‘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 armour 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 axe 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 axe 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 armour, glancing harmlessly across his leg. The considerable force of the blow did not even move him. The great guardian brought up his axe 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 axe 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 axe, had cut a bloody swathe 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 travellers had restarted their journey shortly before dawn, at the first hint of the new morning. According to the instructions Princess Salina had given 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 colours 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.
The battle had begun.
He sat up higher on his horse, straining for a better look. The battle was miles away, but as he listened very closely he could hear its familiar din.
‘They’re fighting,’ he told his companions. ‘It’s already started.’
Old Garthel shook his head in remorse. ‘We’re too late.’
Bezarak stood up in the wagon. ‘We have to help them.’
‘That’s right,’ said Lorn, ‘but not you.’
‘What?’
‘Bezarak, you’re staying here — right here — to protect the others.’ Lorn looked at Eiriann. ‘And you look after my daughter. I’m going.’
‘What? Alone?’ said Garthel. ‘Lorn, don’t be stupid. .’
Lorn had already made up his mind, and there was no time to argue. ‘I took you this far, but I can’t let you come any farther, not unless it’s safe. Wait here until the battle ends. Keep your distance, understand? If I can I’ll come back for you.’
‘And what if you don’t?’ asked Eiriann hotly.
‘If I don’t it means I’m dead. And if I’m dead it means Aztar has won.’