The astrologer sneered and would have ordered Captain Sanaro cut him down, but the king heaved a sigh.

  ‘Enough! Lead the way then, Luhenna. For the love I once had for your father, let us speak with Seramis and see what can be done.’

  4

  Had any in Jadira chanced to glance outside their shuttered windows that night they would have beheld a strange conclave; a king and a renegade acolyte, an outlaw and a foreign-born physician, a bent old man in the cloak of an astrologer and, with them, the king’s guard, four handpicked soldiers led by Captain Sanaro himself. A solemn procession, those figures made their way to a temple stood in a forgotten quarter of the city. The iron doors were thrown wide and they came up its steps into the vast hall beyond. Past row upon row of silver filigreed columns they walked before coming to stand before a gigantic image wrought in bronze. Tongues of flame burned in its eyes and in the open maw of its mouth. It squatted, glaring balefully down at them like some obscene guardian of the underworld. Between its knees was an altar of jet and jade. Before it, at the top of an iron set of steps, stood a woman.

  ‘Seramis!’

  The priestess lifted her head. Encircling her brows was a golden band. ‘My king. For, despite the disdain you have for myself and Sumanh, you are still lord of this realm.’

  Nudiya frowned. ‘I will not twist words with you, witch! You have been working enchantments on the camp of the Lomantians. Your servants have been babbling something I scarcely believe even you would dare attempt. Speak! Time is short.’

  She stood silent for a moment. Then —’Aye, my king, it was I who worked the mists of enchantment. I have delved into the knowledge of the deathless flame, searching for one whose soul burns with the desire for death and vengeance.’ She pointed at Terach. ‘Only this man can hold the talisman of Kryn-Ya. Only he can wield its powers and live!’

  Everyone turned to stare at Terach. Beside him, the guards fingered their sword hilts. The outlaw looked at their faces then back at the woman before the altar. ‘It’ll take more than a few magic tricks to withstand the legions outside your walls.’

  Seramis’ lips curved into a smile. ‘Come. Behold the amulet of Kryn-Ya,’ she said, beckoning to him with an outstretched arm. She was madness, beauty and flame and the outlaw felt his pulse throb inside him like a heady wine. He took a step forward. The king’s hand fell on him. ‘Seramis,’ he said, staring up at the priestess, ’Be careful what powers you unleash. Should you fail. . .’

  The priestess lifted her head haughtily. ‘I shall not fail.’

  Reluctantly, the king lifted his hand from Terach’s shoulder and the outlaw walked up the iron steps to stand before the altar. Facing Seramis, he drank in her dark magnetism. Kingdoms had been forged, alliances betrayed for this woman’s beauty. The light from the idol’s fires caressed her bronze skin and, at the sight of her, his heart hammered in his chest. She was the woman eternal; the shadow behind every man who dared to dream of conquest and empire. She sensed his hesitation.

  ‘Am I so terrifying that you blanch before me?’

  ‘I blanch before no man—or woman,’ growled Terach.

  ‘Then come. Place your hand into the deathless flame and draw forth the talisman of Kryn-Ya.’

  She stepped back as four young naked male slaves padded out from behind the shadows of the idol. Totally hairless they were, slim and white with chained piercings through nostrils and lips. Together they lifted the top off the altar and carried it to one side, disappearing into the shadows once more when they were done. Terach stared. Inside that altar, like a sarcophagus, was an undulating pool of liquid fire. It rippled seductively, sending out wisps of frosted flame into the surrounding darkness. Seramis looked at him. ‘Inside the pool is the talisman,’ she whispered, ’Aeons ago, it was left here, a relic of alien gods. You must lift it from the deathless flame, draw its power from the realm of endless shadow.’ Terach blinked. He felt the world and all he knew totter on the brink of madness. He glanced at her, saw her eyes hard and unyielding. He looked back at the flames and thought of a whip against his back, a sword gleaming in the sun and a shriek of despair cut suddenly short. Then he beheld a face that looked at him with cruel, dark eyes . . .

  His lips twisted in a grimace and he moved forward, planting his feet wide. He hesitated, flexing his fingers. Then his arm shot downward, his hand disappearing into the wreathing smoke. There was silence for a moment as the watchers below held their breath. Then he drew forth something . . . something that dripped with liquid fire. He raised it high above his head and, as he did, a fierce cry escaped his lips. The crowd at the bottom of the stair drew back in wonder and fear. Terach turned to face them. In his right hand was a staff. Carved of emerald, it glistened like ice in the temple gloom. At one end, gripped in the talons of an unknown metal, was a crimson jewel. That jewel blazed like the bleeding heart of a god and, when he beheld it, Vashtu cried out in horror. Nudiya gripped his arm, a fearful doubt growing in his own mind. But there was no turning back now.

