Sesus Eshuvar stood in the middle of the road, watching the wagons go. He'd been only a few months out of the Heptagram when they first set out on the Hunt. River had noticed how young he'd seemed, then: tall and gangly, practiced but not yet polished, trying to find the proper line between self-assured hauteur and polite deference. Now there was a slump to his shoulders, as though he'd aged twenty years overnight.
Next to Eshuvar, Kingfisher Swift leaned heavily on her mace, her unit's standard propped beside her. Her legion's talon had made up the bulk of the Hunt's forces, and now she was all that remained. Swift was a lost egg who'd taken the coin; she couldn't be more than a dozen years into her service. River might have asked if Swift wished she'd taken the razor instead, but, well. That wouldn't necessarily have kept her away from this disaster. River herself was proof of that.
The Immaculate Order had arranged this Wyld Hunt, mustered the might of the Realm and sent them on the trail of two Anathema who were preying on the people north of the River Province. The Order had provided the intelligence and placed one of their most promising monks in charge of the expedition. He'd been a solid leader, brave and competent, right up until the Wretched slew him.
Now River was the last Immaculate still breathing, and it fell to her to finish the Hunt.