by John Marco
‘Who are you?’ Gilwyn cried as he hurried toward his saviour.
‘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 defence, 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 favour. 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 armour 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 axe 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.’
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.
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 smouldering 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.
‘I’m sorry,’ she told them wearily. ‘There was no other way. .’
The light in her amulet at last died down. Minikin looked at it, hating it for the first time in her long life.
32
A Place to Call Home
Two days after the battle, Lorn and his companions were still helping the Jadori clean up the mess of dead bodies scattered in front of their city. It was stomach-churning work. Lorn had been in battle before many times, but seldom had he seen such carnage. Bodies and parts of bodies lay everywhere, and the stink of it was already overwhelming, bearing its deadly rot on the hot desert breezes. Even the great fire the magicians of Mount Believer had somehow summoned had not cremated all of the corpses, leaving the survivors to bury them in the sand.
Lorn knew the Jadori had taken a terrible pummelling, but they had won and he was pleased for them. Not long after the battle, he had ridden back to his companions and brought them into the safety of the city. With help from the young Gilwyn, they had all been given a place in the palace. Gilwyn had explained to them that he was regent of Jador, and that the true ruler of the city lived in Grimhold. The news of Grimhold’s existence elated Lorn and the others, but they had been quickly deflated by hard reality. Gilwyn had confirmed what Princess Salina had already suspected — there was no place for any of them in the place they called Mount Believer. And all those northerners who were already in the city or who had died in battle two days before had been told the same crippling news.
Lorn, however, refused to despair. Poppy and Eiriann were both safe. Aztar’s men had been defeated. Whether or not the prince himself still lived no one could say, but his army had been gutted by the magical fire, and Lorn doubted Aztar would trouble them again. For a while at least, Lorn was happy, for he had led his Believers safely to Jador.
Still, Lorn craved an audience with the Mistress of Grimhold. Her name was Minikin; Gilwyn had told them about her. Because the boy had been so honest, Lorn no longer kept up his pretence or called himself Akan. He was King Lorn, he told Gilwyn, the true but deposed ruler of Norvor. He had come to Jador with the purpose of healing his daughter of deafness and blindness and his companions of their various maladies. He was not accustomed to being refused, he explained, and he intended to get what he wanted from this little woman named Minikin.
However much he insisted, though, Gilwyn’s answer was the same — Minikin was very private and very busy, and would see him only when she was ready. Gilwyn hinted also that the mistress was troubled by the battle and its aftermath. Lorn could sense the fondness the boy felt for the little woman, so he remained as patient a
s he could, helping with the enormous chore of disposing of the dead. By the end of the second day, the disgusting task was complete. Exhausted, Lorn returned to the palace to be with his daughter and Eiriann. So many people from the palace had been killed in the battle that he was able to secure a chamber for himself on the ground floor of the lavish place, a room more than big enough for himself and Poppy. He was pleased when Eiriann and her father accepted his offer to share it with him.
It had been a long time since Lorn had been so close to a woman. Even as he toiled with the broken bodies in the desert, he thought of Eiriann. She had become a surrogate mother to Poppy and the child adored her. But she had become a sort of surrogate wife as well. Was he being unfaithful to Rinka’s memory? Lorn didn’t know, but he doubted his wife would have minded his newfound happiness.
It was almost dusk by the time Lorn returned to the palace. He was filthy and in desperate need of a bath, but when he returned to his rooms he found Gilwyn waiting for him instead. The boy with the clubbed hand and foot sat comfortably in a chair, expertly balancing Poppy on his knee. She cooed at the way he gently bounced her. Garthel was gone but Eiriann was there. She looked at Lorn excitedly as he entered the room. As had become his habit, Gilwyn stood when Lorn appeared. His monkey — which was always with him — scrambled up his shoulder.
‘King Lorn, I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said. Immediately he handed Poppy off to Eiriann.
‘Indeed,’ said Lorn. ‘Is this where you’ve been instead of helping the rest of us bury the dead?’
‘Hush, Lorn,’ chastened Eiriann. ‘He has news for you.’
‘Look at me, woman. I am covered with dirt and blood and not at all prepared to receive guests.’ Then Lorn looked at Gilwyn hopefully. ‘Unless. . have you spoken to Minikin for us?’