  The amulet of Kryn-Ya had risen once more into the world of men.

  5

  The skyline was daubed with bands of orange and gold. With the rising of the sun came rumbling sounds, yells and curses, as the army of Lomantia moved into position before the walls of Jadira. In the early dawn light, those watching from the walls and the embrasure of the king’s palace saw the mighty war-machines as they trundled ominously toward them. There were siege towers and battering rams, pushed by slaves toiling under the leather whips of the overseers.

  From where he watched in his hidden palace suite, King Nudiya’s breathing became laboured and he clutched at his chest. Pericius moved to steady him. The king’s face was pale. ‘My lord, take this,’ whispered the young physician. Nudiya’s eyes focused on the vial held in his palm and he tore eagerly at the stopper before inhaling the released vapours. He shuddered and closed his eyes. For a moment he stood thus then his head drooped and he heaved a sigh. When his eyes opened again they were bright and clear. He leaned forward, gripping the balustrade.

  The soldiers on the walls stood like iron statues, gripping their spears and bows, awaiting the advancement with grim resolution. The last few stars were fading now and with the reddened streaks that daubed the skyline came the thundering tread of the iron legions. King Nudiya gritted his teeth and his eyes blazed as his fingers gripped the rail. His knuckles were white. ‘Oh, for my youth and a good iron sword,’ he said bitterly.

  Pericius plucked at his sleeve and pointed. ‘My king! There! The slave, Terach!’

  At the foot of the wall, climbing the stone steps, was the figure of a man. Not a broken man dressed in the filthy rags of a slave but a man dressed in the armour of a warrior. Torchlight glinted off his scale mail corselet and the bronze brace guards on his wrists. At his side hung a sword in a copper sheath and in one hand he held an axe. A leathern kilt fell to his knees and he wore leather jackboots with metal plated shins. Strapped over his back, wrapped in rawhide, was the crystal staff bearing the amulet of Kryn-Ya. The watchers from the palace breathed a collective sigh when they saw it. Vashtu, the astrologer, gnawed his lip. ‘The young pup rushes eagerly to his death. Would that he had listened to my counsel.’

  Nudiya shook his head, his eyes fixed on the figure of the young warrior as climbed the long winding stairway to the top of the walls. ‘There is no staying that one’s hand, Vashtu. In my younger days I was very much like him.’

  ‘What if he should fall? Our only chance is lost.’

  ‘He will not fall.’ The king’s words were spoken with such conviction that the two men beside him fell silent, wondering at his wisdom.

  Suddenly, the astrologer cursed and gripped his staff with both hands. The other men looked to where he stared. On top of the wall, illumined in the dawn’s first rays, a figure was etched against the skyline.

  ‘Seramis!’ exclaimed Pericius.

  She stood like a flame of ethereal beauty, awaiting the young warrior as he came clanking up the stairway.

  ‘By the gods, but she’s beautiful,’ murmured the physician.

  The astrologer hissed. ‘Pah! Just like a youth, thinking with his cock instead of his head! She’s a harlot of hell.’

  The king watched the warrior reach her, saw her long dark hair streaming in the wind.

  ‘In this hour, she is either our saviour or our doom,’ he said.

  As Terach stood facing her, the sun rose over the eastern wall.

  From the plain below, a great roar rose up to shake the city to its foundations.

  *

  On the battlements, Seramis stood unfazed as the Lomantians brandished their weapons into the morning sky. She stared at Terach.

  ‘Remember—the talisman must only be used when the sun is dying in fire in the west and the moon has risen. You remember the chant of summoning?’

  Terach thought back to the strange words she had taught him in the shadows of the temple and shuddered. ‘Those words are forever branded into me,’ he growled.

  ‘Good. I know the elders of this city are against using the sorcery of Kryn-Ya and even more against you fighting on this day.’

  Terach’s eyes blazed. ‘I will have my vengeance at the edge of a sword—this sorcery you would have me work is the price of our bargain.’

  ‘So be it.’ Her hand reached out to his shoulder. ‘Kryn-Ya is a powerful shadow demon that only the amulet can summon and control. He cannot remain on the earthly plain long. Nonetheless, beware his trickery. Keep the amulet and the staff safe and may the gods watch over you.’

