The Devil's armour

31

Morning came slowly across the desert, painting it gold. From his place on Emerald’s back Gilwyn watched the sunrise, watched it peel away the darkness to reveal Aztar’s forces, and knew that this perfect morning might be his last.

Aztar’s men had lined up in two great ranks along the sand. The banners of the desert prince barely stirred in the breezeless air. As the light began to shine, Gilwyn saw the army clearly. The Tiger of the Desert had brought his nearly two thousand men just a half-mile from Jador. With machinelike precision they waited atop their groomed warhorses — great beasts with glimmering coats and Ganjeese saddles. They were divided roughly evenly between the two ranks. Gilwyn saw at least a thousand in the rear. Among them, Prince Aztar waited on a sandy hill, flanked by Voruni warriors. From his place among his companions Gilwyn could see the prince upon his horse, small as a speck yet frightening to behold. A gold and black headdress wrapped his bearded face. His horse — a black monster — stood apart from the others, giving the prince an imperious air.

Previously, Prince Aztar had never come himself to battle the Jadori. It was the first time any of them had seen the Tiger, and now their ranks buzzed with curious talk. Nervous talk, the kind from frightened men. Gilwyn glanced at their faces and was glad to see resolve there. Afraid or not, they were prepared for battle. Facing Aztar’s forces, they had marched or ridden out from Jador an hour earlier when the first glint of sunlight peered over the horizon. They had arranged themselves the way they had drilled — in two long ranks on the western edge of the city, safely away from the outskirts, in the sand where the multi-toed feet of their kreels would have the advantage. Prince Aztar’s men, all on horses, had watched as they’d taken their positions, arranging their defences. They had watched without moving, almost without a sound.

So sure were they of victory.

Gilwyn and his forty kreels waited patiently in the rear rank, made up of men on foot. They were northerners, mostly, with Paxon among them. Gilwyn could see Paxon some yards away, anxiously gripping his already-drawn sword. Falouk, the Jadori warrior who would lead them, stood nearby. Falouk had no kreel; he had given it over to another warrior so that he might lead the foreigners. Falouk was a man of bold talk and action, and the three hundred men he led — all from other countries — gathered close to him as they waited, leaving him at their centre like some idol of bronze. Gilwyn knew he too was part of Falouk’s group. Like them, he would wait until the first rank — Kamar’s kreel riders — needed them.

I should be with them, thought Gilwyn. He looked at Kamar’s warriors, beautiful and proud, all on the backs of seasoned kreels. Was he not one of them? Could he not command his own kreel at least as well as Kamar? Perhaps, he conceded, but he was no warrior. Today, his forty young kreels would do the fighting for him. Today, his mind would be his weapon.

There were others in the rear rank as well. Ghost, the albino, looked about anxiously from the back of his horse, one of the only stallions on the Jadori side. Though most of the Inhumans had stayed within the city walls with Minikin to protect the women and children, Ghost had been vocal about taking part in the battle. And he did not hide his displeasure over having to wait in the back rank. He wanted to be up front, with Kamar’s men. His fierce expression made his white face terrible to behold. The young albino had a sword at his belt and a chain mace in his hand. He twirled the mace distractedly as he waited, never taking his eyes off the distant Voruni.

Unlike Ghost, the great Greygor was quiet and unmoving. Standing apart from Falouk and the northerners, no one really knew what Grimhold’s guardian would do on the field, or even to whom he reported. It seemed to Gilwyn that Greygor reported to no one at all, save Minikin, and would do his own bidding when the battle finally started. He was a good distance from Gilwyn yet was plainly visible, a giant among normal men, looking immense even against the kreels. There was serenity in Greygor, a kind of peaceful patience. He did not toy with his weapon the way Ghost did or shift his weight between booted feet. He merely waited and watched, sizing up the enemy through the eyeslits in his helmet.

Gilwyn let his mind skip from kreel to kreel. His eager beasts flooded his brain with excitement. Like wild dogs they panted for the chance to race across the sand, to attack their enemies with their sharp claws and teeth. Gilwyn’s mind leashed them to him, holding them back. Once the battle started it would be more difficult, he knew, but he was not to loose them until Falouk’s brigade took the field. Gilwyn closed his eyes to concentrate. When he did he saw Ruana. His beautiful Akari smiled reassuringly.

Ruana, he called to her silently. Stay with me.

Ruana’s face was circumspect. I will, for as long as I can.

What does that mean?

It means that I am here and I will help you, but you must help yourself as well. If I go, do not be afraid. It will only be for an instant.

What? Gilwyn clamped his eyelids down harder. I don’t understand. You can’t go, Ruana, not even for a second!

Trust me and trust yourself, Gilwyn. Now concentrate!

The spirit’s command made Gilwyn relax. He opened his eyes and let his mind-grip flow over the kreels. Beneath him, Emerald twisted her long neck as she spied the arrayed Voruni. Her green nostrils flared as her tongue licked the air. Gilwyn patted the beast. Through her, he tasted every bit of sand and dust.

‘You’re not afraid, are you, girl?’

Emerald answered with a sense of insult. Gilwyn laughed. The kreels were never afraid.

