by John Marco
“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 armory 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 gray 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, girdling 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 kreels 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 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 channeled 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. The
re 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 favor.
“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 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, others 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 paralyzed 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 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 anymore. 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 armor 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 ax 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 ax 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 armor, glancing harmlessly across his leg. The considerable force of the blow did not even move him. The great guardian brought up his ax 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 ax 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-ax, had cut a bloody swath 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 travelers had restarted their journey shortly before dawn, at the first hint of the new morning. According to the instructions Princess Salina had gi
ven 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 colors 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.
