The council tent reeked of blood and smoke.
The stench had seeped into the hides, into the wool cloaks of the kings, into the earth itself. Three days had passed since the Sea Peoples' night attack, and the pyres still burned on the beach, sending columns of dark smoke into the grey winter sky. The bodies of the dead had been burned with honour, but the smell of them lingered, a constant reminder of what had happened in the dark.
The kings gathered once more, but this time there was no bickering. No posturing. The laughter of the Sea Peoples echoed in every man's mind, and it had stripped away any illusions they might have had. They were not the hunters anymore. They were the hunted. And they all knew it.
