The Sword Of Angels

1

The Desert of Tears seemed eternal, like an ocean, stretching to the corners of the world. Beyond the white sands and mirages stood the nothingness of dunes, ever shifting in the hot winds. Light poured from the cloudless sky, blinding the lone rider as he loped across the earth, his fair skin shielded from the sun beneath a headdress called a gaka. His drowa bounced slowly through the desert, unhurried, unconcerned for the mission of its rider, which had taken the young man from the safety of a fabled city toward the unknown dangers of the northern world. The young man had lived in the desert more than a year now, but he had never grown accustomed to the lung-searing air or the way the sun could peel his skin. Today, the sun tracked him without pity, making him long for home.

For Gilwyn Toms, home was Jador, the city of his beloved White-Eye, a city that had opened its arms to him and his companions when the world they knew — the world up north — had gone insane. Like his companions, Gilwyn Toms was an exile now. The Desert of Tears, that vast sea of sand and wicked heat, had protected Jador from the continent and most of their enemies, and had been a good home for Gilwyn. He had missed his land of Liiria, but he had found solace in Jador and love in the arms of White-Eye. And he had not wanted his time in Jador to end, but rather to go on untroubled, undisturbed by the upheaval racking the world beyond the sands.

Gilwyn raised his face to heaven, squinting at the sun. He could bear the brightness only for a moment, but noon had passed and that comforted him. Lukien had taught him the art of reckoning, and by his amateurish calculation he guessed that he had six hours more before the sun abated and he could rest for the night. It had been three days since he had left Jador. At least two more days remained before he reached Ganjor, the gateway to the north. Alone, he had only his silent drowa for company, but if he calmed himself he could reach deep within his mind and find Ruana. She was with him always now, a pleasant current running through his brain. She was like Teku, the pet monkey he had left in Jador, perched on his shoulder, always there if he took the time to look for her. Gilwyn looked for her now, sensing her sublime presence. Closing his eyes, he saw her pretty face.

Ruana had been young when she died, falling from a boat into a lake and drowning. In life she had been an Akari, when that race had ruled the land called Kaliatha. She was an Akari still, but now she was a spirit, bound to him, pledged to aid him and bring out the ‘gift’, that strange summoning power he was only now beginning to understand. Most Inhumans had such a gift, and now Gilwyn was one of them. He had been an Inhuman all his life, in fact, from the day in his crib when Minikin had kissed his forehead, forever marking him. But only a few months ago had he been introduced to Ruana. Though she had been with him from that moment in infancy, she was still new to Gilwyn, still an enigma to unravel. Keeping his eyes closed, he glimpsed her fair face and slight smile, like looking in a wavy mirror. Her ears turned up in elfish points.

I can feel your tiredness, she said. Take your ease now, for a while at least.

The words were soundless, yet resonated like a spoken voice from her dead realm. Gilwyn had only to think his answer to reply.

The heat, he reminded her. He tried to flex his clubbed left hand, an appendage that matched his clubbed left foot for uselessness. My hand aches. And I’m itching like mad under this gaka.

Though the desert garb shielded him from the sun, it also set his skin on fire. Ruana’s sympathy came over him like a mother’s pity. Instantly her strength buoyed him. They were one, Gilwyn and his Akari, and though he still did not fully grasp their bond he knew that Ruana did more than guide his gift. She shared his thoughts and, sometimes, his pains, and when he was weak she shouldered him. So far, she had helped him mightily to cross the desert. Gilwyn was not strong like Lukien, the Bronze Knight. At eighteen, he was no longer a child, but he had lived a sheltered life in Liiria, one of books and fantasies. Even now it was hard for him to grasp the enormity of his task. No one had wanted him to cross the desert, not Minikin and certainly not White-Eye, but they had not stopped him, either. They had tried, but in the end they had relented, letting him go on his desperate mission.

