by John Marco
“Do we attack?” shouted Thorin over the noise.
“We do!” cried Kadar, then ordered his first hundred riders into position.
Down in the valley of sand, Trager watched as the kreel riders took position on the dune, forming a defensive line while Kadar and Glass and the others fell back. There the riders waited, their monstrous kreels letting out a terrible war cry. For a moment Trager was impressed. It would be difficult for his lancers to make it up the dune, but he knew there was no other choice. Kadar wasn’t stupid enough to give up the high ground. As the Jadori warriors waited, taunting them, Akeela rode up to Trager’s side.
“They want a fight, my lord,” sighed Trager. “There was nothing I could do about it.”
Akeela’s lips disappeared in a tight grimace. “They spit on my offer,” he rumbled. “Well, they will pay for that. Attack, General. Destroy them all.”
The words were like music to Trager. “Yes, my lord,” he replied. He turned to Colonel Tark, who was waiting dutifully at his side. “The order’s given, Colonel. First line attack.”
“First line attack,” repeated Tark, then called the order to his lieutenants. At once the horsemen in the front line raised their lances. “Up the hill and over!” cried Tark. “Attack!”
A second later the lancers exploded forward, sand flying out behind them like a desert storm. They moved with perfection, charging across the desert, their weapons poised, their armored heads bowed. Trager watched, impressed by their movements even in the difficult terrain. They were slower, certainly, but more surefooted than he’d thought. As the horsemen reached the bottom of the dune, the second line—swordsmen—readied to join them. Their lance-wielding brothers struggled up the high dunes toward their adversaries. At the top of the dunes, the kreel riders held out their spears, the muscular haunches of their reptilian mounts ready to attack. When the horsemen crested the ridge, the kreels sprang.
They were like screaming lightning, and Trager hardly saw them. With spitting snouts and slashing claws the beasts barreled into the horsemen, ducking the lances and slamming into their armored flanks. The shocked horses whinnied and reared; the stunned horsemen nearly fell from their mounts. Suddenly, the kreels were everywhere, and their riders with them, stabbing with their spears and working their whips, pressing their advantage. Some of the Liirians broke through, impaling kreels or riders on their lances, but most were muddled, dazed by the quickness of their enemies and struggling for footing. With appalling ease the claws of the reptiles tore into the Liirian armor, slashing leather straps and finding the soft flesh beneath. The horses bellowed as the beasts opened their guts with razor claws. The lancers dropped their clumsy weapons, turning to regroup as the monsters fell on them. Jadori whips snapped through the air, snatching men from saddles and dragging them to the sand. The lancers drew their swords to counter, slicing through the blinding shield of scales.
Back in the Liirian ranks, Trager watched in horror as his men were slaughtered. The lances had been a debacle. He had never expected the quickness of the kreels; he had never seen creatures so fleet. A worried murmur swept through his men. Colonel Tark looked at him for guidance. Next to him, Akeela’s face was tight with fury.
“Not a good start, General,” he grumbled.
Quiet, you ass! thought Trager. He didn’t need a coward’s backtalk now. He needed action, so he gave the order for the next lines to charge. The lieutenants made the call, and two hundred more horsemen galloped forward. They drew their swords and raised them high, shaking the air with their thunder. Up on the dunes, the kreels and cavalry were locked in combat, clashing claws and swords and screaming in bloodlust. The kreels were everywhere, outnumbered but impossibly fast, bounding between horses and dodging blades, their long jaws snapping off limbs. A huge cloud of dust rose from the dunes. Trager rode forward for a better view, leaving Akeela safely in the rear. He knew that somewhere, Kahan Kadar was waiting for him, eager to meet him in combat.
