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 kreel 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 again 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 channelled 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. There 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 favour.
‘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 his 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, other 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 paralysed 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 were 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 any more. We have to go now!’