‘We’ll make it,’ he said aloud, more to himself than to Ruana. Beneath him the hairy drowa ignored his boast, twitching its ears. He could barely see the horizon, but he knew that Ganjor awaited him. It would be an oasis after his journey, but he would have to be cautious there. He was Jadori now, and the Jadori were not welcome in the city by everyone. If he could find the Ganjeese princess he might be safe, but if he could not he would simply enter the city as quietly as possible, hiding under his gaka, and leave just as soon as he could.

Princess Salina will find you, said Ruana confidently. Remember Dahj and Kamag.

Gilwyn nodded, reminded now of Lorn’s advice. Lorn, who had been helped across the desert by Salina, had told him to ask for men named Dahj and Kamag. They could be trusted, Lorn had said. They would take him to the Ganjeese princess.

But could Salina be trusted, Gilwyn wondered? Still, after all that had happened? Or had she since been discovered? It was a crime to help northerners across the desert but Salina had disobeyed her father, aiding the desperate from the war-torn continent in their bid to reach Jador. She had even warned Minikin and the others of danger, sending her doves across the Desert of Tears with their tiny hand-written notes and allowing them to prepare for Aztar’s attacks. Of all Gilwyn’s companions, only Lorn had actually seen Salina. He had described her as breath-taking and courageous. She was, to Gilwyn’s thinking, certainly made of iron, for she was but a girl in a realm where females were subservient, and if her secret were ever discovered she would surely be imprisoned. Or worse.

Do not fret for her, said Ruana. The girl can take care of herself.

But is she safe? Gilwyn asked.

Ruana hesitated. I cannot tell.

‘Of course you can tell,’ said Gilwyn. ‘You just won’t say.’

You are right, said Ruana. There was a laughing quality to her tone. I can tell, but I cannot tell you.

It was not her place to reveal such things, nor predict the future nor tell him of the afterlife. The Akari existed beyond the world of the living and so had many secrets. From the realm of the dead they saw with eyes of gods, but they were wise beings and knew the virtue of silence. Unlike the Akari, Gilwyn was alive. He existed in the realm of the living, with all its choices and possibilities. His possibilities. The choices were not Ruana’s to make. She had explained that to him, and so had Minikin. If Salina were dead or imprisoned, it was not for Ruana to say, though surely she could have searched the living world for the answer.

‘If she’s alive I’ll find her,’ said Gilwyn. Then he shrugged, his confidence waning. ‘If I can.’

He licked his dry lips, trying to put aside his fears. It would be a month until he made it as far north as Liiria. He had so very long to go. He needed to be a man now, not the boy he had been in Liiria, surrounded by books. Only a man — a truly brave man — could save Baron Glass from the Devil’s Armour.

Too much, chided Ruana gently. You think too much of all these things. Quiet yourself. Rest now.

Gilwyn shook his head. ‘Can’t.’

He took a skin from the drowa’s tack and squirted a stream of water into his mouth. His aim was expert now, but he carefully conserved the precious liquid. The water, hot from the desert, stung his throat as much as cooled it.

Rest so that you do not waste yourself, urged Ruana. It is hours yet until the sun goes down. And the drowa cannot go on forever. It needs rest, too.

Though not without sympathy for the beast, Gilwyn ignored Ruana’s suggestion. A drowa could go for hours without rest or water; that much he had learned from the Jadori. And if the poor creature expired when they reached Ganjor. .

Gilwyn thought about that a moment. He reached down and patted the drowa’s muscled neck. So much of what was happening seemed unfair. Even this ugly animal had got caught in the whirlwind. Surely it didn’t want to die, but like Gilwyn it went on because it had to go on.

There was no choice.

At sundown, Gilwyn finally rested.

