Alistair doesn't dismount, tight one-handed hold on his horse's reins keeping the animal restrained to kicking up sand in a slow, agitated circle around the congregating group. He's standing in the stirrups even now that they've come to a rest, because Erimond is slung across horse's back in front of him, limp as a ragdoll, and sitting down properly would mean holding the bastard on his lap. He'd rather not.

"Go back for who?" he says, but his eyes have finished scanning and counting before he's done asking the question.

His shoulders would have sagged if they'd lost anyone, but they sag a little extra, for Hercules.