The Devil's armour

30

A breeze from the desert sighed through the streets of Jador’s outlying town. Gilwyn Toms lifted his head, thinking he heard the stirrings of men. From the outskirts of the city, amid the old constructs of northern merchants and the newly built homes of Seekers, he could see the night-blanketed sands, lit with starlight and peppered by the torches of Aztar’s army. It seemed to him that the sun had fled quickly this evening, leaving only dread. He watched the desert for a moment and, realising the raiders were not yet on the move, forced himself to be calm. All around him, the outskirts of Jador had been abandoned by women and children, leaving only able-bodied men to defend the streets. Inside the city’s white wall, Jador itself was filled to bursting now. Every home within the wall — even the palace — was crammed with people, all of whom shared his dread of the morning.

Gilwyn took a breath as he watched the desert. Edgy nerves made his stomach pitch, for he knew what the darkness hid. He had seen them through the eyes of his kreels — a great mounted mass of men in gakas with scimitars. Aztar’s flag flew in that darkness, rallying the nearly two thousand Voruni he’d brought with him. Hardly more than a mile away, the raiders camped and awaited the morning. They were a great force now. Worse, Salina’s message had given them less than a week to prepare, and though Minikin had rallied her forces too, they were not so many as Aztar commanded. Jador still suffered shortages of everything, still lingered under the effects of its last battle a year ago, and they had only been able to field two hundred kreel riders. Was it enough, Gilwyn wondered?

He turned and tended to his own kreels. This time, he had more than just Emerald to look after. Though there remained a shortage of trained riders, Minikin had let him travel into the eastern valley, the breeding ground of the reptiles. It had been an exhausting two-day journey there and back, but he had returned with forty of the creatures, all of them too young for riders but easily swayed by his newly discovered gift. As though they were chicks and he a mother hen, they had followed him out of the valley all the way back to Jador. Now they stayed apart from the other kreels, in a penned area between buildings near the border of the desert. The pen had been built in his absence, and though it was not comfortable for the young kreels it was only temporary. In the morning, they would be loosed.

‘Poor things.’ Gilwyn reached out to them, probing their intelligent brains. Even in their restful state they answered him. They seemed to know what the morning held. They had seen the other kreels around them, ridden by Jadori men with weapons. The activity around their pen interested them. They were ready.

Gilwyn leaned over the fence, resting his chin on his arms. It wasn’t fair that these creatures would battle tomorrow, yet oddly they had accepted their fate. More, they seemed to anticipate it. A large one of the group opened its eyes, raising its scaly head to stare at Gilwyn through the darkness. The bright reptilian orbs acknowledged his fears. With Ruana’s help Gilwyn answered the beast.

You are a noble creature, he said without words. I am sorry you must fight with us.

The kreel had no language to reply directly, just a preternatural connection. Gilwyn sensed the creature’s eagerness. Jador was their land, too. They would defend it willingly. Making its point, the kreel’s scales riffled through colours, from green to gold to angry red. Gilwyn smiled, thanking the kreel with a nod.

Around the pen, men and animals moved in preparation for battle. Kamar, Gilwyn’s friend and a leader among the Jadori, inspected the defences and shouted orders to his men. Ghost was nearby, too. Always willing to fight, the albino had insisted on a place near the edge of the desert. He was eager to ride out and face the raiders and had said so, but tonight he was quiet as he patrolled the western edge. Ghost was only one of the Inhumans to answer Minikin’s call. There were many others who had come from Grimhold and who now waited with Minikin inside the white wall, preparing for the clash. Even great Greygor had come. The guardian of Grimhold now guarded the gates of Jador with his massive armour and silent tongue, but in the morning he would join them on the field. The thought made Gilwyn prideful.

‘Such good people, all of them,’ he whispered. He was glad for the chance to fight with them, though he wished Thorin and Lukien were with him. He missed them sorely, and once again his mood collapsed. The world — his world — was spinning out of control.

‘Gilwyn?’

The call of his name started him, and Gilwyn turned at once. Coming toward him was a man he hadn’t expected to see, but whose presence buoyed him nonetheless. Paxon, the man he and Lukien had saved from Aztar’s raiders weeks ago, had decided to stay outside the walls and join them in the fight. Surprisingly, most of the able-bodied male Seekers had made the same choice. Now, as he strode toward the pen, Gilwyn could see he had dressed for war, donning a mix of Jadori and Akari armour taken from the city and the caverns beneath Grimhold. A peculiar helmet rested on his head, old but oddly suitable for the weathered man. A sword dangled from his belt, hidden in a battered leather sheath. Paxon looked older these days. The cancer that had brought him to Jador for a cure had asserted itself, leaving him gaunt.