He was pleased with the day’s progress, and by the time the sunlight slackened he and his drowa were exhausted. He didn’t wait for the sun to complete its decent, but rather took advantage of the last slivers of light to make his camp. He was more than halfway through the desert now, and had come to a place were the ground was firmer and some dry plants grew in scrubby patches. Ugly, mis-shapen hills of baked earth shadowed the distance. A few cacti huddled nearby, but Gilwyn saw nothing of water or any real shade. As he had done the past two nights, he unloaded his belongings from the drowa and arranged his meagre camp, mostly a bedroll, some food, and a knife for eating. With the sun going down he had no need for shade, for soon the temperature would drop. The thought of the cool evening made him smile.

Before settling down Gilwyn tended to the drowa, first removing the saddle and striped blanket, then feeding it from a bag of fruits and mixed grains. Since the drowa could eat cactus and gain water from it, he led the beast to the small stand of piny plants. Drowas were browsers, he knew, and got much of their nourishment from the things they found in the desert. Gilwyn held the beast’s tack as it fed, using its long snout and powerful teeth to slowly devour the plants. By the time the drowa had finished, the sun was almost complete gone, and with it nearly every speck of light.

‘Soon the stars will come,’ he said. Already some were twinkling through the twilight. He led the drowa back to his camp and eased the beast down. Now sated, the drowa bent easily to his will. Or was it his gift? Gilwyn couldn’t say for sure, but the drowa had surprised him with its compliance. Usually, they were haughty, independent beasts, but this one had obeyed his every command. He had not even found the need to stake it down at night; the drowa simply stayed with him. ‘Good boy,’ he crooned, patting the drowa’s back.

Famished from the ride, the meagre items in his travelling back seemed like a banquet. Mostly they were staples, like flat Jadori bread, dates and figs from the gardens around the palace, and goats cheese made by some of the city’s northerners. The cheese smelled particularly bad to Gilwyn as he unwrapped it, but it had hardened with dryness and he had been assured it would do him no harm. Since he had no need to cook, and since he welcomed whatever cold the night would bring, he didn’t bother making a fire. The stars, he knew, would provide all the light he needed.

So Gilwyn ate, all the while watching the stars come alive above him. Back in Koth, when he had been apprenticed to Figgis, they had watched the stars together from a balcony in the city’s great library. Figgis had taught him about the movements of the heavens and Gilwyn had remembered everything. But here in the desert the constellations seemed different. They had actually moved, and he knew it was because he was so far south, so very far away from his homeland.

Still, he could make out his favourite constellations, and as they slowly appeared he studied them, calling out their names one by one, whispering to himself. His voice seemed to go on forever. Suddenly he wished for company, anyone with warm blood and real flesh, but all he had was Ruana, floating around him — inside him — like an invisible ghost.

Ruana, however, remained silent. Gilwyn could feel her, but she kept her distance while he ate, allowing him privacy. Finally, his hunger satisfied, he rolled a blanket into a pillow and propped it beneath his head, then looked up again into the star-filled sky. Like a theater, the night exploded with life. Gilwyn felt lost in its enormity. His thoughts turned to Salina again, and what she might look like.

Beautiful. That’s what Lorn had said. Gilwyn dug into his pocket and pulled out the only real thing of value he carried. The lump of gold felt sturdy in his hand, like the man who’d given it to him. He held the ring up above his face, studying it in the starlight. It was Lorn’s kingship ring, proof that he still lived. Gilwyn considered the prize, wondering what Jazana Carr would do when she saw the ring. He was to give the ring to her with Lorn’s promise to reclaim it someday. Gilwyn had met Jazana Carr only once, but he suspected the message would craze her.

‘Ruana,’ he whispered. ‘Are you there?’

Always.

‘What do you think will happen? When Jazana Carr gets the ring, I mean?’

It was the kind of question Gilwyn often posed, the kind Ruana could not answer. The spirit seemed to chuckle.

The ring is nothing. It is Lorn that concerns you, Gilwyn, not Jazana Carr.

The reply annoyed Gilwyn, who playfully slipped the ring onto his finger. Much too big for him, it quickly slid to his knuckle.

‘I trust Lorn, Ruana,’ he said.