On the pinnacle of a small sand dune, Prince Aztar waited atop his silk-draped warhorse, considering the defence the Jadori had fielded. Like his own men, his enemies had arranged themselves in two long ranks — a front rank of kreel riders, and a second, less impressive group of northerners on foot. Their numbers were not nearly as grand as his own army, yet Aztar worried. There were perhaps two hundred kreels in the front rank, enough to give his horsemen a considerable challenge. Aztar had seen kreels in battle before; he knew how formidable they could be.

Still, he had expected there to be more of the beasts. In the year since the army of Liiria had come across the desert — a year that had marked his beloved land’s defilement — Jador had been unable to significantly replenish their depleted ranks of kreel riders.

It was good, Aztar decided. It was Vala’s will, and he was confident the god was on his side. Surely Vala knew the achings of a man’s heart. Surely the Serene One would never punish him for lusting over a woman, a woman he himself had made too beautiful to resist.

Aztar’s own front rank consisted of four brigades, each of two hundred men commanded by a Zarturk. These four trusted men would lead the first attack. They would face the kreel riders. And because they had sworn to die for Aztar, he knew they would not retreat against the slashing claws of the beasts. It would be a bloody morning, but Aztar’s men were ready. The prince’s half brother Baraki rode through the front rank, inspecting them and rallying them to their cause. His raised scimitar shone madly as he twirled it in the morning air. As the men gave up a cheer, Baraki galloped toward the hill.

‘They are ready,’ Baraki called. ‘On your order, brother.’

Aztar nodded. His four Zarturks — Bekat, Galouth, Tasmiir, and Narween — looked at him from their places in the front ranks, awaiting his signal. Each of them expected this battle on the sand, and each expected to ride through Jador’s gates by noon. They would not, Aztar knew. But he would.

‘Baraki, where is the Bronze Knight?’ Aztar asked. ‘I do not see Shalafein anywhere.’

‘I do not know,’ admitted Baraki. ‘But he is with them, I am sure.’

Aztar looked past the defenders toward the city. ‘Behind the wall? Do you think?’

‘No,’ said Baraki, shaking his head. ‘Shalafein would not hide.’

‘No,’ agreed Aztar, but he was disappointed that the northern knight had not chosen to stand apart from his companions, as he had. ‘We will draw him out, then. Baraki, stay with me. You will command the next run.’

Baraki nodded, for such was their plan.

The Tiger of the Desert looked up into the blue sky. Vala’s light shone down on his troubled face. He said a prayer to the great god of creation, then, his voice breaking, shouted to his Zarturks to attack.

The tower at the gates of Jador had swelled with people. On the roof of the tower, Minikin had gathered with her fellow Inhumans to watch the battle unfold and to defend the city should Aztar’s forces breach their defensive lines. The Inhumans who had come to Jador had armed themselves with swords and axes, mostly Akari things from the armoury beneath Grimhold, but their greatest weapons remained their minds. Along the white wall, small handfuls of Jadori archers lined the poorly constructed battlements. Like Minikin, they watched in desperation as the first Voruni raiders broke free.

Minikin clutched her amulet close to her breast. Her grey eyes widened as Aztar’s horsemen — hundreds of them — stormed forward. Clouds of sand blew up behind them, streaming from the hooves of their thundering mounts. Minikin held tight to her glowing talisman until she thought her little fingers would burn. She was anxious to summon the end of those men, to end the battle before it really began.

But she could not. The bargain she had struck with her Akari hosts forbade it.

‘Fight, Kamar, fight!’ she cried.

From her place on the tower she could see Kamar’s kreel riders waiting to spring, patiently drawing the horsemen forward.

Kamar was a young man, but he had been a kreel rider for many years. He had been with Kahan Kadar when the Liirians had come, and amazingly he had survived that encounter. Just by living, he had risen quickly in the ranks of Jadori warriors. His kahana White-Eye depended on him now. All of Jador depended on him.

Kamar watched stoically as the Voruni began their run. All four Zarturks charged for him and his line of kreel riders. The air began to rumble, obscuring them in a sand storm. With his long whip spooled in his right hand, Kamar gripped the reins of his seething beast in his left. His kreel was named Vool, the Jadori word for ‘blood’, and because their minds were one he could feel the flood of bloodlust in the creature, the reptilian urge to tear things apart. Vool was very still as he awaited his master’s orders.

All the kreels were still.

Two hundred riders kept their mounts in check. Armed with whips, the Jadori men were steely-eyed as they looked to Kamar. What seemed forever took only seconds. As the desert horsemen galloped toward them, Kamar raised his whip and unfurled it like a flag, swinging it overhead as he loudly trilled his war cry.

Like lightning bolts the kreels sprang forward. Fearless, claws bared, the monsters rushed headlong for the horsemen. The Jadori riders crouched beneath the necks of the beasts, girding their whips for the clash. Voruni raiders raised their scimitars, their faces stricken with shock as the kreels began to hunt. Kamar stayed tight to Vool’s strong back as they cut the distance. He could feel the kreel take over, feel its ancient instincts swarm to the fore as its eyes homed in on its first target — the nearest Zarturk.