  ‘Terach!’ a voice called in a bull like bellow and they looked to see Captain Sanaro standing on the ramparts above the city gates. ‘To your post, man! The time for words is past. Speak with steel if you would speak at all, blast you!’

  Looking back at Seramis, Terach nodded then moved over toward the men gathered above the gates. As he came up, the warriors crouched behind the ramparts looked up at him, some warily, some in anticipation. Their shields were braced as they gripped their spears and bows in readiness. Sanaro cursed. ‘Where’s your helmet, man?’

  Terach glared at the army below, a sea of burnished steel turned bloody in the light of the new-born sun. He pointed with his axe. ‘The man I want to face is down there. I want him to know me before I die, to see the face of the slave whose friend he condemned to death.’ His eyes were wild and cold. Sanaro shrugged. ‘On your own head be it. But get down unless you want an arrow through your throat. We’ve been instructed to guard you because of the amulet you bear but let me tell you now—no man will be looking out for you once the battle is joined. Whatever wizardry you must use is down to you. This day, the rest of us fight and die as men.’

  The outlaw nodded then crouched down among the men gathered there above the great gates of Jadira. Below there was a rumbling as the siege towers and battering rams wheeled forward. A soldier handed him a heavy round shield and he hefted it over his left arm. Then they felt a shockwave as the iron head of a battering ram crashed against the gates. Captain Sanaro held up his hand. ‘Easy . . .’ From below a groan, a shout to heave and again the jarring impact of blunt iron against braced oak.

  ‘Hold!’ The captain’s eyes blazed. His teeth were white in the foam of his beard. Then —’Now!’ As one, the men rose up and drew back on their bowstrings, sending wave after wave of sharp-edged death winging downward. Most clattered off upturned shields but some found their mark and men went down, howling into the dust. A shout went up and vats of boiling oil were upended in great splashing waves over the walls. Screams rose up to greet them as those black rivers steamed and hissed. Then torches were hurled down and men were boiled alive in their armour. A cheer went up from a thousand throats but the reprieve of the Jadirans was short lived. A shadow fell over the ramparts and a huge stone crashed into a cluster of men standing on the eastern wall. Bodies were swept from the ramparts into the streets below. Then another boulder came hurtling toward them, this one covered in pitch and tar. Like a flaming meteor, it cleared the walls to land smashing on the pave below. Out of the shadows of the early morning sun, the trundle of wheels sounded as the first of the siege towers moved forward. ‘Archers!’ The scream came from a score of captains’ throats along the wall. Men stood up behind the protecting shields of crouching soldiers. They dipped their notched bows. When they came up again each arrowhead held a tiny dancing flame. Terach looked on, clenching his axe in anticipation. Men plied their bows and arrows sang with a deadly hum into the wooden framework of the tower, setting it afire. At the same time a score of slaves bearing ladders rushed in and slapped them high against the walls. Soldiers swarmed up them like ants, shields upheld before them, their swords in their hands. Rocks and arrows rained down. Defenders pushed against those ladders, sending men plummeting to their deaths. But where one was sent crashing down, two more sprang up to take its place. The siege tower rumbled ever closer. Still the archers of Jadira plied their bows against its heavily armoured buttress. Yet another boulder came hurtling across, this time slamming into a building in the city below. Then, as the siege tower finally reached the wall, a drawbridge dropped open and a score of men rushed roaring into the defenders who met them with axe and sword. Then the battle was joined. Leaping across, Terach swung up his shield even as he drove in with his axe. The dark fang swept across a helmet, crumpling the metal like paper. He was driven back by the crush of armoured men but he braced himself behind his shield, feeling the chop and bite of steel as the invaders sought frantically to cut their way onto the ramparts. Beside him, the warriors of Jadira stood similarly braced, their spears driving out from behind their bucklers, their axes licking above the rims against helmeted heads. The line faltered and eddied then they managed to drive the Lomantians back, sending men spilling over the wall, screaming as they fell to certain death below. Seeing a gap in the press, Terach wrenched aside his shield and drove forward, splitting a helmeted skull to the teeth with a savage blow. As the man went down he drew back into the defensive line again as half a dozen sword blades vied for his life only to scrape against his shield instead. But the damage was done. As one, the defenders spilled into the gap left by the felled Lomantian. Terach roared and pushed forward in the press, shaking men aside as he cleared a space around him to best ply his axe. From left to right he swung and soldiers reeled back from his blows until he reached the now vacant drawbridge. A soldier came out of the darkness and he ducked beneath his wild swing, taking the man down with a blow to the knee that sliced through bone and cartilage. He screamed horribly before the outlaw dashed out his brains with his axe. Wrenching it from the cloven skull, Terach stood crouched on the gangway, staring into the darkness of the tower before him.

