‘From what I’ve heard, they’re getting their orders from Cyrgon.’ Tikume rubbed his shaved scalp. ‘Do you think it might be heresy to suggest that even a God can be stupid?’

‘As long as you don’t say it about our God, I think you’re safe.’

‘I wouldn’t want to get in trouble with the Church.’

‘Patriarch Emban’s a reasonable man, Domi Tikume. He won’t denounce you if you say unflattering things about our enemy.’ Kring raised up in his stirrups to peer across the brown, gravel-strewn expanse of the Desert of Cynesga. ‘I’m looking forward to this,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been in a real fight for a long time.’ He sank back into his saddle. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. I talked with friend Oscagne about the possibility of a bounty on Cynesgan ears. He said no.’

‘That’s a shame. Men fight better if they’ve got an incentive of some kind.’

‘It even gets to be a habit. We had a fight with the Trolls up in northern Atan, and I had a dead Troll’s ear half sawed-off before I remembered nobody was around to buy it from me. That’s a funny-looking hill up there, isn’t it?’ He pointed ahead at an almost perfectly shaped dome rearing up out of the desert floor.

‘It is a little odd,’ Tikume agreed. ‘There aren’t any rocks on its sides – just dust.’

‘Probably some kind of dust-dune. They have sand-dunes down in Rendor that look like that. The wind whirls the sand around and leaves it in round hills.’

‘Would dust behave like sand?’

‘Evidently so. There’s the proof just up ahead.’

And then, even as they watched, the hill split down the middle and its sides fanned out. They stared at the triangular face of Klæl as he rose ponderously to his feet, shedding great waterfalls of dust from his gleaming black wings.

Kring reined in sharply. ‘I knew something wasn’t right about that hill!’ he exclaimed, cursing his own inattention, as their men surged around them.

‘He didn’t come alone this time!’ Tikume shouted. ‘He had soldiers hidden under his wings! Hold!’

‘Big devils, aren’t they?’ Kring squinted at the armored warriors rushing toward them. ‘Big or little, though, they’re still infantry, and that’s all the advantage we need, isn’t it?’

‘Right!’ Tikume chortled. ‘This should be more fun than chasing Cynesgans.’

‘I wonder if they’ve got ears,’ Kring said, drawing his saber. ‘If they do, we might just want to gather them up. I haven’t given up on friend Oscagne yet.’

‘There’s one way to find out,’ Tikume said, hefting his javelin and leading the charge.

The standard Peloi tactics seemed to baffle Klæl’s soldiers. The superb horses of the nomads were as swift as deer, and the eastern Peloi’s preference for the javelin over the saber was an additional advantage. The horsemen split up into small groups and began their attack. They slashed forward in long files, each group concentrating on one of the steel-masked monsters and each Peloi hurling his javelin into the huge bodies at close range and then swerving away to safety. After a few such attacks, the front ranks of the enemy warriors bristled like hedgehogs with the short spears protruding from their bodies.

The armored soldiers grew increasingly desperate, and they flailed ineffectually at their swift-charging tormentors with their brutal maces, savaging the unoffending air and almost never striking a solid blow.

‘Good fight!’ Kring panted to his friend after several charges. They’re big, but they’re not quite fast enough.’

‘And not in very good condition either,’ Tikume added. ‘That last one I skewered was puffing and wheezing like a leaky bellows.’

‘They do seem to be having some trouble getting their breath, don’t they?’ Kring agreed. His eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘Wait a minute, let’s try something. Tell your children to just ride in and then wheel and ride out again. Don’t waste any more javelins.’

‘I don’t quite follow, Domi.’

‘Have you ever gone up into the high mountains?’

‘A few times. Why?’

‘Do you remember how hard it was to get your breath?’

‘Right at first, I suppose. I remember getting a little light-headed.’

‘Exactly. I don’t know where Klæl went to recruit these soldiers, but it wasn’t from around here. I think they’re used to thicker air. Let’s make them chase us. Why go to all the trouble of killing somebody if the air’s going to do the job for you?’

‘It’s worth a try.’ Tikume shrugged. ‘It takes a lot of the fun out of it, though.’

‘We can have fun with the Cynesgans later,’ Kring told him. ‘Let’s run Klæl’s infantry to death first. Then we can go slaughter Cyrgon’s cavalry.’

‘Sort of follow my lead on this,’ Stragen told Talen as the two mounted the rickety stairs leading up to the loft. ‘I’ve gotten to know Valash fairly well, so I can gauge his reactions a little better than you can.’

‘All right,’ Talen shrugged. ‘He’s your fish. I’ll let you play him.’

Stragen opened the door to the stale-smelling loft, and the two of them threaded their way through the clutter to Valash’s corner.

The bony Dacite in the brocade jacket was not alone. A gaunt Styric with open, seeping sores on his face slumped in a chair at the table. The Styric’s right arm hung limply at his side, the right side of his ulcerated face sagged, and his right eyelid drooped down to almost totally cover the eye. He was mumbling to himself, evidently completely unaware of his surroundings.

‘This isn’t a good time, Vymer,’ Valash said.

‘It’s quite important, Master Valash,’ Stragen said quickly.

‘All right, but don’t take too long.’

As they approached the table, Talen’s stomach suddenly churned. An overpowering odor of putrefying flesh emanated from the comatose Styric.

This is my master,’ Valash said shortly.

‘Ogerajin?’ Stragen asked.

‘How did you know his name?’

‘You mentioned it to me once, I think – or maybe it was one of your friends. Isn’t he a little sick to be out and about?’

That’s none of your concern, Vymer. What’s this important information you have for me?’