‘Go!’ Kamar cried, urging on the beast.

The Zarturk on his big horse saw the challenge and did not retreat. His lips curled in a snarl as he raced forward, his brigade of horsemen close behind. Kamar felt Vool’s claws unsheathe like a dozen deadly knives. Rider and mount shared a single focused thought.

Kill him.

As the Zarturk ranged in, Vool leapt, his powerful haunches sending him and Kamar up over the head of the horse and onto the unsuspecting Zarturk. A moment of panic flashed through his eyes before Vool’s claws shot out. A wall of hot blood struck Kamar’s face as the Zarturk’s chest exploded. As Vool landed, the torn-up body of his foe tumbled in pieces to the ground. With the roaring kreel among them now, the raiders’ mounts whinnied back or fell on each other as they fought to avoid the creature’s slashing tail. More of Kamar’s men joined the melee; more horsemen piled in. Kamar let out his whip and went to work, pulling horsemen from their saddles as Vool leapt from mount to mount, making sport of horse bellies.

Gilwyn sat unmoving on Emerald’s back, unable to take his eyes from the carnage. He had expected Aztar’s first attack to overwhelm Kamar’s riders, but the battlefield was bedlam now, and the kreels pressed their advantage. All around him men were cheering. Paxon laughed as he shook his sword high overhead. Almost none of the northerners had ever seen kreels in battle and the sight of the creatures astonished them. The Voruni, too, had been astonished. Already their ride for the city had been deterred as they fought off the kreels, bringing their swords down again and again on the heads of the beasts which seemed to be everywhere. Gilwyn could barely contain his own excitement. In these brief beginnings, he felt the first stirrings of hope.

His young kreels felt the excitement, too. With their sharp eyes fixed on the battle, they hissed and strained against his control, telepathically begging him to loose them. The effort of containing the creatures sent sweat trickling down Gilwyn’s face.

‘Wait,’ he cried, imploring them to listen. But they were young and untrained, and his calls were going unheeded. Their eagerness to join their kind overwhelmed Gilwyn. He cried out to Ruana, ‘Help me, Ruana! I can’t hold them forever.’

Hold them! Ruana commanded. You are their master!

Gilwyn closed his eyes and held his breath. With Ruana’s strength he channelled his command, touching every kreel brain with an invisible hand.

Calm! he told them. You will obey!

Ghost came riding through, his long, thin sword raised, his rallying voice taunting his distant enemies. The Inhuman had not yet used his strange gift to render himself unseen. His young face grimaced as he reined his horse to a halt beside Gilwyn.

‘Be ready,’ he ordered. ‘When we ride you can release them.’ Ghost turned his eyes eagerly back to the battle. ‘Then we can have our revenge on this filth.’

Greygor watched the battle continue. He was pleased by the fight Kamar’s men gave, but he was not surprised. He had lived a long time and had seen many things. During his long-ago days in Ganjor he had watched kreels in battle. His old lord, Baralosus, had toyed with the beasts. But the Ganjeese had never been able to master the creatures like the Jadori had, and that was why men like Aztar continued to underestimate them.

Greygor stood apart from the others in his army. He was not a brother to any of them. He was Grimhold’s defender — like Shalafein — and that was why he had come. Minikin had requested it, and he would not disappoint her. Under his helmet, no one saw the resolve on his face, or the wish in his heart to deal Baralosus a blow. Surely Baralosus was behind this raid. His old master had strings on everyone, making them dance like puppets. What had he promised Aztar? Greygor wondered.

Greygor did not move as he watched the battle, but move he soon would. Like an avalanche, he would move.

Kamar did not know how long he’d been fighting. Time blurred. His exhausted body — covered now in blood and bits of flesh — moved as if in a dream. His arms burned from working his whip; his skull throbbed from riding Vool. He could feel exhaustion overtaking Vool, too, but like its rider the reptile ignored the pain and fatigue, driven on by the need to fight. Around them, the raging battle had produced a lake of corpses. Thirty of his men had regrouped to form a defensive line against the horsemen. Horses were down everywhere, making it harder for the others to run. The fleet-footed kreels pranced easily over the fallen steeds. But Kamar had lost his share of kreels, too. Though they had taken three times their number with them, Kamar’s dead hovered near half.

He fought on, amazed that Aztar had not yet ordered more reserves into the fight. Nor would Falouk join him on the field, not until Aztar’s fresh fighters engaged. There would be no retreat for Kamar and his men, no falling back to Jador. It was how Kamar had wanted it, because there could be no other way.

Kamar broke off from the struggle, swinging Vool around to view the battlefield. Another of the Zarturks had fallen early in the fight, but the remaining two had surrounded themselves with fighters. Kamar saw the standard of one; the fat man himself rode beneath it, shouting orders from his well-guarded enclave. Fifty horsemen circled him, battling the aggressive kreels. The Zarturk looked appallingly confident, sensing the tide turning in his favour.

‘No,’ Kamar decided. ‘It will not be that way.’