You worry, said Ruana, about Lorn and what he will do to Jador.

‘He’ll do nothing. I left him to look after things, that’s all.’

He is King Lorn the Wicked.

Gilwyn nodded. ‘I know.’

He had never asked Ruana’s advice on the matter, and now it was too late. Jador needed a strong leader. Baron Glass had stolen the Devil’s Armour and fled north to Jazana Carr. Lukien had gone after him, and might well be dead. White-Eye was blind now, the victim of the armour’s accursed spirit, and Minikin. .

Thinking of Minikin broke the boy’s heart.

‘I had no choice,’ said Gilwyn. ‘Lorn knows how to deal with any troubles that come up. White-Eye needs him, even if she won’t admit it.’

White-Eye is Kahana, Ruana reminded him. She has the blood of Kadar in her veins. She is strong.

‘She’s blind now, Ruana,’ said Gilwyn. ‘She’s lost her Akari, and I don’t know what that will do to her. She needs help to rule Jador. She needs Lorn, because there’s no one else left.’

His logic was inescapable. Ruana remained silent. Gilwyn took Lorn’s ring off his finger and stuffed it back into his pocket. He intended to keep the promise he’d made to Lorn, to give the ring to Jazana Carr and tell her that King Lorn the Wicked would return for it. Then, if the Great Fate willed it, he would deal with the demon who had blinded White-Eye.

Enough now, said Ruana suddenly. No more black thoughts. Clear your mind.

‘My mind is clear.’

Oh? Now is a good time, then.

‘For what?’

To stretch your mind. The desert can teach you things, Gilwyn.

Gilwyn lifted his head from the blanket, listening. To him the desert seemed dead.

Not with your ears, argued Ruana. Stop being silly and do as I say.

‘Ruana, I’m tired. Do we have to do this now? In the morning, maybe. .’

You can sleep soon enough. The spirit paused a moment. Though he could not see her face now, Gilwyn could feel her sly smile. Open your mind, Gilwyn. Use your gift to search the desert.

Gilwyn closed his eyes. ‘All right,’ he agreed, admitting some curiosity. He had opened his mind to the desert before, but mostly to search for kreels, the giant lizards the Jadori rode. There would be no kreels this far from the city, he was sure. ‘What should I look for?’

Suddenly he wasn’t just in the desert any longer. He was over it, his mind soaring across the warm sand and rugged hillsides. The sensation amazed him. It came with such ease.

You see? Freeing your mind here is different from in the city, said Ruana. Here there are no other beings to interfere.

Untethered, Gilwyn let his mind fly through the night. He felt weightless, as if he himself were a bird on wing. The cool air made a mantel for him, wrapping him, bearing him up in every direction. He laughed with delight, and his concentration did not falter the way it had in the past.

‘What’s out here?’ he asked, excited to know. ‘What am I looking for, Ruana?’

Control the gift, Gilwyn. You shall see.

Gilwyn steadied his senses. Some Inhumans had amazing strength. Others, like the hunch-backed Monster, had the grace of a dancer. Gilwyn’s gift lied in other creatures, and the ability to communicate with him. He had always had this gift, Minikin had told him, from the moment he’d been given a monkey to help him with the smallest chores. That strange bond had grown into an infinity of powers, and Ruana had brought them out in him. With her help, he could control the amazing reptilian kreels or snatch a hawk in flight and see the world below through its keen, soaring eyes. With Ruana, he was never alone. Now she had sensed something worth finding.

But what?

Gilwyn slowed his thinking. Whatever was out there would come to him. His mind would draw it out. He would feel its coursing blood.

‘Rodents,’ he said. Their small brains and clicking language tickled his brain. Focusing, he realized they were everywhere, hidden in the darkness. But he knew they were not why Ruana tested him.

What else? asked the Akari.

Gilwyn paused. The whole sensation was pleasant but confusing. ‘I don’t feel anything,’ he said. ‘Just-’

A presence struck him like a wall. In the darkness moved something massive, far away but determined. Prowling, on the hunt. Unspeakably cold. There was no mistaking it.