‘Paxon?’ Gilwyn called. ‘Hello.’

The man greeted him with a nod, his expression serious. He looked over the pen filled with kreels.

‘They’ll rest here for the night,’ Gilwyn explained. ‘Before dawn I’ll move them into position.’

‘They’ll be part of the desert fight?’ asked Paxon. ‘Or the defence?’

‘The defence will be inside the city wall, if it comes to that,’ said Gilwyn. ‘These kreels will be fighting first.’

Paxon nodded grimly. Like Ghost and Kamar and others, he too would be part of the desert battle, the first clash. The Jadori had all agreed to this strategy, to take advantage of their kreels, which were far more suited to the desert sands than horses. But that also meant that Paxon might well die in the morning. To Gilwyn’s great surprise, he didn’t seem to care. He had given up trying to get into ‘Mount Believer’. And when offered the chance to be kept safe in the walls of Jador he had dismissed it, sending his friend Calith and the others inside instead. After all his disappointment, Gilwyn wondered why he chose to fight.

Inside the penned area, the kreels continued to sleep, only occasionally cocking their heads to look or listen. Paxon watched them, fascinated.

‘Paxon?’ Gilwyn prodded. ‘Is there something you need?’

The older man turned away from the kreels to face him. ‘I heard others talking, Gilwyn,’ he said. ‘They say that the Mistress of Grimhold is speaking tonight.’

Gilwyn nodded. ‘That’s right. She’s called some of us back to the wall, to talk about tomorrow.’

‘May I come with you?’ Paxon asked.

The request surprised Gilwyn. ‘I suppose. It’s not a secret meeting or anything. I think she just wants to see us, to tell us what we can expect.’

‘What can we expect?’

Gilwyn was circumspect. ‘It won’t be easy, Paxon,’ he confessed. ‘I’ve seen Aztar’s army.’

‘You’ve seen them?’ Paxon looked at him oddly. ‘You scouted them?’

‘In a way,’ replied Gilwyn. He evaded the question, because explaining his abilities always took too long. ‘But others have seen, too. Falouk has sent scouts out — you’re part of his group, aren’t you?’

Paxon nodded. He was to fight under Falouk, a Jadori commander, along with other northerners. They would be on foot, for there were no horses for any of them. Falouk had given up his kreel to lead them.

‘Falouk will be there to hear Minikin speak, I’m sure,’ Gilwyn continued. ‘But you can come with me if you like.’

Paxon’s expression grew strangely sad. ‘I’ve never been inside the city,’ he said. ‘It looks very beautiful.’

Gilwyn smiled. ‘Paxon, you know if there had been room for you all. .’

‘I know,’ said Paxon. He put up a hand. ‘I bear no grudges. You didn’t invite us here. We came because of a rumour.’

‘A dream, perhaps,’ offered Gilwyn. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’

‘You let us live here. I’m grateful for that.’

‘Is that why you’re fighting with us?’

Paxon thought for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘At least the others have a life here, and it’s been better than our life in Liiria. I didn’t think it would be, but we’ve all grown accustomed to this place.’ He looked around with melancholy. The outskirts of Jador weren’t a slum, but they weren’t grand either. ‘A man should fight for his home.’

‘Forgive me, Paxon, but I must say this — you are not a well man. Maybe you should join the others inside the city walls. You’ll be safe there, as long as the Voruni don’t break through.’

Paxon put a hand onto his sword pommel. ‘No. My job is to make sure they don’t get through.’ He smiled at Gilwyn. ‘I’m dead anyway, young fellow. I’ve lived a good life, and I brought those people here. Now I have to defend them.’

There was nothing Gilwyn could say to counter his words. Paxon was right — whether dead by cancer or dead by scimitar, it didn’t really matter.

‘Let me finish up here,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll go see Minikin.’

At midnight exactly, Minikin ascended the white wall.