His eyes drove Vool’s gaze toward the Zarturk. Vool lowered his bloody snout and let a low hissing sound out between his fangs. Both man and beast knew the Zarturk gave strength to his men. Vool needed no coaxing; in a second he was racing forward.

Kamar kept his whip in the air, strangling horsemen along the way as his kreel clawed through the Zarturk’s circle. Seeing their attack, other riders joined them. The Zarturk noticed their tactic and ordered more men after them. As his men broke their perimeter, Vool spied the breach and darted right, ducking past the rushing horses and sliding into the Zarturk’s enclave — alone.

The noose of horsemen began closing quickly around them. Kamar urged Vool onward. The Zarturk raised his enormous fist, bringing up his scimitar. Voruni fighters slashed at them, catching Kamar’s shoulder. The sharp pain paralysed him, jolting the reins from his hand. He cried out for Vool to slow, but too late. With whip in hand he tumbled from the creature’s back. Vool sensed the loss at once and turned to retrieve him. Horsemen cut off the kreel’s path. Kamar watched the horseflesh draw over him like a curtain. Behind him rushed raiders. Ahead of him, the Zarturk raced to cut down Vool. Too concerned with its rider, the kreel never saw the scimitar fall.

Kamar struggled to his knees. Vool’s fatal agony took the air from his lungs. He saw the shadow of a scimitar on the sand before him, slashing quickly forward. The Zarturk exploded through the curtain of horsemen — revealing Vool’s fallen body.

Kamar saw nothing more.

From his place in the ranks, Gilwyn did not see Kamar fall until it was over. He had been watching Kamar desperately, wondering when he would at last be able to join the fight, fretting over his friend’s circumstance. Like Ghost and the others, he had seen their numbers dwindle. Finally, when the horsemen spread out again and revealed Vool’s trampled body, Gilwyn knew Kamar was gone.

The cheering from his companions had stopped. Now, an anxious air hung over them. Falouk called to his men, telling them in his broken patois to make ready. Paxon and the other northerners prepared to charge. Ghost cursed and looked at Falouk, begging him to give the order. But there were still over a thousand raiders in reserve. Aztar had not even moved from his hill. Gilwyn could see him, looking imperious atop his warhorse, carefully calculating his next move.

‘We can’t wait,’ said Gilwyn. The kreels in his command were growling now, nearly howling for the chance to fight. ‘Ghost, I can’t hold them any more. We have to go now!’

‘We wait,’ spat Ghost. ‘Till Falouk gives the order.’

‘I can’t wait!’ Gilwyn cried. ‘Falouk, give the order! I can’t hold the kreels!’

Falouk heard his plea and nodded. He stepped out from the ranks of northerners to face them all.

‘Fight,’ he told them. ‘Like I taught you.’ He turned to Gilwyn and gave a little nod. ‘Let go your kreels, boy.’

In a flood of relief Gilwyn finally let down his mind-guard. As Emerald sprang forward, so too did the forty kreels behind her, swarming over the sands toward the waiting horsemen. Gilwyn felt the wind pull through his hair as Emerald sped him into the fight. His mind was alive with a thousand different senses as he felt his kreels rampage over the battlefield like wild wolves. Behind him, the northern men gave a great cry as they followed Falouk into battle, their feet tearing up the sand. Ghost shot off in front of them, screaming, howling in a mad fury as he swung his sword toward the waiting Voruni. Gilwyn saw him, like the wind, storming on his horse for battle. Then, like the wind, he was gone. .

Gone but still there. Invisible, the albino worked his frightful gift, slicing through the unsuspecting raiders. His sword was everywhere, dancing past armour and hacking off limbs. The confusion he wrought was the perfect herald for Gilwyn’s kreels. The young brood, made insatiable from waiting, dug its claws into enemy flesh. Bared fangs tore at the legs of panicked horses, bringing them down to feast on their riders. Gilwyn kept his sword raised, ducking past the warriors and raiders, trying to keep his mind from losing control. Emerald leaped and skidded across the sand, keeping him safe. All around him, the world became a crimson storm.

Greygor did not run into battle as the others did. Instead he strode with purpose across the field, raising his double-bladed axe and squaring his spiked shoulders. His once broken body was as steel now, its bones knit together by Akari magic so that now he was unbreakable. He had no fear as he walked, not when he saw Prince Aztar conversing on his hill, obviously giving orders to finish them, nor when the first few horsemen saw him approaching and turned to confront him.

To Greygor, the battle would be won a corpse at a time. He paused, raised his axe to meet his attackers, and dug in for the fight. The first of the horsemen made a straight assault, galloping toward him and arcing his scimitar low. The flashing blade scraped Greygor’s armour, glancing harmlessly across his leg. The considerable force of the blow did not even move him. The great guardian brought up his axe and slammed it into his attacker’s back, cutting him in twain.

Instantly the other horsemen flanked. Greygor danced aside, facing down a charging horse and sending the beast rearing up. His control lost, the Voruni man did nothing as Greygor manhandled him from his saddle. Tossing him into the sand, Greygor stomped down on his throat as the last fighter swung round to face him. With the man still pinned beneath his boot, Greygor took on his last opponent, stabbing at the horse with the end of his axe then twisting its blade up to catch the man’s leg. Blood spurted from the wound; the horsemen retreated. Greygor slammed the heavy blade into his fallen foe, killing him, then turned his attention to the others riding toward him.

