The Sword Of Angels

52

Aztar and his brother had barely reached the hill by the time he heard the horn sound. Behind them, Baralosus’ General was calling his troops to battle. Aztar urged his drowa up the hill, then swung it around to see the advancing army. His Zarturks hurried to his side. Baraki began calling out to their warriors, preparing them for the assault. The Ganjeese army came alive like a great, unified mass, spreading out across the desert as they took up their positions. Aztar watched them from the top of the dune, wondering about their tactics. He had riled Baralosus, surely, but he wasn’t sure it would be enough. The king was angry but not stupid.

‘They’re coming,’ said Rakaar excitedly. ‘Look!’

The spreading stain of the Ganjeese army swarmed out toward them, moving slowly but perfectly to encircle the dunes. The hills were high and would protect them, Aztar knew, giving them a much needed advantage. With the sunlight gone, he would have a chance — if Baralosus made the hoped for mistake. Aztar continued to watch them as Baraki positioned their own troops. Most had already taken up positions in the dunes. Because of the size and arrangement of the hills, even Aztar could not see most of them, but he knew that his mounted bowmen had hidden themselves in the front, ready to fire at the advancing enemy.

‘They’re coming,’ said Rakaar. ‘We should retreat to the centre now, Aztar.’

Aztar agreed, and with a shout to his brother spun his drowa toward the undulating middle of the hills. There he passed the others who had already gathered, ordering them to spread out through the dunes and get ready for the fight.

‘Be ready for them,’ he called. ‘They may come in the dark if we are lucky. If not they will wait until morning.’

‘Baralosus isn’t that stupid,’ said Fahleen, the eldest of the Zarturks. ‘He’ll surround us until the sun rises. Then he’ll come for us.’

There was arguing back and forth among them, Rakaar sure the Ganjeese would attack, while young Adnah sided with Fahleen. But they all had their own men to command, and their wagging tongues angered Aztar.

‘Get to your men,’ he snapped. ‘Rakaar, fire on anyone who comes close enough. They may test our front. If they do, kill them. Go.’

Rakaar nodded and went back the way he’d come, riding quickly toward the front of the dunes. He was the one with the most bowmen, the one who would take the brunt of the attack if the Ganjeese advanced as predicted. As for the flanks, they belonged to Fahleen and Adnah, each with barely fifty men. Aztar himself would remain in the centre with Baraki, commanding the battle from a tall dune until he could himself ride into the fight. He had already selected his position, and rode toward it now with Baraki and a handful of Voruni warriors. The ground yielded like mud beneath the hooves of their drowa, making the climb a chore. When at last they reached the top, Aztar looked out over his dark position and smiled.

Throughout the dunes his men had doused their torches, leaving them almost invisible in the moonlight. Far up ahead, Rakaar’s men crouched in the dunes, some mounted, some standing near their drowa with bows in their hands. They were the short, quick firing bows, the only kind his men ever used, with small arrows tipped with iron that they carried in poaches on their backs. Rakaar’s men had fanned out along the front dunes, keeping deep within the shadows but also using scouts to watch the approaching Ganjeese. Other scouts from each of the Zarturks took up positions on other dunes as well, so that their actions could be coordinated. Aztar took the time to give a little smile. Even though they had no real chance at all, what he saw impressed them. Any damage they could do would make things that much easier for Jador.

‘Aztar, look there,’ directed Baraki, gesturing toward Baralosus army. The great mass had begun to split. ‘They mean to surround us.’

Aztar knew General Rhot to be a competent man, a leader with enough experience to know they shouldn’t attack at night. Still, the manoeuvres disappointed Aztar. Rhot had obviously talked his king out of a nighttime attack. His men moved cautiously as they began to fan out, unhurried. The bulk of them remained at the front while two smaller groups moved to flank the dunes. Each force contained rows of mounted drowamen with lances, which would probably do them no good. Aztar’s men had already discarded their own lances, taking up javelins instead. But what made Aztar the most curious were the longbowmen. General Rhot, oddly visible in the moonlight, remained with them as they advanced and then halted, readying themselves for the assault.

‘They can reach us from there,’ Aztar whispered, studying the archers.

‘In the dark?’ Baraki shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Baralosus has all the gold he needs for arrows,’ said Aztar. ‘He’ll waste them all night long if he must.’