The wall itself had not been built for war. It was much more an embellishment than a defence, and as such there were few places along its length for anyone to climb and get a look at the city. In the time before the coming of the northerners, the wall was erected simply as a thing of beauty. But the war with Akeela had changed all that, and in the year since, the hastily built battlements along the wall had remained, marring its beauty but affording Jador’s defenders a good view of the desert beyond the outskirts. Tonight, Jador was crammed with people, all of whom looked to Minikin for reassurance. In the days since Princess Salina’s warning had arrived, Minikin had mobilised the people of Jador both within and outside the wall, and now they stood ready to defend their home. But their faces were tight and full of fear, and as they watched the little mistress climb the wall they kept their eyes skyward.

Minikin said nothing as she made her way up the white stone stairway. Above her, Jadori archers manned the tower, the only real defensive structure in the city. The tower guarded the gate and the gate was swelled with people now. Moments ago their chatter filled the night, but when they noticed Minikin a hush fell quickly over them. Dark-skinned Jadori men unwrapped their gakas to see her, and northerners from every continental country looked up in awe. Her Inhumans had come, too, in good number. They had left the safety of Grimhold to stand beside the people of Jador and offer their unique gifts. Minikin, in her long, coloured coat and with long white hair, felt the power of their thoughts. Against her chest the amulet that gave her strength blazed madly as Lariniza encouraged her up the stairs. She had spent hours in prayer with Lariniza, pulling together the plans for this great struggle, begging the Akari for guidance in the absence of her brother Amaraz.

And Lariniza had listened to her prayers. Together, their plans were laid.

At the top of the stairway, Minikin paused a moment to look out over the crowd. They had swamped the main thoroughfare around the gate. Over her shoulder, the fires of Aztar’s army twinkled across the desert, a deadly reminder of the dreaded morn. Minikin looked down at her people — her beloved Inhumans, her cherished Jadori, even the Seekers who had come to call the city home. Her hands shook. She was not accustomed to leading battles, and wished mightily for Kadar’s company. A year ago, he had rallied the city against Akeela. But the old kahan had died in that battle. Now his mantle fell to Minikin.

The crowd fell silent. Looking up at her, she saw reverence in their eyes. At the base of the wall stood Gilwyn. The young regent of Jador was flanked by Kamar, the fine warrior who had so much on his back now. Ghost was near him too, his albino face eager and shining. Among them stood ranks of Jadori men, who could not speak the tongue of her native land but who — through the power of her amulet — would hear her translated words in their ears. Behind the Jadori men stood the Inhumans, a hundred of them able-bodied enough to fight. With their Akari spirits and the gifts bestowed them, they would help Minikin defeat the desert horde. The Seekers — hundreds of them — stood apart from the Jadori and Inhumans. Many of them women and children, they waited for Minikin’s words. Some had never seen the Mistress of Grimhold, and so let their jaws hang open in awe. Mingled with them were the folk of Jador, those who were not warriors but who had nevertheless vowed to fight if the Voruni breached their city.

Amid these mingled faces, one figure stood apart from the crowd, one enormous man casting his shadow against the emptiness around him. Greygor, the giant guardian of Grimhold’s gate, had come with the other Inhumans to Jador, the first time in years he had been away from the keep. A lifetime ago, Greygor had been a Ganjeese man, and beneath his heavy armour he was that still, but he was an Inhuman now, his broken bones held together by Akari magic. Of all those who would fight tomorrow, Greygor was surely their greatest weapon. Like Minikin’s bodyguard Trog, Greygor stood eight feet tall in his heavy boots, his intimidating width enhanced by iron spikes across his shoulders. His meaty hand rested on a battle axe as he looked up at Minikin through the eyeslits in his helmet. Their minds touched. For all the loyalty she felt in him, Minikin feared she would weep.

But she did not weep. She pulled her expression together, making it like steel. At the edge of the wall she swept out her arms, as if to embrace those who had assembled for her, and beamed a confident smile over them.

‘Friends. .’

Her coat hanging open, the Eye of God glowed at her chest. She felt Lariniza pouring over the wall, touching the mind of every foreign speaker and making her words comprehensible.

‘You have gathered with me on a dreadful eve,’ she said, ‘to see a morning I had hoped would never come again. A year ago we fought together, defending this very spot against invaders who defiled us, who raped this fine city without regard. And now, another dragon comes to devour us.’

She paused as her words took hold. The many faces looking up at her nodded. Among them stood Gilwyn, biting his lip and listening in earnest. Their eyes met briefly.