For almost an hour, Thorin and Kadar watched the battle unfold, safe from their position on a nearby dune. Their first wave of warriors had done remarkably well, but their numbers had dwindled and needed bolstering from fresh fighters. Kadar had ordered more of his men into the melee, and Trager had met them with his own seemingly inexhaustible supply of troops. Thorin knew Kadar was worried. He had always known his kreels were better than any horses, but the overwhelming numbers of Liirians had virtually negated that advantage. Worry shone on the kahan’s face, and a kind of quiet resolve. It was just a matter of time. Thorin scanned the battle, hoping for a miracle. He had wracked his brain since the fight began, trying to think of some new tactic to give them an advantage. If they had mobilized the people of the city they might have been able to beat back Akeela’s army, but Kadar wouldn’t hear of it. It was his charge to protect his people, and he would die before letting untrained farmers take up the fight.
Soon enough for that, thought Thorin blackly. Once his old countrymen defeated the kreels. . . .
The battle raged on. Kadar ordered more and more of his men into the fray, until there were barely fifty men left with the kahan. Thorin pleaded with Kadar, begging him to let him fight. It didn’t matter that he had one arm, he insisted. He was good with a sword, promising to take down at least ten Liirians before falling himself. The boast made Kadar smile.
“You will ride to Grimhold,” he told Thorin.
“But I can fight!”
Kadar shook his head. “Grimhold is more important than anything,” he said. Thorin knew the kahan was thinking of his daughter.
A few minutes later what Thorin dreaded most came to pass. Out on the dust-filled dunes, the Jadori warriors began to falter. Exhaustion overtook them and their stout-hearted mounts. Across the distance Trager prepared his final assault, organizing the rest of his cavalry to charge, still over a thousand strong. It was the end and Kadar knew it.
“Go now, Baron Glass,” he said. “Get to Grimhold, tell them what you saw here. Tell them what is coming.”
Thorin’s throat tightened. “Kadar, let me—”
“Go to Grimhold,” repeated Kadar. He hefted his spear and took a deep breath. He said to Benik, “Ride quickly. Be sure to get him there.”
Benik nodded but didn’t say a word. Like Thorin, he hated the thought of abandoning the kahan. Kadar’s hard face softened enough to give Thorin an encouraging smile.
“Be well, Baron Glass. And see that the Bronze Knight protects my daughter.”
“I will,” said Thorin. He took a final look at the dune where the battle raged. Off to the east, Trager and his cavalry were about to charge. Never had the baron felt more cowardly.
He told Benik he was ready, almost choking on the words, and the two fled the battlefield for the safety of Grimhold.
Kahan Kadar of Jador watched the foreigner from Liiria ride off, carrying his greatest hopes with him. He hadn’t expected to like the big baron or to trust him with the life of his daughter, but he supposed he was living in a remarkable time. And it occurred to him that he had lived a long life, burying many wives and friends and seeing miraculous things. He was glad he had given the amulet back to Eladaz. He was ready to die. But not before settling a score. He did not expect to reach the mad Akeela; that was asking too much. But if could slay the general in battle, he would happily leave this world.
“Men of Jador,” he called in their tongue. “This is our last stand!”
His remaining warriors raised their spears willingly. Kadar called the attack and charged into battle, haunted by the image of his beautiful, blind daughter.
Will Trager rode at the head of his cavalry, leading the final assault up the dunes. Through the visor of his helmet he saw Kadar racing into the melee and knew what he sought. Fifty more kreel riders were with him, the last of them, Trager supposed. The odds were heavily in his favor now, and he didn’t expect to lose many more men. He could tell the Jadori were tiring. Even their lizards were slowing. As his black stallion tore up t
he sand, he drew his sword and pointed it at Kadar.
“I’m going after the kahan!” he roared to Colonel Tark. “Take the men into battle!”
Veering from the rest of the line, Trager steered straight for Kadar. The kahan saw him from the top of the dune, saw his intent, and ordered his kreel down after him. As the Liirian cavalry rushed by, Kadar ignored them, focusing on Trager. His spear was up and his head was lowered. Trager prepared himself, quickly studying Kadar’s attack and drawing back his blade. He would now go for the kahan himself.
As the Jadori sprinted forward, Trager expertly evaded the spear and brought his sword low. He had jousted with the best a hundred times and easily ducked the blow, slamming his sword into the kreel’s neck. He heard the lizard cry as it raced past, felt the blade cleave the armor and the skin beneath. As he turned to see the damage, the kreel skidded headlong into the sand, spraying blood. Trager let out a triumphant shout as Kadar spilled from the kreel’s back. The kahan tumbled, losing his spear. Trager spun his horse around. It had all been over so quickly; he had expected more from the vaunted Kadar.