Prince Aztar saw the remaining defenders flood the field and called his brother to him. The time had come, he told Baraki. He was to lead the remaining fighters into battle. Baraki received the order gladly. He was anxious to get into the fight and be done with the Jadori, who had already inflicted losses on them greater than he or his brother had imagined.

‘Find Shalafein,’ Aztar hissed. ‘Dead or alive, I want him found.’

Baraki promised his best effort, then rode off to rally his own men. He would lead eight hundred of the remaining thousand horsemen onto the field, leaving the other two hundred behind with Aztar to guard him. Aztar was stone-faced as his half brother rode away, too obsessed with Shalafein to really care what happened on the field. So far, the Bronze Knight had yet to show himself. Was he truly inside the city walls, cowering like a woman? Or was this some trap?

‘I will not play your game, Shalafein,’ muttered the prince. ‘Show yourself. Come out and face me.’

He scanned the battlefield but saw no sign of the infamous knight. The young kreels that had been loosed on his men had caused havoc on the field, and there was a panic about some unseen thing — a man, perhaps, on a rampage. Another man — a great, black mass with a battle axe, had cut a bloody swathe through a dozen of his horsemen and continued making his way slowly toward the dune. No doubt he was one of the creatures of Grimhold. Baraki had seen this new man and was already heading toward him. Aztar had no doubt about his own safety. He cared only of finding Shalafein.

‘He is here,’ he growled. ‘He must be!’ Looking skyward he cried, ‘Vala, I beg you — bring him to me!’

Lorn and his fellow travellers had restarted their journey shortly before dawn, at the first hint of the new morning. According to the instructions Princess Salina had given them they were very close to Jador now and would be there soon, certainly by the end of another day. Anticipation was heavy among the Believers. So was exhaustion, but the group was too anxious to pay heed to their many aches and pains. So far they had only encountered hints of Prince Aztar’s army. Though staying to the north as Salina had suggested had added a full day to their journey, it had proven a wise strategy and had kept them out of danger.

The wagons and pack animals lumbered forward as the sun climbed overhead. Lorn rode at the front of the line on his broad-backed gelding. He loved the feeling of the good horse beneath him; a reminder of better days. He kept his eyes on the horizon, scanning the rolling dunes for any hint of Jador. In the wagon behind him, Garthel drove the team while his daughter Eiriann held Poppy. Behind them, Bezarak and some of the others sat quietly beneath the canopy, shading themselves from the growing heat. With the new morning came the ever-blue sky, cloudless and bright. Soon the distant sands would wave with shimmering mirages. Lorn unhooked his waterskin from his saddle and took a pull to soothe his dry throat. Trickles of warm water dribbled down his bearded face. Then, as he capped the skin, the horizon caught his attention with movement.

At first he thought it was the sand shifting in a wind, but then he noticed different colours and the patterns moving in chaos. He looked past the mass and saw faint structures behind it. Lorn held his breath and squinted. No one else had taken notice yet.

‘Look,’ he rasped. ‘Look!’

Every head turned to see. An anxious gasp rose from the group. It was a city — surely Jador — far in the distance. But the mass was closer, and as it took focus Lorn knew it instantly. The great shroud of dust could not hide its truth from him.

The battle had begun.

He sat up higher on his horse, straining for a better look. The battle was miles away, but as he listened very closely he could hear its familiar din.

‘They’re fighting,’ he told his companions. ‘It’s already started.’

Old Garthel shook his head in remorse. ‘We’re too late.’

Bezarak stood up in the wagon. ‘We have to help them.’

‘That’s right,’ said Lorn, ‘but not you.’

‘What?’

‘Bezarak, you’re staying here — right here — to protect the others.’ Lorn looked at Eiriann. ‘And you look after my daughter. I’m going.’

‘What? Alone?’ said Garthel. ‘Lorn, don’t be stupid. .’

Lorn had already made up his mind, and there was no time to argue. ‘I took you this far, but I can’t let you come any farther, not unless it’s safe. Wait here until the battle ends. Keep your distance, understand? If I can I’ll come back for you.’

‘And what if you don’t?’ asked Eiriann hotly.

‘If I don’t it means I’m dead. And if I’m dead it means Aztar has won.’

Eiriann sneered, ‘That’s very confident, very old King Lorn.’

‘Eiriann, remember what we talked about. .’ Lorn gave her a sly smile. ‘Keep yourself safe.’

But Eiriann was afraid for him; he could see it plainly on her pretty face. She nodded, looking down at Poppy.

‘I want to come with you!’ shouted Bezarak. ‘Damn it, Lorn, I can fight!’

‘Good,’ said Lorn, ‘because you might have to. If any of those raiders make it up here I expect you to defend my daughter. Hear me, Bezarak.’

Bezarak agreed though clenched jaws. ‘All right.’