‘The enemies at our gate are no less determined this time,’ Minikin continued. ‘They hate us for what we are — a free haven. Look around and see the faces of those nearest you, and you’ll see what they hate and fear. We are no two alike. We do not all pledge ourselves to the same god or flag. Jador has become a beacon to the world, and because of that the Voruni want us dead.’ Minikin held her breath a moment, then said, ‘But they will not succeed.’

Her proclamation broke her audience’s silence, and every voice rose in a cheer. The crowd’s defiant music rose up over the wall, spilling over Minikin, giving her strength.

‘Yes!’ she cried, pointing toward the desert. ‘Let them hear you! Let Aztar and his men know the stuff we are made of!’

She let the gathered howl in defiance, cursing their enemies in the desert and building up their own courage. After a moment she held up a hand to silence them again.

‘None of us wanted this, I know,’ she said. She was gentle suddenly, feeling the pain of her own heart. ‘You Seekers most of all. You came here for a life better than the lives you left behind. But war has a way of following even the best of us.’

Again she paused, considering her words. It was true that the haven she had built had been cracked open like an eggshell. Once Grimhold had only been a legend, and Jador its quiet, peaceable defender. That was over now, and it saddened her.

‘In the morning we will fight,’ she went on. ‘And I will not lie to you — many will quite probably die. But you will know why you die, and for what good cause. I see it in your faces.’ She grasped the amulet with her tiny fingers. ‘I feel it in your minds.’ She closed her eyes and smiled, sensing the great warmth of their commitment. ‘Ah, it is like a wave! And it can never be stopped, not by any prince or tyrant. Jador will go on.’

The crowed raised their hands, defying Aztar and his horde. In the farthest ranks even the Jadori children shouted, though Minikin knew they did not understand or fathom the true fate that might befall them. Her dark eyes lingered on them. They were the most innocent of the crowd, born without say into the centre of this cauldron.

Oh, help me, Lariniza, she pleaded, looking out over the crowd and hiding her lament from her fellow Inhumans. Don’t let this happen. .

Lariniza’s reply was gentle as summer rain. Minikin, I am with you. We will stop this together, as we have planned.

Minikin nodded, though the prospect grieved her. If we must.

If we must.

Like her brother Amaraz, there was steel in Lariniza. She would not let Grimhold be destroyed, no matter the cost. Minikin struggled to smile at her gathered people.

‘Friends, will you obey me on the morrow?’ she asked. ‘My Inhumans especially. My children. Will you do as I ask? Will you give of yourselves to save this place?’

Not really understanding the depth of her meaning, the Inhumans in the crowd hurriedly replied.

‘Yes!’ they shouted, and banged their feet against the ground. ‘We are with you, Minikin!’

Of them, only Gilwyn and Greygor were silent; Greygor because he never spoke, Gilwyn because his heart was troubled.

‘Fix your swords and your minds to the battle,’ Minikin told them. ‘Forget that these are men we fight, or that this place is sworn to life. And do not be shocked by what you might see. Trust in me, and know there is no other way to defend our lives than to spill blood on the sands.’

Then, knowing she had no more to say, Minikin turned from the gathering and began her slow descent down the stairway. The crowd still watching her, she was silent as she made her way through them, ignoring even her beloved Inhumans. Trog was quickly on her heels, blocking her from sight as the little mistress made her way to the wall’s tower.

There, she would await the coming morn.

It was the coming morning that was on the mind of King Lorn the Wicked, too. Across the Desert of Tears, north enough from Aztar’s army to keep themselves hidden, Lorn and his companions had made camp for the night after an exhausting day of riding. They had not stopped until the last sliver of sunlight disappeared, and then only reluctantly, for they had been in the desert for days now and knew they were very near Jador. Princess Salina had supplied them with everything they needed for the journey across the desert, including fresh horses and donkeys and two wagons with large wheels specially designed for the desert sands, which was hard in places but soft as a bog in others.

Lorn was happy to be rid of their old mounts and equipment. Now he had a horse of his own to ride, a fine gelding with a military gait that easily bore his weight. After three days in the desert it still amazed Lorn that Salina had been so willing to help them. Along with Kamag and Dahj and some hidden others, she had created something not unlike a smuggling ring or one of those misguided slave-freeing cabals that had so often troubled him while king. The desert had given him time to think about the young princess and about the risk she had placed herself under. She was an amazing girl, really, and Lorn admired her. Absently he poked a thin stick into their small campfire, his mind still turning on her. Someday, perhaps, he could repay her kindness. If he ever made it back to Ganjor. If he ever had anything valuable to give her. If he didn’t die fighting Aztar.