Because his men had no shields, the thought of the archers worried Aztar. Even hidden in the dunes and darkness, his men would be vulnerable. He looked around, wondering how best to protect them, and realized that it would only be luck that let the archers find their marks.

But there were so many of them. .

‘We’re vulnerable up here,’ grumbled Aztar. ‘And so are the scouts.’

It was a stupid mistake, the kind Aztar had expected Baralosus to make. With the bowmen raining chaos on them, it would be impossible for him to command his men. Aztar determined to wait as long as he could, sure that the barrage would not come too soon. Again he was wrong.

He heard the shout from the general first, then watched in dread as the archers drew back their longbows. Rows of them, perfectly tilted, aimed their weapons skyward and awaited the order to loose. Aztar called out frantically to his men, warning them of the attack just as the arrows flew. Instantly they disappeared into the dark sky, but against the moon Aztar could briefly see them, like insects quickly flying. At once he and his brother sought cover, riding their beasts back down the hill. A moment later the storm began. The arrows pelted the ground, landing with sharp thuds all around them. Aztar heard his men shout — then scream — as amazingly the missiles found some marks. Though the dunes were fine for hiding them, they did nothing to shield them from the heavens. Aztar galloped quickly from his hill, heading toward the front where the barrage seemed lightest. Turning back he watched as a single arrow fell from the sky and slipped perfectly through a man’s eye.

‘A night of this?’ cried Baraki. ‘This is Baralosus’ honour?’

‘Up front,’ Aztar called back. ‘That’s where they’ll come at us.’

‘Now? They’ll attack now?’

Aztar waved at his brother to hurry. ‘They’ll try to push us out of here. They’ll try to wear us down. Come, brother! Why should we wait like women on a hill? To the fight!’

King Baralosus watched from his drowa as General Rhot ordered the archers to continue. Already the barrage had produced happy results, dislodging Aztar from his place on the hill and sending the scouts scattering. Baralosus imagined the chaos in the dunes, the terror as the darkness filled with death. If he listened closely, he could hear men screaming over the noise of his own moving army. The moonlight made the dunes shift with life. Aztar’s men were hidden, mostly, but at the forefront of the dunes some of them peeked out their heads, making ready for the assault. Baralosus tried to calm himself. His words with Aztar had unsettled him, and the thought of his daughter in the hands of the Jadori made him seethe. Such an unimaginable turn of events — why hadn’t any of his advisors warned him? All of them, especially Kailyr, had been wrong about everything. Only Jashien seemed capable of rational thought, and because of that Baralosus kept Jashien close, calling him out of his own regiment to be a personal guard. Jashien kept very quiet as he watched the battle begin. His expression looked peculiar. Near him stood Kailyr, also looking strange. More precisely, Kailyr looked embarrassed, and kept to himself after being proved so wrong. He stole a glance at Baralosus while the spearmen prepared to move. Baralosus smirked at him.

Kahrdeen galloped up to him out of the front lines. The young soldier had been back and forth the whole time, relaying messages from Rhot. He already looked haggard. ‘Majesty, we’re ready. General Rhot asks your permission to begin.’

‘Tell General Rhot to do whatever he sees fit,’ said Baralosus. ‘Tell him that I want Aztar brought to me. He can be dead or alive, I don’t care which. Just make sure his head is still on.’

Kahrdeen reared back. ‘Majesty?’

‘Just give the order, Kahrdeen.’

The soldier spun his drowa around and headed back toward the front. As Baralosus watched him go, he saw the spearmen making ready and knew it would be a long night.

Aztar had his hand on a wounded man’s throat when he saw the first Ganjeese spearman. The man he was holding — a friend named Mulam — had taken an arrow in the neck and fallen from his drowa only feet from where Aztar had been waiting and watching. The blood sluicing through his wound told Aztar he would not live much longer. Aztar plugged the wound with his finger, cursing for Rakaar to hurry with the bandage.

‘They’re coming,’ Rakaar hissed, tossing a glance over his shoulder as he fumbled with the cloth, tearing off a strip of his own gaka.

‘I see them,’ said Aztar. All he wanted was to get back on his drowa. He tried to smile at Mulam, who was gasping now for breath. It made no sense to dress his wound, really, but Aztar could not let him die. Not yet. Not in such a terrible way.

‘Aztar come!’ his brother cried. ‘They’re coming through!’