“I told you we would meet, Dirt-King,” he taunted. Behind him on the dunes, the sounds of battle raged on, but Trager ignored it as he pranced toward Kadar. “Tell me now, who is your better?”
Kadar sneered and clawed the sand for his spear. Trager let him take the time to find it. When he did the kahan sprang to his feet. The kreel was crying beside him, desperately struggling to raise itself even as blood sluiced from its wound.
“A remarkable beast,” said Trager. “Loyal. But not enough to save you, savage.”
“Fight me!” roared Kadar. He bared his teeth as he poked the air with his spear. “Come and face me!”
Mounted, Trager knew he had the advantage. And if he were Kadar, he would try to even the odds by striking for the horse. Without a shield to protect him, Trager realized he was still in danger. Then, far in the distance, he noticed Akeela watching him. The Liirian king was on his horse, surrounded by guards. Trager knew he could easily call for help, but knew also that Akeela was judging him, just as he always had. Was Akeela thinking of Lukien, he wondered? Did he still think the Bronze Knight his better?
“I don’t need help to defeat you!” Trager shouted, then kicked his heels into his horse, sending it springing forward. Kadar braced himself for the clash. An angry Trager brought up his sword, poised to trample the kahan. Kadar stood firm until the last moment, then moved like a cat and smashed the butt of his spear into Trager’s chest, catching him cold and driving him from his saddle. Trager’s world winked out of existence. He felt the blow, felt himself falling, then the awful impact of the ground rushing to meet him. The air flew from his lungs but he held firm to his sword, opening his eyes just in time to see the screaming Kadar racing forward. He rolled, barely avoiding the spear tip, then brought up his weapon and knocked it aside. Bounding to his feet, he felt a stabbing pain in his ribs and knew he’d cracked some. Kadar was before him, swinging his spear. Trager ducked and the weapon swooshed overhead. He tried to counter but Kadar was too quick, falling back before the blade caught him. Trager panted and gripped his side. Kadar staggered on his feet, still dazed from his own fall. The sounds of battle erupted in their ears. The pain in Trager’s ribs was searing.
Akeela’s watching! he told himself. Win!
With desperate strength he flung himself at Kadar, his sword whistling. The dazed kahan brought up his spear to block the blows, one by one parrying them all. But Trager was beyond stopping now. He pressed his attack, hacking down again and again until at last the spear splintered and the blade smashed Kadar’s breastplate. The blow buckled the armor. The kahan stumbled back, wounded. His eyes scanned the ground desperately for a weapon, but found only useless sand. Trager knew he had him. One more strike and Kadar was finished. He twisted his grip on the pommel and with both hands sliced at Kadar’s chest, cracking the damaged armor and biting into flesh. Kadar fell back as the blade came away, blood dripping down his armor. He tumbled into the sand and stared up at the sky, sweating and panting. Slowly Trager stalked after him. He stood over the wounded kahan and put the point of his sword to his naked throat.
“Now you die,” spat Trager, his own face covered in dirty sweat. “Any last words?”
Kahan Kadar of Jador did not flinch as the blade pricked his flesh. He looked up at Trager with utter contempt. “You will not win,” he declared. “The folk of Grimhold are stronger than you!”
Trager added pressure to the blade. “We shall see,” he said bitterly. “After we take your city, we ride for Grimhold.”
Then he lowered his weight on the pommel, sending the blade effortlessly through Kadar’s throat and into the sand beneath. There was a spasm and a gurgling cry as Kadar slowly died. Trager watched him every moment, his eyes locked on his foe’s twisted face. Blood soaked the earth under Kadar’s head, running quickly into the sand. When he was finally dead, Trager drew back his blade and stood, letting the soiled weapon dangle from his fist. He wobbled a moment, his side screaming with pain. A quick look toward the dune told him the battle continued, but that the day was his. Gazing eastward, he saw Akeela waiting on his horse, still watching with detachment.