‘A rass,’ he whispered.

The great snakes of the desert. Hooded like a cobra. Enemy to the kreel. The terror of their desert realm. Gilwyn had seen them hunting for kreel eggs in the twilight. He had even touched one’s mind. They were giants, with skulls like boulders and coiling, muscled bodies that could easily squeeze the life from his drowa. This one was far away, too far to catch his scent on its flicking tongue.

‘It doesn’t know we’re here,’ said Gilwyn, more than slightly relieved.

Remember the gift, Gilwyn. Speak with the beast.

The notion made Gilwyn recoil. ‘What? No. .’

Command it, Ruana insisted. You are its master. Make it believe.

‘Are there others?’ Gilwyn asked. He probed the desert looking for rass, frightened at the prospect of being surrounded.

Concentrate.

‘I am.’

No, you are not. You are afraid.

‘Ruana, if it senses us it might come looking for a meal.’

It will not, because you are its master.

Gilwyn laughed. ‘Does it know that?’

You must tell it so. Make it believe. Go deeper.

Gilwyn steeled himself, then touched the serpent’s mind again. The first time he had proved a rass had been months before, out in the kreel valley with Ghost. The encounter had drained and frightened him, and he had hoped never to do it again. Now, this new rass entered his brain. He could feel it hunting, slithering across the earth, its slivered eyes scanning the terrain, its tongue darting out to taste the air.

‘I can feel it,’ he said softly. ‘I can feel its mind.’

Slowly, he unlocked its brain. A carnal picture of the hunt appeared. The snake’s thinking filled Gilwyn, and when it noticed him it paused. Its great body ceased slithering. Its hooded head rose to look around. Confused, its leathery eyelids blinked.

It knows you’re here now, said Ruana.

Gilwyn nodded but could not speak. The serpent’s thoughts mesmerized him. He struggled to keep his distance, to keep the gleaming eyes from withering his resolve. Ruana forced him forward. He could feel her hand at his shoulder, comforting him.

It is afraid of you, she said. It cannot see you. It cannot smell you. Yet it knows you are here.

Gilwyn’s confidence crested. If the beast were afraid of him. .

He bored deeper into its brain, making himself known, allowing it to sense him fully.

You are powerful. .

‘Powerful,’ Gilwyn echoed. And as he said the word he believed it, making the rass believe it too. A shrinking sense of dominion overcame the serpent. Its ancient mind twisted. Gilwyn fixed his thoughts. Magically, unspoken words passed between them.

I am your master, he said. Do not come hunting here.

The effort made him shake. Holding their minds sapped his strength.

Know me, he continued. Know my presence.

He saw the serpent rear back, opening its fanged maw and hissing in anger. Hatred filled its tiny brain. Its rope-like tongue darted out to search for him, probing the night. Its muddled thinking startled Gilwyn.

He felt his control begin to slip. Ruana quickly bolstered him, thrusting him further toward the rass. The strength of the bond startled the snake, making it lower its glistening head.

It obeys, said Ruana. It knows you are its master, Gilwyn.

Gilwyn forced himself to continue, feeling every fibre of the creature, sensing every instinct. Its anger diminished, its hissing ebbed. The beast’s shining eyes calmed, watching the night for the thing it now feared.

‘What now?’ Gilwyn asked.

You may release it, Ruana replied. It will not hunt here now.

Slowly, Gilwyn let his grip slip away, drawing back across the dark sands. He opened his eyes, then felt the thunderous pounding of a headache. He felt exhausted, completely spent from the brief encounter. But he felt exhilarated, too.

‘Ruana,’ he said softly. ‘That was incredible.’

Ruana’s voice resounded with pride. You had done it before. You only need to practice.

‘It’s difficult,’ Gilwyn confessed. ‘I was afraid.’