‘Aztar go,’ Rakaar told him. He was already working the bandage around Mulam’s neck. ‘I’ll bind his wound and leave him be. What else can we do?’

With a last look at his loyal Voruni, Aztar sped toward his drowa, climbing quickly onto the beast and driving it forward. Passing a stand of javelins stuck ready in the sand, he reached out and snatched one of the weapons, catching up to his brother Baraki. Baraki and a band of others had taken up positions behind the leading dune, a great mass of loose sand that shifted in the evening breeze. The men, all of them mounted, had begun firing their bows at the coming spearmen, riding and ducking at the same time as they loosed their bolts. Overhead the air filled with another volley of Ganjeese arrows. Aztar saw them against the moon, bracing himself for the deadly rain.

‘There are so many,’ said Baraki dreadfully, peering out past the dune at the swarming mob. The spearmen were infantry, charging across the bare earth with their long weapons tucked beneath their armpits. Far behind them, General Rhot kept his drowas in reserve, ready to charge.

‘They’re testing us, that’s all,’ surmised Aztar. ‘He won’t send in his drowamen. Not yet. Not till morning.’

The prediction did little to ease Baraki’s fears. He had fought with Aztar dozens of times before, but this time was different and both of them knew it. Baraki had the face of a man who simply knew his death was lurking.

‘Remember,’ Aztar told them all, ‘this is for the glory of Vala.’

The men around him raised their javelins, cheering themselves, trying to stoke the fire that would make them fight. In the hills behind them, the other Zarturks endured the Ganjeese arrows, but these were the men who’d be first into battle. Aztar unwound the headdress from around his skull, flinging it aside, proudly displaying his entire, fire-scorched face.

‘Come then, damned king!’ he cried. The glamour was on him now, for all his men to see. He rode out of the cover of the dune, not needing to ask his men to follow, and called out to the coming spearmen. ‘You are the whores of the world! We are righteous! We are not afraid!’

The spearmen came like a big black wave, breaking across the dune and spreading out against the opposing bowmen. One at a time some hit the dirt, felled by the arrows of the galloping Voruni. Still they came, undeterred, spurred on by Rhot’s distant battle horns. Aztar sized up the coming men, knew them to be weaker, and rode for the fight, bringing down his javelin as though it were a lance and tearing gleefully into them. Spears flew against his head. His great beast bellowed and spit. And Aztar, full of fury, tackled a trio of spearmen, barreling past them as they reached for his clothes then bringing his weapon plunging down into the back of the nearest man. At once the soldier’s chest exploded, run through by the javelin. Aztar ripped it free and continued on, again and again bringing it down against his enemies. Around him he heard Rakaar’s men shouting, besting the spearmen, but not without casualties. They were stronger easily, but woefully outnumbered, and the spearmen seemed without end, two taking up where one had fallen. They were only the first wave and Aztar knew it. He had men enough to beat them back, but that would only expose them more, and he could not ask it of his warriors.

‘Alone, then,’ he said. Determined to see who would follow, he tossed his javelin into a coming soldier, took his shining scimitar from his side, and cried out for blood. He did not look back as he raced from the dunes — he saw only the wall of spearmen before him.

General Rhot sat atop his drowa, comfortably distant from the unfolding fight. Remaining near the lines where his bowmen were firing, he watched with detachment as his infantry advanced on the dunes, confident that his patience would easily win the day, or more precisely the night. Through the moonlight he could see his men steadily moving, helped by the barrage of their bowmen back in the ranks. Two more groups of warriors had already encircled the dunes, ready to move in at the first sight of sunlight. It would be a long evening, and probably unproductive, and General Rhot tried hard not to grow bored. He knew that Aztar was trying to draw him in, trying to make him fight in the dark dunes. The dunes did a job of concealing the Voruni numbers, but it was a desperate tactic and one that really didn’t impress Rhot.

‘They think too much of this man,’ he sighed openly. At his side was young Kahrdeen, who nodded in agreement. ‘See how stupid he is, Kahrdeen? Who would do such a thing?’

‘And why?’ wondered Kahrdeen. ‘He could have had so much.’

There was a trace of regret in his commander’s tone. Rhot didn’t approve of it. ‘Because he is a fool,’ he shot back. ‘Aztar is a zealot, and now it has ruined him. You should watch closely, Kahrdeen — I want you to learn from this day. Do not make a hero of fools.’