“So?” Trager gasped. “Did you see? Did you finally see?”
Clutching his side, he staggered toward Akeela, forgetting the horse and the raging battle.
“I’m better than Lukien, better than all of them,” he groaned.
He knew Akeela couldn’t hear him, but it didn’t matter. He had seen, and that was enough.
51
When the battle was over and Trager had bandaged his damaged ribs, the army began taking care of their wounded and preparing for their march to the city. It was nearly afternoon, and Akeela was eager to reach Jador. He had no intention of spending another night out in the desert, and still expected a fight at the city gates. While his men made ready, Akeela finally trotted out from the safety of his guards and onto the battlefield. It was eerily quiet. All the men, including Trager, were shaken by their losses. From the top of the dune Akeela could see Jador in the distance, waiting for him. The desert sands were littered with bodies, most of them dead, others that would soon expire. The odd calls of the near-dead kreels floated up through the air, faint and ghostly. A stink began to rise, driven by the heat. Trager had estimated their dead at nearly eight hundred. An appalling loss, and Akeela grieved for them. He had lost men in Nith and now in the desert, and was sure to lose more when they reached the city. He hoped enough would remain to eventually capture Lukien. That was all he wanted now.
After resting a few hours, Akeela ordered the men back on their horses, and together they and their caravan of drowa set off for Jador. Akeela took the lead this time, with Trager and Colonel Tark close behind, both of whom barely spoke, so rattled were they by the losses they’d endured. Akeela didn’t need Doreshen anymore and so relegated the Ganjor man to the back of the column. He wouldn’t like what was about to happen in Jador. Neither would Grak have. But Akeela was still angered by the way Kahan Kadar had refused his generous terms, and so felt no remorse for what he was about to do.
It is Kadar’s will that they should die, he told himself as he rode.
An hour later the army reached the outskirts of Jador. They found the avenues choked with people, some armed, most not. These were Ganjeese, mostly. The Jadori, Akeela knew, were behind the city’s wall. But of the armed he found a hundred of Kadar’s black-robed warriors, standing in a defiant line before the city, blocking its major avenue. They had spears and curved swords in their hands. Their faces were resolute. Clearly they knew their kahan had perished, yet they seemed determined to fight on.
So be it.
Akeela brought his diminished army to a halt at the outskirts of Jador. The Jadori defenders were a mere twenty yards away. Beyond them, he could see people hanging out of the windows of the dingy towers. And beyond the towers, the city wall of Jador stood, also burdened with onlookers
. They would yield or they would die, and with only a few hundred warriors left to defend them, either option was all right with Akeela. He had hoped to spare the lives of the citizens, but he was beyond caring now, really, and so accepted what the Great Fate handed him.
He didn’t ask Trager if his men were prepared to fight. He didn’t ask the defenders to surrender. He simply called out to them across the remaining stretch of desert.
“Your kahan is dead,” he shouted. “And soon so shall you be.”
There was no reply from the staunch defenders. Akeela doubted they understood him. Sighing, he turned to Trager and said, “Kill anyone who tries to stop you. Spare the citizens, if you can.”
Without hesitation, Trager’s Chargers went to work.
52
Minikin stalked through the halls of Grimhold, a thousand troubled voices screaming in her mind. She moved quickly, not talking to anyone, not even Trog. The cries in her mind threatened to split her skull, yet she could not understand their pleas. The Akari were speaking all at once, a jumble of alarmed and weeping voices. It was late afternoon, and Minikin had been taking her midday meal at the usual time, sitting with Trog in her chamber and enjoying the view from one of the keep’s only windows. Then the screams had started; it was like getting hit in the head with a stone. Minikin’s tea cup had dropped from her hand and shattered. She fell back in her chair, trying to make sense of it all and realizing something terrible had happened.
When at last she reached Insight’s room her head was spinning. She tried the door but it was locked.
“Damn it!”
She banged on the door, hoping Alena would hear her. “Alena, are you in there? It’s Minikin.”