I will never tell you to do something that you cannot do, Gilwyn. You need only trust me — and yourself.

The answer comforted Gilwyn. ‘I’m tired,’ he sighed.

Ruana’s reply was sweet. Sleep now. The rass will not harm you.

Gilwyn put the serpent from his mind, trusting Ruana. Within minutes he was asleep.

The next morning dawned as hotly as the one before.

Gilwyn did not bother breaking his fast in camp, but rather mounted his drowa early and resumed his long trek toward Ganjor. As he rode he took some flat bread from his bags to stem his hunger, washing it down with warm water from the skins that jangled off his saddle. The night’s sleep had energized him, and being more than halfway to Ganjor put bounce in his stance. Already his skin was beginning to itch beneath his headdress, and the stubble of a light beard irritated his face. He rubbed at the beard, wondering what White-Eye would think of it. Most Jadori men wore beards, a sign of virility and source of great pride, and since he had been Regent of Jador he thought a beard might be a good idea.

‘When I return, maybe,’ he said with confidence, sure suddenly that he would see White-Eye again.

Gilwyn rode on for nearly an hour before coming upon a stand of cacti. Not knowing when more of the water-bearing plants would appear, he decided to stop and feed his drowa. Without using the tack, he led the huge beast to the plants. The drowa munched happily while Gilwyn stood aside, studying the horizon. He could still not see Ganjor, but he didn’t expect to, really. The city was large, larger by far than Jador, but it was still many miles away.

‘Tomorrow, then,’ he told himself. Staring off across the sands, he contemplated the distance to Ganjor, and how many hours of scorching heat he had left to endure. By nightfall tomorrow, he might see the city. Then, at last, he could meet Salina.

He was about to turn back to his drowa when something in the distance caught his attention, the movement of two dark shapes against the white sand. Gilwyn squinted hard, focusing against the dazzling sun. He hadn’t seen anyone since leaving Jador, and it took a moment for him to realize that, yes, these were people riding toward him.

‘Look,’ he said excitedly, wondering if Ruana had noticed them. ‘Riders.’

And riding quickly, too, Gilwyn realized. Toward him. They had seen him, no doubt, but there were not many who came across the desert these days. There had been no more Seekers since the battle with Aztar. Nor had anyone seen the remains of Aztar’s army. Still, Gilwyn had seen the likes of these riders before, and his heart froze over.

‘Raiders.’

Fear nailed him in place. His mind groped for an explanation. Aztar’s raiders had all been defeated, soundly trounced by Minikin’s magic. Aztar himself was dead, no doubt, yet these were raiders, unmistakably, Voruni fighters from Aztar’s own tribe. Their dark gakas, visible now as they drew near, flared out behind them like comet tails as they rode. Gilwyn stumbled backward, into the still-feeding drowa.

‘Ruana,’ Gilwyn called. ‘What should I do?’

Ruana was with him instantly. Get on your drowa, Gilwyn. Do it now.

Poor advice, thought Gilwyn, but he snatched the beast away from its meal and pulled himself onto its back. Mounting the drowa took effort for him, though, for his clubbed appendages slowed him. Finally able to throw over his leg, he wheeled the drowa around to face the coming riders. He could hear the powerful hooves of their drowas beating on the sand. Out-running them was impossible, and in the desert there was no place to hide.

Turn around and ride, Ruana urged, back the way you came.

Gilwyn obeyed, urging the drowa on. The beast exploded beneath him. Over his shoulder, Gilwyn saw the raiders pursuing, tucked low in their saddles. With nowhere to go, Gilwyn’s mind numbed to the possibility of capture.

‘They’ll catch us,’ he gasped.

Ruana’s voice stayed firm. Find the rass, Gilwyn, she commanded. It’s very near.

‘The rass?’

Find the rass and bring it here.

‘Yes!’