Kahrdeen did not argue with the general. Instead he focused on the battle ahead, leaning forward in his saddle curiously. For a moment he blinked, then smiled. ‘General. . look there.’

Rhot had momentarily looked away, but now turned his attention back to the dunes. What he saw confused him. ‘Is that Aztar?’

The question needed no answer. There he was, plain as daylight, galloping through the spearmen, blade raised high, voice ringing through the night. Behind him came a stampede of Voruni drowamen, flooding out onto sand and hacking down Rhot’s soldiers. Rhot began to boil.

‘Get that ridiculous grin off your face, Kahrdeen,’ he seethed, ‘and send Zasif’s men after him. Now!’

Kahrdeen snapped to attention and loped off, calling out for Zasif and his drowamen. Rhot sat in stunned silence, shaking his head.

‘He wants to be hero,’ he whispered. ‘That’s all the madman cares about.’

Then, realizing the turn of events, he wheeled his mount around and rode toward King Baralosus.

Aztar saw the cavalry riding for his position. Atop his drowa, he stayed very still for a long time, watching as they charged closer. Under their assault his men would stand no chance at all, not out in the open, but he wondered what Rhot was thinking and why he had sent them so soon. The spearmen had been sent to test them.

Hadn’t they?

While Aztar puzzled, his brother rode up and pulled back hard on his tack. Around them the spearmen continued to swarm, but the Voruni riders had cut a wide swathe through them, leaving bodies scattered on the sands. Aztar himself was drenched in blood and sweat. A gory smear ran across his face. He wiped at it, frustrated by Rhot’s tactics.

‘Is he sending them in?’ he asked. ‘Or is this another ploy?’

‘Does it matter? We should go, Aztar?’

Hoping the Ganjeese riders would follow them into the dunes, Aztar retreated with his men into the dark recesses of the shifting hills, battling their way through the remaining spearmen. In mere minutes they had cut down a hundred of them, but a hundred more remained and chased them relentlessly into the dunes, where covering fire from Rakaar’s bowmen held them back. Once he reached the inside passage, Aztar rode back toward his command hill, ignoring the on-going hail of arrows from the tireless longbows. His men rallied to his side, peppering him with questions.

‘They want a fight,’ Aztar declared. ‘We will give them our best.’

Thundering up the sandy slope, he glanced backward toward the Ganjeese lines. Higher now, he could see the advancing cavalry. Already it had slowed. Aztar cursed and checked the flanks, which remained quiet.

‘Damn it,’ he growled. He shook his head at Baraki, who had come up behind him. ‘He’s not coming. He’s only driven us off like flies!’

Baraki took notice of the tactic, his face sour. Like his brother, his gaka clung heavily to his body, soaked with blood. His scimitar remained in his hand, gleaming with a slick of scarlet. The two brothers remained silent, listening to the restless sounds of night. Overhead, arrows whistled through the darkened sky.

‘We must wait,’ counseled Baraki. He turned to his brother. ‘Aztar? Do you hear?’

Prince Aztar nodded wearily. ‘I hear you, brother. The morning.’ He took his scimitar and raised it high above his head, so that the blood dripped from its point down to its hilt. ‘For you, Vala!’ he cried. ‘And in the morning, you shall feast.’

*

Baralosus spent the night near a campfire, eating poorly cooked food as he awaited word from his commanders. General Rhot continued to send him reports, all of which said the same uninteresting things. His men had the dunes surrounded. Aztar’s forces hadn’t moved at all. The bowmen on both sides stopped firing hours ago, leaving the night quiet.

But Baralosus did not sleep. His every thought remained on Salina, and by the time the sun finally arose he was eager at last to have his vengeance. Springing up from the sand, he called to his grooms to fetch his drowa. He had already discussed their tactics with Rhot and didn’t want to miss any of the bloody action. Kahrdeen was waiting for him when he broke away from camp, ready to escort the king to the front lines. Jashien, who had remained with Baralosus most of the night, kept close to his master as he waited for his mount. The grooms quickly brought up the drowa. Looking rested and refreshed, the huge beast rolled its eyes at the king as Baralosus tossed himself into the saddle. Before snapping the reins he gave Jashien a knowing nod.

In the quiet of the small hours, the two had talked again of Aztar and the thing Baralosus needed to do. More importantly, he needed to be seen to do it. King and soldier shared a silent understanding before Baralosus rode off with Kahrdeen.