  ‘Bring oil!’ he shouted, waving his bloodied axe at the men behind him. As the last of the attackers were dealt with, a Jadiran struggled up, bearing a pot of something black and bubbling. Slamming his axe into the planks, Terach reached for it. From the upper tier of the tower, bowmen peered at him as he grasped the pot handle in one hand and heaved it splashing into the passageway. Those archers loosed at him and he crouched down as a wave of dark shafts thudded into his shield. The man beside him sank to his knees, clawing agonizingly at an arrow through his neck. Terach bent to help him but it was too late. He cursed, tugging his axe from the gangplank. Falling back with his shield raised, he stared over the rim, moving it this way and that as arrows flickered all around him. Reaching the city wall, he dropped his weapon and snatched for a torch handed to him by a crouching Jadiran. No sooner had he grasped it than he hurled it across the drawbridge. It fell like a comet into the dark maw of the tower. For a moment there was nothing then a great whoosh of flame ate jaggedly at the doused wood. Smoke belched in a black wreathing plume. In the upper section, men yelled in fear as flames rose quickly up the framework. The defenders watched grimly as Lomantians jumped screaming to their deaths rather than face the burning inferno that awaited them. As the tower blistered and crackled, the defenders stood stoically silent. The stench of charred flesh hung heavy in the air.

  Suddenly, down on the plain, trumpets blew, and the attackers fell back. Ladders withdrew from the walls as soldiers retreated over to the encampment. For a moment the hostilities had ceased. Squinting through the dust and smoke, Terach’s eyes sought and found a huge pavilion. Before it stood a figure in an ivory chased breastplate, watching as the siege tower burned into the morning sky.

  6

  Terach’s thoughts were broken by a hand on his upper arm that spun him round. He turned to look into the ice hard eyes of Captain Sanaro. ‘What the hell were you thinking, boy?’

  Terach blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Each section on this wall is a unit. Your place is with us at the main gate. You’re not to engage in other divisions. Is that understood?’

  Terach stood for a moment, looking dumbfounded then nodded silently. ‘I’m not used to fighting as a soldier. My apologies.’

  Sanaro chewed thoughtfully for a moment then looked out over the plain. ‘Drink some water. This respite will be short lived.’ He made to turn then stopped and looked grimly into the eyes of the slave who had come to carry with him the fate of Jadira. ‘You fight well.’

  While a huge water skin was passed round, the soldiers sat in the shade from the steadily rising sun. But there was no time for rest. Across the plain came the sound of bugles and trumpets, the shouts of captains, the crack of overseer whips and the steady tramp of iron shod feet. The men of Jadira looked out over the walls and gripped their weapons in readiness as the second wave of attack approached. Ballistae unleashed their cargo whistling and slamming against the city walls. Then came the battering ram with its men crouched beneath overlapping shields like some monstrous turtle. Flanking them were slaves bearing ladders. Most of these were brought down by arrows but many made it to the walls. Behind them came the armoured ranks of the Lomantian foot soldiers with shields braced as they stormed up those ladders into certain death. But the sheer numbers of the Lomantians and the tenacity of their general meant that before long the defenders of Jadira would be overwhelmed. Under the burning eye of the sun, the long day wore on. In the heat and the dust and the turmoil, men gave up their lives for an inch of ground. The Jadirans held with a steadfast resolve but the Lomantians, trained in the arts of siege warfare, were relentless. On either side of the gate, as ladders rose, Captain Sanaro’s men were there to deal with them. Time became a nebulous concept to Terach. All that existed were the clash of blades, the shouts of the victorious over the screams of the dying. His shield crashed against the shields of Lomantians, forcing them over the wall, and his axe swept against their armour. He screamed the names of his father and his friends as war-cries and men went down beneath his strokes with the name of his homeland ringing in their ears. The sun was a bloody orb and the sky filled with the sounds of splintering spears, the clangour of swords. Death stalked the battlements of Jadira and smiled at the destruction man wrought.