Gilwyn drove the fear from his mind, closing his eyes and summoning the gift. Behind him, he heard the shouts of the raiders urging him to surrender. They were Aztar’s men; he knew that surely now. And if they caught him they would kill him, revenge for what Minikin had done. But even this he pushed aside, thinking instead of the open desert and of the cold-blooded monster hidden in its folds. The feeling of the rass was unforgettable. He homed in on it, sensing it easily. This time he entered its brain like a knife, slicing past its primeval thoughts into its very core. The rass was near, no more than minutes away. It had sunned itself and was ready to hunt, and when Gilwyn entered its mind it reared up to spread its coloured hood.

‘I have it,’ he said. Opening his eyes, he focused both on the rass and his blurring surroundings. Soon his drowa would tire, he knew, and the blood-thirsty quartet would catch him.

Unless he called the rass.

Obey me, he said, speaking only to the serpent, drilling into its brain and seizing its thoughts. I am your master. Yield to me.

He had done it with Teku, and he had done it with kreel. But this was different, far more difficult. The serpent, confused by his commands, lifted itself up to search for him. Somehow, it knew he was coming, and though they could not yet see each other, it waited.

Down! Gilwyn commanded. Into the sand. Hide yourself.

Time slipped quickly as the raiders sped toward him. Gilwyn forced himself to concentrate.

Enemies come, he told the rass. Hide yourself.

Remarkably, the creature understood. Though he still could not see it, Gilwyn knew its location now. Up ahead lay a cradle of rocks, blown-over with sand and studded with brush. Hidden there lay the rass, waiting for him. Gilwyn directed his mind at the creature, filling it with his presence, speaking in a language it somehow understood. As he drew near the rocks, he felt the serpent bend to his will. Its dark eyes dawned with understanding. Then, at last, it obeyed. Moving with a quickness that seemed impossible, it burrowed its long body beneath the rocks and sand, shielding itself in shadows.

And Gilwyn rode right toward it.

Trust yourself, Ruana told him.

With little choice, Gilwyn urged his drowa toward the rocks. Now the raiders were gaining again, their own mounts lathered with effort. Peering over his shoulder, Gilwyn watched the raiders draw their weapons. The rocks were only yards away. He braced himself and raced toward them.

Hear me, he commanded. The hidden rass opened its mind for him. The four are your prey.

The serpent understood. Confident, Gilwyn entered the rocks. His drowa slowed, then wheeled about at Gilwyn’s order, snorting in anger as the four raiders approached. Gilwyn drew the dagger at his belt and held it aloft. Up ahead, he could barely see the outline of the enormous rass, tucked in waiting at the base of the rocks.

‘Come, then, damn you!’ he cried. The raiders were clearly visible now, four burly Voruni with scimitars and oily beards combed to sharp, black points. The first man, a Zarturk by the looks of him, held up a hand and brought his men to a halt. Gilwyn cursed when he saw their strategy. Zarturks were leaders among the Voruni, tribal warriors who had proven themselves in battle, and this one wasn’t stupid. He looked at Gilwyn across the rocks, lowering his blade curiously and leaning back in the saddle of his drowa. Gilwyn put his thumbnail to his front teeth and flicked a vulgar gesture at them. He had not learned a lot of their language, but because the Voruni spoke a tongue similar to the Jadori he knew how to curse them.

‘Aztar moahmad!’ he shouted. The words meant ‘filth of Aztar,’ and when the Zarturk heard the insult he bristled. He barked back across the rocks, calling Gilwyn a stupid boy and ordering him to surrender. Gilwyn shook his head, refusing to budge, but he knew he could not hold the rass much longer.

‘Come and get me!’ Gilwyn cried, then turned his drowa and rode off, sure that the raiders would follow. Half his brain stayed connected to the rass. The other half turned to see two of the raiders riding to pursue. The other pair rode round the rocks, trying to reach him the long way. Gilwyn quickly reigned in his drowa. The first men were riding past the rocks. Sure that he had no choice, he shot an order to the waiting serpent.

Now!