‘You have been right about everything,’ he told Jashien.

Jashien shrugged. ‘It is easy to be right about a man like Aztar. He is predictable.’

‘He’s not stupid, if that’s what you mean.’

‘No, Majesty. I mean that he is devoted. Men like that are easy to figure out.’

Baralosus said nothing, but the reply rattled him. Aztar was devoted. Not just to Vala and to his Voruni, but to Salina as well. There had even been a time when the Tiger was devoted to the king himself. Suddenly, Baralosus regretted the turn events had taken. His whole life had been politics. Aztar had seen that in him. For the first time since coming to the desert, Baralosus felt regret.

‘He lives in a world above me,’ he muttered.

Jashien turned to him. ‘Majesty?

Baralosus smirked unhappily. ‘Just a thought. Stay close to me, Jashien.’

‘Of course, Majesty.’

Together they followed Kahrdeen to the front of the army, where General Rhot still sat upon his drowa, directing the men who scurried around him. The long night had wearied Rhot, making his bearded face droop. Still, his eyes burned with determination, even pleasure that morning had finally come. He smiled a little at the approaching king.

‘Majesty, we are ready,’ he declared. ‘On your orders, I will unleash hell on Aztar.’

Baralosus looked around. Out around the dunes, his much larger army surrounded Aztar’s own, poised to enter the sandy hills and extract the prince. Atop the highest dunes a handful of the Voruni waited, scouting their enemies. It had no doubt been a terrible night for them all, and Baralosus was sure they would not be refreshed enough to fight their best. It would be a rout, a massacre even, and giving the order gave the king no pleasure at all.

‘General Rhot,’ he said softly, ‘do what you must.’

The order went out, and the great army of Ganjor came alive like a huge, armoured beast.

Prince Aztar knew his time had come.

For the prince and his brother, it had been a bizarre evening. Knowing that the morning would bring their death had made the two siblings talk about things they hadn’t spoken of in years, the kinds of things that old men discuss on their death beds. Prince Aztar had reflected on his life and was satisfied. He had made mistakes, but in the eyes of Vala he was cleansed now, with only one great task left before him.

To Aztar, it did no good to hide within the dunes. His task seemed as clear as the new daylight pouring over the sands. His enemies numbered over a thousand, but most of these were unimportant men, like game pieces moved about by a master. And like any game of skill, it was capturing the king that mattered most. Aztar had no illusions of his chances, but it was Vala’s will that he try. And like a fool, Baralosus had come out of hiding to accommodate him, riding up to the front of the ranks so that he was plainly visible now atop his ostentatious drowa.

‘He looks like a fat hen,’ commented Baraki. ‘Does he mean to fight?’

‘And dirty his hands? No, never,’ Aztar replied. He gazed out over the sand to where Baralosus waited near Rhot.

‘Reaching them will be impossible,’ said Rakaar.

‘But glorious to try,’ said Aztar.

Rakaar grinned. ‘We are peculiar.’ He laughed nervously. Then he looked up into the sky. ‘For Vala, then.’

Aztar nodded. ‘For Vala.’

Rakaar and his men had all agreed to ride with Aztar from the dunes. Their excursion against the spearmen the night before had filled them with fearlessness, and because the odds truly were impossible the thought of dying in hiding was abhorrent to them. The other Zarturks might fight within the hills — that was up to them. Aztar had given them autonomy to die as they saw fit. For him, though, and for his brother, dying meant living like a man, with the sun on his face and the sand of his beloved desert flying from his drowa. He gave one last look at the fifty men who would charge, then took the scimitar from his belt. Up ahead waited Rhot and his soldiers, a long line of drowamen ready to charge. Mingled among them were the spearmen, who would quickly run in after them. Aztar put their numbers in the hundreds.

He closed his eyes. He spoke a prayer. He thought of Salina and imagined her perfume. And then he was ready.

Scimitar raised, he called out to his men. ‘For Vala!’ he cried, and like a storm they bolted forward. Across the flat earth they tracked toward the drowamen, who slowly came alert. Behind them General Rhot turned toward the dunes, a great, stunned smile on his face. He was all fury suddenly, swinging into action with his men, galloping forward and leaving Baralosus behind.

‘Do you see him, brother?’ Aztar shouted. ‘Do you see Rhot?’