Lorn wheeled his horse around. ‘All of you, defend yourselves. If you have to fight, then fight. Head north if it looks like Aztar’s men have won. Otherwise I will see you again.’ He gave Eiriann one last, longing look. ‘Be careful.’

‘And you,’ whispered Eiriann.

With his sword at his side, Lorn tucked down against his horse and galloped toward the battle.

Gilwyn knew the battle was lost.

Aztar’s fresh fighters had swarmed the field, overwhelming them. Falouk’s northerners put up a remarkable defence, but they were ill-trained compared to Aztar’s men, who were mounted and who easily trampled them. Only the kreels kept them from being slaughtered entirely. Gilwyn still had more than twenty of the beasts in his command. And though tiring, the young kreels continued ripping through the Voruni ranks, their tails whipping like cobras, their great maws snapping down mercilessly on limbs. In the chaos of the fight Gilwyn struggled to keep control, to make his mind meet those of the kreels, but he had lost control almost completely now and could only watch as the beasts’ reptilian instincts took over. Somewhere in his mind Gilwyn could feel Ruana, floating through his brain, struggling along with him to see through the eyes of the maddened kreels. But like Gilwyn, Ruana could no longer hold the beasts. Instead, Gilwyn darted through the battle on Emerald’s back, now thickly engaged in his own fight. With his clubbed hand he could barely work his sword, and so kept it tucked beneath his arm while he held fast to Emerald’s reins. The female kreel fought ferociously.

Slowly, unceasingly, Gilwyn’s fellows were falling. He had already seen Paxon crushed beneath a Voruni scimitar. The deadly blow had shattered the old man’s skull. Nearby, Falouk had gathered his remaining men into a huddle, trying to increase their fighting power. Ghost still rode invisibly across the sands, hacking with almost inexhaustible fury. And Greygor, like a leviathan, took on all comers with his meaty battle axe. Alone on the field, the sands around him bubbled with Voruni blood. Yet they were all horribly outnumbered. Gilwyn wondered if they should pull back, retreat to the city before they all died.

‘No!’ he seethed. He hurried Emerald against an onrushing horseman, barrelling over beast and man. There were others coming for him now, at least two more. He could see them only peripherally, their scimitars raised. He fed the view to Emerald, who leaped sideways to avoid the blow, then turned to face their new attackers.

Then, another horseman got Gilwyn’s attention, riding hard for his two enemies. This one rode a big black gelding and had a face as maniacal as a demon. With broadsword raised, the stranger blasted into the battle, cutting down one of the raiders. His bearded face split with a howl even as blood sprayed his body. Shocked and utterly confused, Gilwyn hurried to the stranger’s aid. He was an older man, big and northern, with short white hair and foreign armour and the worst expression of fury Gilwyn had ever seen. As the remaining raider engaged him, the stranger stabbed his bloodied sword forward, pushing it through the man’s chest in one enormous thrust. The blade burst through the raider’s back, exploding outward in a scarlet bloom.

‘Who are you?’ Gilwyn cried as he hurried toward his saviour.

‘Lorn!’ replied the man. ‘You fight for the Jadori?’

‘Yes,’ Gilwyn sputtered. ‘But. .’

‘Fight, boy! Talk is for women!’

True or not, there was no time for it. Another half-dozen raiders were already charging toward them. The man called Lorn drove his horse toward them, taking the brunt of the attack. His sword moved expertly from foe to foe, parrying every blow, never missing an advantage. Gilwyn and Emerald leapt to his defence, landing in the midst of the melee. The kreel’s fast tail slashed the nearest horse out from under its rider. Lorn’s sword cleaved the air and enemy flesh. The sight of him was terrifying, the glee he took in killing astonishing. But he was on their side, Gilwyn knew, and that gave him comfort.

The carnage against his men astonished Prince Aztar. Still safe atop his dune, he had watched in dread as the kreels ripped his men apart and the strange folk of Grimhold fought with inhuman strength. It had been a devastating morning for Aztar. He had lost three of his five Zarturks, leaving only Narween alive from the first wave. Thankfully, Baraki had done a good job of turning the tide in their favour. Now, at least, Aztar knew the day was his.

Yet still the one thing he needed as much as victory evaded him. Shalafein had not shown himself.

‘Where is he?’ he wondered aloud. He scanned the field for the Bronze Knight yet still saw no hint of him. Enraged, Aztar at last broke from the dune and galloped forward. His protectors — two hundred of them — hurriedly followed him.

‘Shalafein!’ he cried. ‘Show yourself! Fight me, you cursed creature!’

Baraki saw his half brother at once. Breaking off from the battle, he rode up to Aztar.

‘Enough, Brother,’ he shouted. ‘Shalafein is not here. You must get to safety.’

‘No! He must be here!’ Aztar pulled his own scimitar and shook it madly in the air. ‘Here I am, Shalafein! Come and fight me!’

No one answered Aztar’s call — not at first. Then, the massive man in the spiky armour turned to look at him. Aztar’s heart froze. Around the giant were the broken bodies of dozens of his fighters. The huge man held his two-bladed axe in both hands, resting it like a club, the silent slits in his helmet fixing hatefully on Aztar.