So many dark possibilities. Lorn’s smile twisted on his bearded face. It was late now, and most of the exhausted Believers slept. Only Eiriann sat by him near the fire, nursing Poppy. His daughter had been restless during their journey through the desert, disturbed by the sun which never gave them quarter during the day. Eiriann sat peaceably as she nursed the child, her face flushed from the day’s heat, a skin of water on the sand beside her. She looked beautiful, so young she made Lorn feel old. She made no effort to hide herself as she nursed the child, either, letting the top she wore hang freely open. Lorn glanced up from the fire and stole a longing look at her. She caught him and, unembarrassed, clasped her clothing closed a bit.

‘You look good with the child,’ he decided out loud. ‘She belongs with you now.’

Eiriann’s reaction was impossible to read, for she merely smiled demurely at Poppy. It surprised Lorn how unafraid she was about their danger. She was a girl of boundless faith, not only in the magic of Mount Believer but in him, too. She was sure he would protect them, and the added burden made Lorn ever more determined to do so.

‘You look like Rinka sitting there,’ he said softly.

‘Your wife?’ Eiriann asked.

Lorn nodded. ‘She was young, like you.’

Eiriann held Poppy a bit closer. ‘You never speak of her.’

‘No?’ Lorn thought about that and realised she was right. ‘Perhaps there is not so much to tell. She was young and I was old and I was fortunate to have her. Rinka was not like other women. She was like you, Eiriann — wilful.’

‘Oh, now that’s not a good thing for a Norvan woman, is it?’

‘It’s not an insult.’

‘It sounded like one.’

‘It was not meant to,’ said Lorn. ‘Rinka was kind and good and everything else a woman should be, but she was also strong. I admired that in her. It is not easy to find women like that. I miss her.’

At last he had said something to make Eiriann uncomfortable. She looked at him over the fire, her lips disappearing in confusion. Her expression made him weak.

‘Why do you think so well of me?’ he asked. ‘Why, when everyone else thinks me a butcher? Rinka saw good in me, too, but I never understood it.’ He shook his head, exasperated. ‘No matter what I did she stayed with me. All of Norvor thought me a tyrant at the end, but not her. Not her, ever. .’

Angrily he tossed his stick into the fire and stood up.

‘I don’t know what’s happening to me,’ he sneered. ‘Why am I thinking of this tonight? I have a battle to win!’

‘Are you afraid?’ asked Eiriann.

‘I have never been afraid,’ said Lorn. But then he looked at Poppy lying helplessly in Eiriann’s arms, and knew he had lied. ‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘I am afraid. I’m afraid for all of you. You’re all trusting me, and what have I led you to? Death in the desert.’

‘You don’t know that,’ said Eiriann. ‘And we came of our own choice.’

‘Aye, like fools you followed me into this.’ Lorn kicked angrily at the earth, unable to look at her. ‘You followed me like so many others, and like so many others I’ve brought you ruin.’

‘A new life,’ Eiriann corrected. ‘That’s what you’ve brought us. I would rather die here in the desert than starve in Liiria, never having tried to make it here.’

It was the answer Rinka would have given. Lorn looked at Eiriann helplessly, and knew that he loved her now. She was a tiger. Her fearlessness brought out the king in him.

‘Eiriann,’ he said seriously, ‘I want you to be careful tomorrow. We’re not far from Jador now. That means we’re not far from Aztar, either.’

The young woman nodded. ‘I know.’

‘Do as I say. Do you hear? Keep yourself and Poppy safe.’

‘Yes, Lorn, I understand,’ said Eiriann. Poppy had stopped nursing and was squirming at her breast, but the woman continued looking up at him. There was more he wanted to say to her, and Eiriann waited for it.

‘Promise me you’ll do as I say,’ said Lorn. ‘Promise me you’ll keep yourself safe.’

‘I promise.’

For a moment they stared at each other, letting the unspoken thing hang between them. Eiriann’s eyes were full of patience as she waited for Lorn to speak the words on the tip of his tongue. But the words would not tumble.

‘Good,’ he said finally. ‘Then we should rest. Tomorrow will be upon us soon enough.’

‘Yes,’ said Eiriann. Was it disappointment on her face? Relief? Lorn couldn’t say.