Baraki, tucked behind the neck of his mount, nodded vigourously. ‘He wants you, Aztar. Be ready for him!’

Aztar fixed his grip on his blade, ready to strike. Between him and the general stood at least a hundred men, but Rhot was riding forward furiously, eager to meet him. Aztar’s men dispersed around him, clashing quickly with the cavalry. A moment later all was chaos. Beside him, Aztar caught a glimpse of Baraki, slashing feverishly with his sword, already surrounded by Ganjeese. The fighters tore at him, stabbing with their weapons and Baraki fought to free himself. A turn of his drowa and he was out, swinging around again to face them. Aztar brought his own beast around and joined the me?le?e, then found relief in Rakaar’s leaping attack. Rakaar fell upon the men, his drowa bursting through their ranks, his blade moving with impossible speed.

‘I can’t get caught here!’ Aztar cried. ‘I have to reach him!’

‘Go!’ cried his brother.

With more of their men coming to join them, Aztar pulled free of the fight and turned again toward the front lines. Amidst the madness he had lost sight of Rhot but a great mass of spearmen headed toward him. Aztar wiped at the blooming sweat across his brow. Over their head he could see the distant flag of Baralosus, looking hopelessly remote.

‘Vala, help me,’ he groaned. ‘Help me reach him. .’

The spearmen swarmed him. Aztar’s drowa reared to its hinds. The beast kicked out, catching a man in the teeth with its hooves and clearing a tiny path for them. Aztar seized the chance, driving the drowa out of the swarm then turning to unleash his barrage. His scimitar found flesh quickly, carving its way through the nearest man’s face. Another came, then another, and Aztar viciously dispatched them all, splattered by the blood that sprayed from their wounds. He was alone, he realized, with his nearest Voruni long yards away. And the spearmen kept coming.

‘Where are you?’ he bellowed, calling out for Rhot. ‘General, I’m here!’

The sun spread hotly over the sands. Stinging sweat blinded him. Aztar rode wildly, unsure where to go, heading east toward the distant flag. Around him the battle swelled, carrying him forward, forcing his aching sword arm up again and again, each time to fall on an enemy’s head. But the wave was relentless, and already Aztar’s drowa panted, slobbering spittle from its lips. He had damned himself, Aztar knew, and a glance toward the dunes said there was no turning back. Somewhere in that mass of men his brother fought. Or maybe he had fallen. Aztar wondered a little too long. .

His drowa fell beneath him. A second later he noticed the sound, as a trio of arrows slammed the beast’s side. Its front legs collapsing, the drowa slid face first into the dirt, spilling Aztar over its head. The tumble loosened Aztar’s grip on his sword. He was flying, heals over head, then landed with a jolt with his face looking skyward. His body tightened with pain. His lungs screamed for air. Catching himself, he rolled over, clutching the sand and raising his eyes toward the coming riders.

There, at their point, rode General Rhot, his face triumphant. He had picked up a javelin along the way and held it at his side, its steel tip gleaming. A dozen men rode with him; two dozen more circled around Aztar. The prince got unsteadily to his knees, looking back at his fallen drowa, sprawled uselessly in the sand, a groaning death rattle streaming from its mouth. Rhot ordered another company of men into the fight. Aztar knew why. Being so occupied, none of his men could come to his rescue. He got to his feet and stared at the approaching general, sure that none of his lackeys would deliver the death blow.

‘You are a mighty fool,’ crowed General Rhot. He reined in his drowa, his men taking up positions at his side. ‘Here,’ he told Aztar, then tossed the javelin to his feet. ‘This belongs to you.’

It was indeed a Voruni javelin, one of the many they had used the night before. Aztar stooped to pick it up, hiding the pain that wracked his body.

‘So? You are man enough to fight me alone?’

Rhot started to answer, then turned toward another group riding into the circle. This time, King Baralosus led the way. With him was Jashien, the young soldier who had come to Aztar’s camp. Aztar recognized him at once, giving him a scowl. Baralosus’ own expression was unreadable. He trotted up to General Rhot, regarding Aztar strangely.

‘You wanted him, Majesty,’ said Rhot proudly. ‘Here is your prize.’

Baralosus frowned. ‘You gave him that weapon. Why?’

‘Speak to me!’ Aztar demanded. ‘You may best me, but I won’t be ignored.’

