by John Marco
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.”
Eiriann sneered, “That’s very confident, very old King Lorn.”
“Eiriann, remember what we talked about . . .” Lorn gave her a sly smile. “Keep yourself safe.”
But Eiriann was afraid for him; he could see it plainly on her pretty face. She nodded, looking down at Poppy.
“I want to come with you!” shouted Bezarak. “Damn it, Lorn, I can fight!”
“Good,” said Lorn, “because you might have to. If any of those raiders make it up here I expect you to defend my daughter. Hear me, Bezarak.”
Bezarak agreed though clenched jaws. “All right.”
Lorn wheeled his horse around. “All of you, defend yourselves. If you have to fight, then fight. Head north if it looks like Aztar’s men have won. Otherwise I will see you again.” He gave Eiriann one last, longing look. “Be careful.”
“And you,” whispered Eiriann.
With his sword at his side, Lorn tucked down against his horse and galloped toward the battle.
Gilwyn knew the battle was lost.
Aztar’s fresh fighters had swarmed the field, overwhelming them. Falouk’s northerners put up a remarkable defense, but they were ill-trained compared to Aztar’s men, who were mounted and who easily trampled them. Only the kreels kept them from being slaughtered entirely. Gilwyn still had more than twenty of the beasts in his command. And though tiring, the young kreels continued ripping through the Voruni ranks, their tails whipping like cobras, their great maws snapping down mercilessly on limbs. In the chaos of the fight Gilwyn struggled to keep control, to make his mind meet those of the kreels, but he had lost control almost completely now and could only watch as the beasts’ reptilian instincts took over. Somewhere in his mind Gilwyn could feel Ruana, floating through his brain, struggling along with him to see through the eyes of the maddened kreels. But like Gilwyn, Ruana could no longer hold the beasts. Instead, Gilwyn darted through the battle on Emerald’s back, now thickly engaged in his own fight. With his clubbed hand he could barely work his sword, and so kept it tucked beneath his arm while he held fast to Emerald’s reins. The female kreel fought ferociously.
Slowly, unceasingly, Gilwyn’s fellows were falling. He had already seen Paxon crushed beneath a Voruni scimitar. The deadly blow had shattered the old man’s skull. Nearby, Falouk had gathered his remaining men into a huddle, trying to increase their fighting power. Ghost still rode invisibly across the sands, hacking with almost inexhaustible fury. And Greygor, like a leviathan, took on all comers with his meaty battle-ax. Alone on the field, the sands around him bubbled with Voruni blood. Yet they were all horribly outnumbered. Gilwyn wondered if they should pull back, retreat to the city before they all died.
“No!” he seethed. He hurried Emerald against an on-rushing horseman, barreling over beast and man. There were others coming for him now, at least two more. He could see them only peripherally, their scimitars raised. He fed the view to Emerald, who leaped sideways to avoid the blow, then turned to face their new attackers.
Then, another horseman got Gilwyn’s attention, riding hard for his two enemies. This one rode a big black gelding and had a face as maniacal as a demon. With broad-sword raised, the stranger blasted into the battle, cutting down one of the raiders. His bearded face split with a howl even as blood sprayed his body. Shocked and utterly confused, Gilwyn hurried to the stranger’s aid. He was an older man, big and northern, with short white hair and foreign armor and the worst expression of fury Gilwyn had ever seen. As the remaining raider engaged him, the stranger stabbed his bloodied sword forward, pushing it through the man’s chest in one enormous thrust. The blade burst through the raider’s back, exploding outward in a scarlet bloom.
“Who are you?” Gilwyn cried as he hurried toward his savior.
“Lorn!” replied the man. “You fight for the Jadori?”
“Yes,” Gilwyn sputtered. “But . . .”
“Fight, boy! Talk is for women!”
True or not, there was no time for it. Another half-dozen raiders were already charging toward them. The man called Lorn drove his horse toward them, taking the brunt of the attack. His sword moved expertly from foe to foe, parrying every blow, never missing an advantage. Gilwyn and Emerald leapt to his defense, landing in the midst of the melee. The kreel’s fast tail slashed the nearest horse out from under its rider. Lorn’s sword cleaved the air and enemy flesh. The sight of him was terrifying, the glee he took in killing astonishing. But he was on their side, Gilwyn knew, and that gave him comfort.
