The army straggled from the town, circumnavigating the killing field with its mounds of dead and flocks of carrion birds. Dark creatures had partially consumed many of the bodies during the night, exposing meat and bones. Mirra held a hand over her nose to try to block out the stench, and even some of the soldiers did the same. The bodies had not yet started to rot, but the dried blood and spilt entrails gave off singularly foul odour.
Bane seemed unperturbed, but she could only guess at his expression, since he faced ahead. He struck her as a fastidious person, and she imagined he would find the foetor as unpleasant as she did.
They had travelled about two miles when the grey stallion cantered out of the woods. He approached Mirra, trailing broken reins, his fancy harness smeared with dirt and blood. She stroked his nose, and he followed, nudging her. Laughing, she looked up as Bane glanced back.
“He wants to carry me.”
He stopped the demon steed. “I suppose he told you that?” he enquired sarcastically.
She found nothing odd about that. “Yes, of course.”
Bane swung the steed and charged the warhorse, which bolted back into the woods, and he returned to scowl at her. “I am not a fool. You will walk!”
She lowered her eyes. “Yes, Bane.”