‘That one,’ said Aztar. ‘Who is he?’

Baraki shook his head dreadfully. ‘A thing of Grimhold.’

Both men were still as the giant took its first plodding steps toward them.

‘That’s not the Bronze Knight,’ said Aztar.

‘No,’ agreed Baraki.

‘Stop him, Baraki.’

Baraki blanched. ‘We have tried, Brother.’

Aztar’s fist tightened around his blade. ‘Then we will do so together.’

On the tower of the white wall, Minikin had watched the battle and the deaths of her friends. With cold, steely eyes she had contained all of her emotions, even when Kamar died. She had barely said a single word to her companions on the roof, those Inhumans who had come to defend the city. Though the city was filled with commotion, Minikin remained silent. She had watched the dawn turn into morning and the morning into a nightmare. And all the while she had held her amulet and communed with Lariniza. She was not really praying with the spirit of the Eye. More precisely, she was talking. As though conversing with an old friend in a tavern, she put her troubles into Lariniza’s hand and let the great spirit feed her shaken soul.

It had been a high price, but it was the way the Akari wanted it. What they would do for her — for all of Jador — would harm their souls as much as it would Minikin’s, and they had only agreed to do so if no other choice was apparent. So Minikin had let her friends fight and die, knowing they could never stand against Aztar, helpless to aid them until nearly all their breath was squeezed away. As she watched the forces of Aztar overwhelm her companions, she hated herself. She had tried so hard to accommodate the Seekers, to be a good leader, to help. .

Today I become death, she told Lariniza. And not just for my enemies.

Lariniza was quiet for a moment, but Minikin could feel her sympathy. She, too, had watched the good folk of Jador die and been moved by it. But she had held out the small hope that they might prevail without Akari magic. Now, like Minikin, Lariniza knew they could not.

Minikin, it is time.

The Mistress of Grimhold grimaced. ‘Quite past time, I would say.’

They were the first real words she’d uttered in an hour, and the Inhumans on the roof took notice. They with their broken bodies and blind eyes regarded her, then heard her forceful voice in their minds.

Release your Akari, she told each of them. They are needed.

She remembered the time she had been with Amaraz in the little prayer chamber under the keep. Then, it had been the Liirians that threatened Grimhold, and Amaraz had showed her the great fire he would use to burn them should they breach his sacred home. Amaraz was with Lukien now, somewhere, and could not help them. But his sister Lariniza was with them, and all the other Akari spirits.

They did not need Amaraz to summon the flames.

Gilwyn continued to fight alongside Lorn, letting the older man bolster his own slowing attack. He and Emerald were past exhaustion now, and did not know where they found the strength to continue. Emerald herself had taken wounds to her legs, slowing her considerably, and Gilwyn knew he would have already been dead if not for Lorn’s valiant protection. Around him, he could see that Ghost had reappeared again, obviously too exhausted to work his gift. Falouk, too, was nearly depleted. The Jadori favoured a broken arm as he slashed uselessly with his sword, doing his best to keep the Voruni at bay.

Of them all, only Greygor seemed tireless. The giant plodded toward Aztar, who had come down from his sandhill but who was still a good distance from the fight. Unable to go to Greygor’s aid, Gilwyn simply protected himself and waited for the end to come.

Then, a voice hit his brain like a thunderbolt.

It was Minikin, clear and unmistakable. Retreat! she ordered. Return to the city!

The urgency in Minikin’s voice startled Gilwyn. He looked around the battlefield for Ghost, then saw he too had been struck by the message. The albino tossed Gilwyn a questioning glance.

Return! Minikin repeated. Quickly!

‘Retreat!’ Gilwyn shouted to his companions. ‘Retreat! Fall back to Jador!’

Ghost took up his desperate plea. ‘Retreat!’ cried the albino, riding madly through the battle. ‘Minikin has ordered it! To the city! To the city!’

Their voices fell on tired ears. At first no one heeded their desperate calls, until slowly, slowly, the word spread among them. One by one others called retreat. The remnants of Falouk’s brigade headed for the city, their Jadori leader staying behind to cover their movement. Gilwyn focused all his energy, sending a final message to his remaining kreels.

Keep us safe, he told them. We are leaving. Follow if you can.

Not one of the kreels answered him.

‘Lorn, come on, we have to go!’ Gilwyn shouted.

‘Go, then!’ cried Lorn. ‘I’ll be with you!’

‘Come on!’ Gilwyn ordered, then turned Emerald toward the city and sent her sprinting forward. Looking back, he saw Lorn dispatch one last raider before turning away to follow him. Together with their remaining companions, they fled the field for Jador.

Ruana, Gilwyn called silently. The other kreels. .

Ruana did not reply. Gilwyn searched his mind for her, but the spirit was nowhere. He could not sense her touch or the slightest tremor of her presence.

Remembering what she’d told him earlier, Gilwyn knew she had left him. There was no time to wonder why.

‘Run, Emerald, run!’ he cried.

His trusted kreel needed no coaxing.