Rhot sneered. ‘A man like him should die on his feet, Majesty. You said that yourself. Look. .’ The general turned toward his men. ‘All of you look at him! Is this your hero?’

No one spoke. Jashien looked away. Aztar hefted the javelin, took measure of the distance, and heaved it at Rhot. Amazingly, it struck his unprotected breast. Rhot’s eyes bulged in astonishment. Baralosus gasped. The nearby riders closed the gap, supporting Rhot as he fell. And Aztar, as amazed as any of them, raised his voice toward heaven in praise.

‘You see?’ he told them all. He danced across the dirt, almost laughing. ‘I am the hand of Vala! You defy him by riding for Jador!’ He pointed at Baralosus. ‘By following this toad!’

Rhot cried out, cursing as his breath faded. His men rushed in to help him to the ground. As he lay there dying, King Baralosus said nothing. The other commanders looked at him impotently.

Like Aztar, Baralosus seemed lost. He stared at Rhot, then at Aztar, then at nothing as the general died. The battle still raged in the dunes. It would go on for hours. But Aztar was finished. He knew it and did not care. Vala had guided him. He was happy.

‘Vala watches over me,’ he told the king. ‘Everything I do is for him. And for Salina. Go back now, Majesty. Go back and beg for His forgiveness.’

Baralosus smiled sadly. ‘I cannot. I cannot leave this place with you alive.’

‘Then kill me,’ said Aztar. ‘You can do me no greater glory.’

Jashien rode quickly up to Baralosus. ‘Do it, Majesty,’ he urged. ‘Do it yourself. Take his head back to Ganjor.’

Aztar laughed. ‘Yes! Make a trophy of me, Baralosus! Let all the people see how good and just you are!’

King Baralosus called up his archers. Aztar watched them, then spread his arms out wide.

‘I’m ready to receive your gift!’ he told the bowmen. ‘You send me to a better place!’

‘No!’ Jashien growled. ‘Majesty, do it now! This is your chance.’

Baralosus shook his head. He said to Aztar, ‘I love my daughter. I love her. And I will have her back.’

The bowmen fired. Aztar watched the arrows come. A stunning pain filled his chest. His punctured heart exploded. The sand rose up to greet him as he fell, and in his mind he saw the smiling face of Vala.

Vala looked pleased. Aztar was happy.

Baralosus got down from his drowa, then went to stand over Aztar’s body. Death had come quickly; his marksmen were perfect. Red blood soaked the sand beneath the prince’s corpse, spreading out like wine. The men encircling him were silent. Baralosus knelt, putting his hand on Aztar’s head. He had died with serenity on his face, and the king was glad for it. He himself had rarely known serenity, and always envied those who did. But Aztar deserved such peace, he believed, and with his death the king’s hatred fled.

‘My daughter is no closer,’ he said to no on in particular. It was merely the truth. Aztar was dead. His men were being slaughtered. And still Salina was no closer.

‘Majesty, take his head,’ Jashien urged. ‘The others must see you.’

King Baralosus scoffed. ‘Let the vultures have his head.’

He rose, then glanced at the body of General Rhot. He had died so foolishly, so impossibly. It would be one more story added to Aztar’s legend. ‘Kahrdeen,’ he called, ‘you are in charge now.’

Kahrdeen nodded solemnly. ‘As you say, Majesty.’ He looked toward the dunes where the battle raged on. ‘What shall we do with the rest of them?’

‘Finish them,’ said Baralosus. ‘They mustn’t follow us to Jador.’

‘And the camp? What of that?’

‘Women and children?’ snapped the king. ‘What shall we do with them?’ He turned to Jashien. ‘Shall we take their heads as well?’

No one had an answer. Baralosus sighed disgustedly. ‘Kill the men for as long as they fight. If they surrender, give them leave. When you are done, make ready to ride.’

‘For Jador?’ asked Kahrdeen. ‘Majesty, we should wait. We are not strong enough to fight the Jadori.’

‘We should go back to Ganjor first,’ said Jashien. ‘When we have enough me-’

‘Jador has my daughter,’ the king thundered. ‘We’re not going to wait another day. Not another minute! We’re going to get her back.’ He took one last look at Aztar’s body. ‘You loved him,’ he told Jashien. ‘You bury him.’

Sickened by all he’d seen and done, King Baralosus retreated to the back ranks of his army, where the cooks and cowards waited.