A swale of black flesh and shaking sand burst from the rocks. The shocked riders reared back on their mounts. The great rass unfolded its leathery hood, opened its forbidding maw, and lunged. Gilwyn watched, horrified, as the nearest drowa stumbled back and spilled its rider in the monster’s shadow. His comrade, dumbstruck, barely raised his blade. The rass was on them instantly, quickly coiling round the fallen man, then bearing him up in its vise-grip tail. The head jolted forward, knocked the other rider from his mount, then reared back in leering delight before clamping its jaws around him. A moment later both men were in the air, one suffocating in the serpent’s tail, the other punctured and bloody, dangling from the creature’s fangs.

‘Fate above. .’

Nausea spiked in Gilwyn’s throat. The remaining raiders stopped, as stunned as Gilwyn by the shocking sight. The Zarturk turned to look at Gilwyn, his dark eyes furious. Quickly he and his remaining warrior retreated, circling around the rocks and safely away from the raging serpent. The rass, occupied with its still-living prey, barely noticed them. Sickened by what he’d done, Gilwyn lost control of the rass. When he did, Ruana slammed into his mind.

Get control or get away from it!

Confused, Gilwyn squeezed his legs and urged the drowa away. With nowhere to go he rode away from the raiders, begging the drowa to hurry. He left the rock behind, left the rass to feed on the two men he had trapped, and was soon out in the open again, racing helplessly away from the raiders, who shouted after him.

‘Unless there are more snakes out here I’m in trouble!’ he gasped. ‘Ruana?’

The Akari gave no reply, because nothing could be done and Gilwyn knew it. With only a dagger and an exhausted drowa, he had no hope at all. He looked over his shoulder and saw the relentless raiders bearing down fast. Behind them, the rass had dropped the man from its tail and craned its neck skyward to swallow the other man whole.

‘All right, enough running,’ spat Gilwyn. ‘They have me. Damn it!’

He jerked back the drowa’s reins and spun to a halt, facing the Zarturk and his man. The Voruni pair brought their own mounts to a stop a few yards away. Thunder filled the Zarturk’s face. A jagged tattoo across his cheek twitched with fury.

‘You want me, you pirate trash?’ Gilwyn held up his dagger. ‘You want to rob me? Then come and get me!’

The Zarturk and his underling smirked at his small weapon. Then, surprisingly, both men put their blades into their belts. The Zarturk shook his head contemptuously, pointing to the distant rass.

‘That’s right,’ Gilwyn taunted. ‘Big snake. Bad death. Do you understand me, you stupid beasts?’

The Zarturk frowned. ‘Aztar.’

Gilwyn’s dagger trembled. ‘What?’

‘Aztar,’ said the man again, then pointed eastward. ‘Aztar.’

‘Aztar? Aztar’s dead,’ said Gilwyn. He pretended to draw his knife over his throat. ‘Dead.’

The Voruni understood the gesture, but shook his head in denial. ‘Aztar bis arok.’

‘Arok? Alive?’

The Zarturk nodded, then put out a finger and bid Gilwyn forward. ‘Aztar.’

They want you to follow them, said Ruana.

Gilwyn couldn’t speak. There was nowhere to go and no one to aid him. Helpless, he put the dagger back in its small sheath. He rode toward the Zarturk warily, unsure what else to do. His heart thundered in his temples, muddling his thinking and his connection to Ruana. Aztar would kill him, and probably not quickly. The thought of torture smothered him. As he rode he took no notice of the nearby dune, partially blocking the horizon. The angry face of the Zarturk filled his vision. Like Gilwyn, the big man and his companion remained oblivious to their surroundings. Having forgotten the nearby rass, not even Gilwyn saw it in time.

A black shadow fell across the dune. Sand exploded amid the terrible cries of frightened drowa. Ruana burst into Gilwyn’s mind, but amidst the sudden chaos he barely noticed her. He saw only a great wall of rising flesh. . and then, darkness.