The carnage against his men astonished Prince Aztar. Still safe atop his dune, he had watched in dread as the kreels ripped his men apart and the strange folk of Grimhold fought with inhuman strength. It had been a devastating morning for Aztar. He had lost three of his five Zarturks, leaving only Narween alive from the first wave. Thankfully, Baraki had done a good job of turning the tide in their favor. Now, at least, Aztar knew the day was his.
Yet still the one thing he needed as much as victory evaded him. Shalafein had not shown himself.
“Where is he?” he wondered aloud. He scanned the field for the Bronze Knight yet still saw no hint of him. Enraged, Aztar at last broke from the dune and galloped forward. His protectors—two hundred of them—hurriedly followed him.
“Shalafein!” he cried. “Show yourself! Fight me, you cursed creature!”
Baraki saw his half brother at once. Breaking off from the battle, he rode up to Aztar.
“Enough, Brother,” he shouted. “Shalafein is not here. You must get to safety.”
“No! He must be here!” Aztar pulled his own scimitar and shook it madly in the air. “Here I am, Shalafein! Come and fight me!”
No one answered Aztar’s call—not at first. Then, the massive man in the spiky armor turned to look at him. Aztar’s heart froze. Around the giant were the broken bodies of dozens of his fighters. The huge man held his two-bladed ax in both hands, resting it like a club, the silent slits in his helmet fixing hatefully on Aztar.
“That one,” said Aztar. “Who is he?”
Baraki shook his head dreadfully. “A thing of Grimhold.”
Both men were still as the giant took its first plodding steps toward them.
“That’s not the Bronze Knight,” said Aztar.
“No,” agreed Baraki.
“Stop him, Baraki.”
Baraki blanched. “We have tried, Brother.”
Aztar’s fist tightened around his blade. “Then we will do so together.”
On the tower of the white wall, Minikin had watched the battle and the deaths of her friends. With cold, steely eyes she had contained all of her emotions, even when Kamar died. She had barely said a single word to her companions on the roof, those Inhumans who had come to defend the city. Though the city was filled with commotion, Minikin remained silent. She had watched the dawn turn into morning and the morning into a nightmare.
And all the while she had held her amulet and communed with Lariniza. She was not really praying with the spirit of the Eye. More precisely, she was talking. As though conversing with an old friend in a tavern, she put her troubles into Lariniza’s hand and let the great spirit feed her shaken soul.
It had been a high price, but it was the way the Akari wanted it. What they would do for her—for all of Jador—would harm their souls as much as it would Minikin’s, and they had only agreed to do so if no other choice was apparent. So Minikin had let her friends fight and die, knowing they could never stand against Aztar, helpless to aid them until nearly all their breath was squeezed away. As she watched the forces of Aztar overwhelm her companions, she hated herself. She had tried so hard to accommodate the Seekers, to be a good leader, to help . . .
Today I become death, she told Lariniza. And not just for my enemies.
Lariniza was quiet for a moment, but Minikin could feel her sympathy. She, too, had watched the good folk of Jador die and been moved by it. But she had held out the small hope that they might prevail without Akari magic. Now, like Minikin, Lariniza knew they could not.
Minikin, it is time.
The Mistress of Grimhold grimaced. “Quite past time, I would say.”
It was 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 favored 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, pummeling 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 li
ght. 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 nether-world where they dwelt into the land of the living, bringing it down with devastating results.
An enormous pain plagued Minikin’s heart. Though her eyes remained closed, she watched through her mind as the Akari fire burned the Voruni, mercilessly cremating them. She felt their great horror, heard their screams like unholy music raking her brain. Yet she continued, because she had to continue, and did not release the Akari from their ghastly work until she was sure Aztar’s army was destroyed. Her own army, those who had managed to stay alive, had retreated toward the city and were safe. No doubt Gilwyn and the others were shocked by what they saw. Were they horrified, she wondered? Would they blame her?
For Minikin these questions would wait. With every drop of strength she commanded the Akari to finish their work, to keep alive the great inferno until their enemies were dead.
Then they were gone.
Minikin opened her eyes. She saw the battlefield and her friends near the city, watching wide-eyed as the fire lifted from the desert. She saw too the devastation it had wrought, the great heaps of smoldering bodies and the last survivors limping home. Along the roof of the tower the Inhumans opened their eyes, too, letting their Akaris return to them. The Jadori in the streets below had huddled fearfully at the sight of the fire, but now looked up at Minikin in shock and wonder. Their bewildered faces wounded her.