Aztar was about to face the giant man when the Jadori began fleeing. Together with Baraki, he watched as the last of Jador’s defenders turned and hurried away, toward the safety of their city. Even the big man stopped his relentless march toward them. He paused for a moment, then with obvious reluctance began his long trot home. Aztar watched in astonishment. Though he had prepared himself to face the giant, relief at his departure washed over him.

‘They’re retreating,’ said Baraki. He looked at his half brother for guidance. ‘Do we pursue?’

‘No,’ said Aztar. ‘Regroup. Let’s not run after a trap. Give the order, Brother. Call the men back.’

Baraki happily agreed, then rode off to give Aztar’s command. Narween, the other remaining Zarturk, seemed offended by the order but did not disobey. Like Baraki, he began telling his men to fall back. As the noise of battle fell away, Aztar could more easily see the damage he’d occasioned. Everywhere broken bodies littered the desert, not just of men but of horses and kreels as well. The last of the vicious reptiles kept after his men, but they were few now and more easily dealt with by the horsemen, who surrounded the beasts and stabbed at them with spears. The whole sobering sight sickened Aztar. His beautiful desert had been desecrated, and he still had not found Shalafein.

‘Vala, do not be cruel to me,’ he prayed. ‘Do not let this be for naught.’ He looked up into the sky, wondering if his god was angry. ‘Why do you not bring me the Bronze Knight? Is it because of the woman? I love her, Vala. I would bring down this city for her. Now bring me Shalafein!’

This time, the sky answered Aztar.

As he looked up into heaven, he saw the blue give way to a pulsing orange. Aztar’s heart throbbed with fear. He stared at the sky, mouth agape, as it came alive with fiery light, bursting high above his head. He heard a distant rumble, like thunder but fiercer, and thought it was the voice of Vala cursing him.

‘Vala. .?’

Along the embattled desert, more of his men began looking skyward, pointing at the amazing phenomenon. Their stricken faces held the same fear felt by Aztar, who could not believe what he was seeing. Tongues of flame darted downward. Men began screaming. Aztar’s horse whinnied, rearing back and nearly tossing him. He fought to contain the beast, then saw the flames descend around his men.

It was not heaven that opened. It was hell.

A burst of fire struck Aztar’s eyes, so much heat he couldn’t breathe. His horse wheeled beneath him. Flaming fists shot down from the sky, pummelling the desert and scorching the sand. The world was suddenly an inferno and all his men were in it. Aztar screamed madly for his brother, but all he heard was his own impotent voice against the raging storm. Hot flames grew around him, penning him in. From out of the sky the fire continued, raining down burning death. Aztar dug his boots into his horse, speeding the beast away. He felt his back roaring with pain and realized his gaka was on fire. Screaming, he leaped from his horse into the blistering sand, rolling around to douse the flames. The hot sand — almost on fire now — tore at his face and peeled the skin from it.

‘Vala!’ he pleaded. ‘Mercy!’

Men were thundering past him, their bodies lit with flame as they ran from the firestorm. Aztar clutched the earth, straining to follow them, to pull his wounded frame toward home. His ears seared with pain and the screams of his men. His eyes saw nothing but dazzling light. His horse was gone; probably dead. Behind him the fire had turned to a wall, consuming everything it touched.

The Tiger of the Desert rose unsteadily to his knees. The pain in his face and body sucked the very life from him. His dizzied eyes barely saw the men running toward him. They were shouting his name, then pulling him away. They were his own men, but he did not know if Baraki was among them. Too wounded to walk, he blacked out just as the men tossed him onto a horse and sped him to safety.

Minikin held the burning amulet in her little hands, her every thought bent toward the command of the Akari. It had not been easy to separate them so completely from their hosts but she was the Mistress of Grimhold and that meant the Akari obeyed her. With Lariniza’s help she had sent them into the sky to summon the fire. Together they had pulled the flames from that netherworld where they dwelt into the land of the living, bringing them down with devastating results.

An enormous pain plagued Minikin’s heart. Though her eyes remained closed, she watched through her mind as the Akari fire burned the Voruni, mercilessly cremating them. She felt their great horror, heard their screams like unholy music raking her brain. Yet she continued, because she had to continue, and did not release the Akari from their ghastly work until she was sure Aztar’s army was destroyed. Her own army, those who had managed to stay alive, had retreated toward the city and were safe. No doubt Gilwyn and the others were shocked by what they saw. Were they horrified, she wondered? Would they blame her?

For Minikin these questions would wait. With every drop of strength she commanded the Akari to finish their work, to keep alive the great inferno until their enemies were dead.

Then they were gone.

Minikin opened her eyes. She saw the battlefield and her friends near the city, watching wide-eyed as the fire lifted from the desert. She saw too the devastation it had wrought, the great heaps of smouldering bodies and the last survivors limping home. Along the roof of the tower the Inhumans opened their eyes, too, letting their Akaris return to them. The Jadori in the streets below had huddled fearfully at the sight of the fire, but now looked up at Minikin in shock and wonder. Their bewildered faces wounded her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she told them wearily. ‘There was no other way. .’

The light in her amulet at last died down. Minikin looked at it, hating it for the first time in her long life.