They had come like a plague across his desert, Aztar told Vala, bringing disease and false gods with them. Jador had become an evil place, and if the great Desert of Tears was ever again to be godly it had to be cleansed. It had to be; there was no choice for Aztar.
So he declared himself the instrument of his god, Vala’s right hand, and with tears in his dark eyes begged the Serene One to forgive the blood he might shed in battle.
‘Let the blood feed your desert, Vala,’ he pleaded. ‘See the good in what I do for you.’
Aztar bowed his head to the sand and kissed the desert, finishing his prayer. For a moment he remained on his knees. Surrendering himself to Vala always drained him. The touch of the god on his soul was indelible, sometimes crippling. Aztar wiped the tears from his face and slowly stood. The desert was remarkably quiet. He could see the dimming fires of his men, but he could not hear the soldiers. Nor could he hear the defiant cries from the Jadori. He turned toward that distant city, barely visible now, and regretted having to destroy it.
‘The desert demands it,’ he told himself. Lowering himself again, he scooped up a handful of sand and let the stuff seep carefully through his fingers. The desert was his lover. From the time he was a boy he had worshipped it. But he knew it was not just the desert demanding the death of Jador. He had other, more mortal reasons for his plans.
He only hoped Vala understood that, too.
Aztar turned from his prayer place and began walking very slowly back to his men. It did not surprise him at all to see the figure of Baraki, his half brother, waiting for him near a dune. Baraki greeted him with a furrowed brow. As one of Aztar’s trusted Zarturks, Baraki wore a gaka trimmed with gold and a red sash across his waist. He was a large man, heavier than his half brother but with the same piercing eyes as their shared mother. And like Aztar, Baraki had no weapon on his person, for to bring a blade to prayer was a high heresy.
‘You have prayed?’ Baraki asked his brother. The moon was gone almost completely, and Aztar could barely see the man’s face.
‘I have,’ Aztar answered. He paused before his half brother. ‘It is well.’
‘Hmm, you look. . troubled,’ Baraki said. ‘You are thinking of the girl still.’
Aztar had never been able to hide the truth from him. Not when he had stolen confections as a boy, nor now, when his aching heart betrayed him.
‘I am,’ Aztar admitted. He looked down at the sand and shrugged. ‘She haunts me always, brother, and I cannot keep my mind from her. I should have prayed about this, but I did not. I simply asked Vala to forgive me for the blood I shed tomorrow.’
‘You cannot keep the truth from him, Aztar. Vala knows the desires of men’s hearts.’
It was that which troubled Aztar most of all, for he knew not all his reasons for attacking Jador were noble. He wanted Salina, and by taking Jador he might have her, or so said King Baralosus. Aztar did not trust the old king completely, but he knew that Jador was a gift not even Baralosus could ignore.
‘I will cleanse the desert for Vala,’ Aztar said. ‘That should be enough. And if I get Salina in the bargain, I think the Serene One will be glad for me.’
‘And Shalafein? What if he is protected by the Serene One as well?’
‘Impossible,’ said Aztar. It was a rumour that had always disgusted him. ‘Tomorrow I shall kill the Bronze Knight at last. I shall do it myself to prove my worthiness to Vala. Then he will not be angry with me. Then he will grant me Salina.’
Baraki did not argue, though Aztar could tell his brother did not totally like his logic. But it did not matter to Aztar. He had already made his peace with his decision.
31
Morning came slowly across the desert, painting it gold. From his place on Emerald’s back Gilwyn watched the sunrise, watched it peel away the darkness to reveal Aztar’s forces, and knew that this perfect morning might be his last.
Aztar’s men had lined up in two great ranks along the sand. The banners of the desert prince barely stirred in the breezeless air. As the light began to shine, Gilwyn saw the army clearly. The Tiger of the Desert had brought his nearly two thousand men just a half-mile from Jador. With machinelike precision they waited atop their groomed warhorses — great beasts with glimmering coats and Ganjeese saddles. They were divided roughly evenly between the two ranks. Gilwyn saw at least a thousand in the rear. Among them, Prince Aztar waited on a sandy hill, flanked by Voruni warriors. From his place among his companions Gilwyn could see the prince upon his horse, small as a speck yet frightening to behold. A gold and black headdress wrapped his bearded face. His horse — a black monster — stood apart from the others, giving the prince an imperious air.
Previously, Prince Aztar had never come himself to battle the Jadori. It was the first time any of them had seen the Tiger, and now their ranks buzzed with curious talk. Nervous talk, the kind from frightened men. Gilwyn glanced at their faces and was glad to see resolve there. Afraid or not, they were prepared for battle. Facing Aztar’s forces, they had marched or ridden out from Jador an hour earlier when the first glint of sunlight peered over the horizon. They had arranged themselves the way they had drilled — in two long ranks on the western edge of the city, safely away from the outskirts, in the sand where the multi-toed feet of their kreels would have the advantage. Prince Aztar’s men, all on horses, had watched as they’d taken their positions, arranging their defences. They had watched without moving, almost without a sound.
So sure were they of victory.
Gilwyn and his forty kreels waited patiently in the rear rank, made up of men on foot. They were northerners, mostly, with Paxon among them. Gilwyn could see Paxon some yards away, anxiously gripping his already-drawn sword. Falouk, the Jadori warrior who would lead them, stood nearby. Falouk had no kreel; he had given it over to another warrior so that he might lead the foreigners. Falouk was a man of bold talk and action, and the three hundred men he led — all from other countries — gathered close to him as they waited, leaving him at their centre like some idol of bronze. Gilwyn knew he too was part of Falouk’s group. Like them, he would wait until the first rank — Kamar’s kreel riders — needed them.
I should be with them, thought Gilwyn. He looked at Kamar’s warriors, beautiful and proud, all on the backs of seasoned kreels. Was he not one of them? Could he not command his own kreel at least as well as Kamar? Perhaps, he conceded, but he was no warrior. Today, his forty young kreels would do the fighting for him. Today, his mind would be his weapon.
There were others in the rear rank as well. Ghost, the albino, looked about anxiously from the back of his horse, one of the only stallions on the Jadori side. Though most of the Inhumans had stayed within the city walls with Minikin to protect the women and children, Ghost had been vocal about taking part in the battle. And he did not hide his displeasure over having to wait in the back rank. He wanted to be up front, with Kamar’s men. His fierce expression made his white face terrible to behold. The young albino had a sword at his belt and a chain mace in his hand. He twirled the mace distractedly as he waited, never taking his eyes off the distant Voruni.
Unlike Ghost, the great Greygor was quiet and unmoving. Standing apart from Falouk and the northerners, no one really knew what Grimhold’s guardian would do on the field, or even to whom he reported. It seemed to Gilwyn that Greygor reported to no one at all, save Minikin, and would do his own bidding when the battle finally started. He was a good distance from Gilwyn yet was plainly visible, a giant among normal men, looking immense even against the kreels. There was serenity in Greygor, a kind of peaceful patience. He did not toy with his weapon the way Ghost did or shift his weight between booted feet. He merely waited and watched, sizing up the enemy through the eyeslits in his helmet.