Realising he would say no more, Eiriann closed her shirt and took Poppy off to sleep.

Sleep was far from the mind of Prince Aztar as he finished his prayers beneath the starlit sky. He had met with his Zarturks — his generals — and had already laid confident plans for the siege tomorrow. His men — over a thousand of them — had settled down for the night to sleep or tell stories or simply to clean their weapons and wonder about the morning. After meeting with his Zarturks, Aztar had declined their requests to drink and dine with them, a tradition among the Voruni on the eve of battle. Instead he had wandered a league away to be alone and to pray undisturbed in the desert. There, amid the scorpions and sleeping rass, he had knelt on the warm sand and unwrapped his dark headdress, divesting himself to his god, Vala. Spreading his arms, he prayed to the deity for strength and victory and the usual things a man would ask of a god before battle, but he also prayed for understanding and peace of heart. His was a good and gentle god. His god wept over innocent death. And as Aztar prayed, he prayed as much to explain himself as he did for victory, and hoped the lord of the heavens understood his need.

They had come like a plague across his desert, Aztar told Vala, bringing disease and false gods with them. Jador had become an evil place, and if the great Desert of Tears was ever again to be godly it had to be cleansed. It had to be; there was no choice for Aztar.

So he declared himself the instrument of his god, Vala’s right hand, and with tears in his dark eyes begged the Serene One to forgive the blood he might shed in battle.

‘Let the blood feed your desert, Vala,’ he pleaded. ‘See the good in what I do for you.’

Aztar bowed his head to the sand and kissed the desert, finishing his prayer. For a moment he remained on his knees. Surrendering himself to Vala always drained him. The touch of the god on his soul was indelible, sometimes crippling. Aztar wiped the tears from his face and slowly stood. The desert was remarkably quiet. He could see the dimming fires of his men, but he could not hear the soldiers. Nor could he hear the defiant cries from the Jadori. He turned toward that distant city, barely visible now, and regretted having to destroy it.

‘The desert demands it,’ he told himself. Lowering himself again, he scooped up a handful of sand and let the stuff seep carefully through his fingers. The desert was his lover. From the time he was a boy he had worshipped it. But he knew it was not just the desert demanding the death of Jador. He had other, more mortal reasons for his plans.

He only hoped Vala understood that, too.

Aztar turned from his prayer place and began walking very slowly back to his men. It did not surprise him at all to see the figure of Baraki, his half brother, waiting for him near a dune. Baraki greeted him with a furrowed brow. As one of Aztar’s trusted Zarturks, Baraki wore a gaka trimmed with gold and a red sash across his waist. He was a large man, heavier than his half brother but with the same piercing eyes as their shared mother. And like Aztar, Baraki had no weapon on his person, for to bring a blade to prayer was a high heresy.

‘You have prayed?’ Baraki asked his brother. The moon was gone almost completely, and Aztar could barely see the man’s face.

‘I have,’ Aztar answered. He paused before his half brother. ‘It is well.’

‘Hmm, you look. . troubled,’ Baraki said. ‘You are thinking of the girl still.’

Aztar had never been able to hide the truth from him. Not when he had stolen confections as a boy, nor now, when his aching heart betrayed him.

‘I am,’ Aztar admitted. He looked down at the sand and shrugged. ‘She haunts me always, brother, and I cannot keep my mind from her. I should have prayed about this, but I did not. I simply asked Vala to forgive me for the blood I shed tomorrow.’

‘You cannot keep the truth from him, Aztar. Vala knows the desires of men’s hearts.’

It was that which troubled Aztar most of all, for he knew not all his reasons for attacking Jador were noble. He wanted Salina, and by taking Jador he might have her, or so said King Baralosus. Aztar did not trust the old king completely, but he knew that Jador was a gift not even Baralosus could ignore.

‘I will cleanse the desert for Vala,’ Aztar said. ‘That should be enough. And if I get Salina in the bargain, I think the Serene One will be glad for me.’

‘And Shalafein? What if he is protected by the Serene One as well?’

‘Impossible,’ said Aztar. It was a rumour that had always disgusted him. ‘Tomorrow I shall kill the Bronze Knight at last. I shall do it myself to prove my worthiness to Vala. Then he will not be angry with me. Then he will grant me Salina.’

Baraki did not argue, though Aztar could tell his brother did not totally like his logic. But it did not matter to Aztar. He had already made his peace with his decision.