Minikin, it is time.
The Mistress of Grimhold grimaced. ‘Quite past time, I would say.’
They were the first real words she’d uttered in an hour, and the Inhumans on the roof took notice. They with their broken bodies and blind eyes regarded her, then heard her forceful voice in their minds.
Release your Akari, she told each of them. They are needed.
She remembered the time she had been with Amaraz in the little prayer chamber under the keep. Then, it had been the Liirians that threatened Grimhold, and Amaraz had showed her the great fire he would use to burn them should they breach his sacred home. Amaraz was with Lukien now, somewhere, and could not help them. But his sister Lariniza was with them, and all the other Akari spirits.
They did not need Amaraz to summon the flames.
Gilwyn continued to fight alongside Lorn, letting the older man bolster his own slowing attack. He and Emerald were past exhaustion now, and did not know where they found the strength to continue. Emerald herself had taken wounds to her legs, slowing her considerably, and Gilwyn knew he would have already been dead if not for Lorn’s valiant protection. Around him, he could see that Ghost had reappeared again, obviously too exhausted to work his gift. Falouk, too, was nearly depleted. The Jadori favoured a broken arm as he slashed uselessly with his sword, doing his best to keep the Voruni at bay.
Of them all, only Greygor seemed tireless. The giant plodded toward Aztar, who had come down from his sandhill but who was still a good distance from the fight. Unable to go to Greygor’s aid, Gilwyn simply protected himself and waited for the end to come.
Then, a voice hit his brain like a thunderbolt.
It was Minikin, clear and unmistakable. Retreat! she ordered. Return to the city!
The urgency in Minikin’s voice startled Gilwyn. He looked around the battlefield for Ghost, then saw he too had been struck by the message. The albino tossed Gilwyn a questioning glance.
Return! Minikin repeated. Quickly!
‘Retreat!’ Gilwyn shouted to his companions. ‘Retreat! Fall back to Jador!’
Ghost took up his desperate plea. ‘Retreat!’ cried the albino, riding madly through the battle. ‘Minikin has ordered it! To the city! To the city!’
Their voices fell on tired ears. At first no one heeded their desperate calls, until slowly, slowly, the word spread among them. One by one others called retreat. The remnants of Falouk’s brigade headed for the city, their Jadori leader staying behind to cover their movement. Gilwyn focused all his energy, sending a final message to his remaining kreels.
Keep us safe, he told them. We are leaving. Follow if you can.
Not one of the kreels answered him.
‘Lorn, come on, we have to go!’ Gilwyn shouted.
‘Go, then!’ cried Lorn. ‘I’ll be with you!’
‘Come on!’ Gilwyn ordered, then turned Emerald toward the city and sent her sprinting forward. Looking back, he saw Lorn dispatch one last raider before turning away to follow him. Together with their remaining companions, they fled the field for Jador.
Ruana, Gilwyn called silently. The other kreels. .
Ruana did not reply. Gilwyn searched his mind for her, but the spirit was nowhere. He could not sense her touch or the slightest tremor of her presence.
Remembering what she’d told him earlier, Gilwyn knew she had left him. There was no time to wonder why.
‘Run, Emerald, run!’ he cried.
His trusted kreel needed no coaxing.
Aztar was about to face the giant man when the Jadori began fleeing. Together with Baraki, he watched as the last of Jador’s defenders turned and hurried away, toward the safety of their city. Even the big man stopped his relentless march toward them. He paused for a moment, then with obvious reluctance began his long trot home. Aztar watched in astonishment. Though he had prepared himself to face the giant, relief at his departure washed over him.
‘They’re retreating,’ said Baraki. He looked at his half brother for guidance. ‘Do we pursue?’
‘No,’ said Aztar. ‘Regroup. Let’s not run after a trap. Give the order, Brother. Call the men back.’
Baraki happily agreed, then rode off to give Aztar’s command. Narween, the other remaining Zarturk, seemed offended by the order but did not disobey. Like Baraki, he began telling his men to fall back. As the noise of battle fell away, Aztar could more easily see the damage he’d occasioned. Everywhere broken bodies littered the desert, not just of men but of horses and kreels as well. The last of the vicious reptiles kept after his men, but they were few now and more easily dealt with by the horsemen, who surrounded the beasts and stabbed at them with spears. The whole sobering sight sickened Aztar. His beautiful desert had been desecrated, and he still had not found Shalafein.
‘Vala, do not be cruel to me,’ he prayed. ‘Do not let this be for naught.’ He looked up into the sky, wondering if his god was angry. ‘Why do you not bring me the Bronze Knight? Is it because of the woman? I love her, Vala. I would bring down this city for her. Now bring me Shalafein!’
This time, the sky answered Aztar.
As he looked up into heaven, he saw the blue give way to a pulsing orange. Aztar’s heart throbbed with fear. He stared at the sky, mouth agape, as it came alive with fiery light, bursting high above his head. He heard a distant rumble, like thunder but fiercer, and thought it was the voice of Vala cursing him.
‘Vala. .?’
Along the embattled desert, more of his men began looking skyward, pointing at the amazing phenomenon. Their stricken faces held the same fear felt by Aztar, who could not believe what he was seeing. Tongues of flame darted downward. Men began screaming. Aztar’s horse whinnied, rearing back and nearly tossing him. He fought to contain the beast, then saw the flames descend around his men.
It was not heaven that opened. It was hell.
A burst of fire struck Aztar’s eyes, so much heat he couldn’t breathe. His horse wheeled beneath him. Flaming fists shot down from the sky, pummelling the desert and scorching the sand. The world was suddenly an inferno and all his men were in it. Aztar screamed madly for his brother, but all he heard was his own impotent voice against the raging storm. Hot flames grew around him, penning him in. From out of the sky the fire continued, raining down burning death. Aztar dug his boots into his horse, speeding the beast away. He felt his back roaring with pain and realized his gaka was on fire. Screaming, he leaped from his horse into the blistering sand, rolling around to douse the flames. The hot sand — almost on fire now — tore at his face and peeled the skin from it.
‘Vala!’ he pleaded. ‘Mercy!’
Men were thundering past him, their bodies lit with flame as they ran from the firestorm. Aztar clutched the earth, straining to follow them, to pull his wounded frame toward home. His ears seared with pain and the screams of his men. His eyes saw nothing but dazzling light. His horse was gone; probably dead. Behind him the fire had turned to a wall, consuming everything it touched.
The Tiger of the Desert rose unsteadily to his knees. The pain in his face and body sucked the very life from him. His dizzied eyes barely saw the men running toward him. They were shouting his name, then pulling him away. They were his own men, but he did not know if Baraki was among them. Too wounded to walk, he blacked out just as the men tossed him onto a horse and sped him to safety.
Minikin held the burning amulet in her little hands, her every thought bent toward the command of the Akari. It had not been easy to separate them so completely from their hosts but she was the Mistress of Grimhold and that meant the Akari obeyed her. With Lariniza’s help she had sent them into the sky to summon the fire. Together they had pulled the flames from that netherworld where they dwelt into the land of the living, bringing them down with devastating results.