muddy quagmires, and trash heaps. Radu avoided the worst parts, skirting campfires where men gathered, eyes permanently narrowed and fists clenched.

Kumal’s tent grew from the midst of the camp like a diseased mushroom. Radu ducked inside, nodding at the grim-faced servants. The air was too close, a subtle, sour odor of sickness inescapable. He could, it turned out, smell something other than smoke.

He made his way quietly to Kumal’s cot, then sat on the rug next to it. Kumal’s face was sunken, his eyelids pulled so thin over his eyes that Radu could see each delicate vein beneath the skin. Too many in the camp were sick, with disease running rampant after so long in such close quarters. At least Kumal had the dignity of dying in privacy.

Kumal raised a hot, dry hand, and Radu took it in his own.

“How are you today, my friend?”

Kumal’s lips cracked as he parted them in a smile. “I am well,” he rasped.