[piosenniel]

The army of the Eye had lost its leaders. They had withdrawn, disordered, taking their dead and wounded with them to the western end of the valley.

In the aftermath of the battle, the green field, where once the tents of the tribesmen stood, was now littered with the bodies of the dead and dying. Asim, the remaining Elder of the Baobab, was now in charge, and he directed those still able to stand and walk to bring the bodies of their fallen companions back to the eastern end of the field. Those injured were also to be brought back and placed in the large tent they had set up there.

Nasr had fished out the small basket of healing herbs and potions which Jamílah had kept for herself from the stock she sent with her daughters. Somewhat familiar with his wife’s and his wife’s mother’s healing skills, he moved among the injured - helping those he could, and easing the pain of those who were dying. Several others of the Baobab assisted him - the soft murmuring of their voices giving assurance to their fellows as they plied them with the herbs and unguents; their tears flowing freely as friends and family passed on.

When they were done, and all who could be saved were resting peacefully on their pallets, the men gathered the sixteen bodies of the fallen and placed them on a great pyre of dried wood. Their sightless eyes were closed, their faces, smoothed out in death were turned upward to the evening sky, their arms folded over their hearts. Alongside them were placed the four dogs which had fought so well against the intruders.

The pyre was lit from all four directions as the tribesmen stood in silence about it. To the north, just a small distance away could be seen the remainder of the Painted Sands tribe, attending to their own eighteen fallen comrades.

And when the flames leaped high, licking the shells of those who had fought against the shadow, Asim stepped forward, speaking softly the words of passing, his murmurings carried up in the flickering flames and smoke, his pauses punctuated by the crackling fire. Those left living, beat the ends of their weapons on the hard ground, in a steady staccato, a deep cry at their losses issuing from their throats in one voice.

Then it was done. The fire raged on, fueled by additional wood the tribesmen threw on the pyre. Asim conferred with Ahmad, now the leader for the Painted Sands. The tribes would gather the horses and move their remaining number to where the women and children awaited them.

The injured were gathered into a wagon drawn by two horses and driven by one of the Painted Sands’ men. Nasr and two of his companions rode in the wagon with the wounded, tending to their needs. Nasr said farewell to Bemah and his men, promising to come in the spring, when the goat kids were ready, for those that Husam had bargained about.

Against the dark, star studded desert sky, the twin flames that consumed their fellow tribesmen burned steadily . . . growing smaller in the distance as they made their way eastward.