When he turned back, he realized General Dhuma was watching him, his lips curved in a tight smile. A decade older than Agathon, with weathered skin and sharp, patrician features, Dhuma wore full leather armor, well worn, the tears and scratches reminding Agathon that the general had survived more than a few battles in the past. His helmet had a tall crest of horsehair, bleached white, yet Dhuma appeared unperturbed that a man like himself, so clearly an officer, would draw enemies like moths to a flame.

‘You’ll see, Viceroy,’ Dhuma said, nodding in the direction of the enemy. ‘We’ll send these vermin back where they came from. No doubt we’ll be celebrating our victory over lunch.’

Agathon and Dhuma hadn’t always been on the best of terms, but now the general’s presence was solid and reassuring. Whatever Dhuma had done to get assigned to this distant outpost, far from home, it didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was that he was confident of victory, and he was well aware that Kargan, the King of Kings, was Agathon’s cousin. Dhuma had assigned six of his best warriors to Agathon’s personal protection. Things wouldn’t go well for him if Agathon died.

Again Agathon found his mind turning to his own death. He tried not to, but couldn’t help imagining what it would feel like to have a spear thrust into his chest, tearing at his insides, or to take an arrow in the throat, trying in vain to clasp his hands over the wound as red liquid gushed out and he drowned in his own blood. He bit his lip, knowing that Dhuma could see his face turning white.

‘Perhaps I might be more useful—’ he began.

Dhuma glanced to the left and right and then came in close, lowering his voice. ‘Viceroy, you are honor bound to stand with the men. I’ve told you: I’ll keep you safe. I know this isn’t what you’re good at, but it heartens us all to see you here.’ He gazed into Agathon’s eyes, fixing the nobleman with an unblinking stare. ‘Remember, every one of the savages is going to face two of our soldiers. Victory is assured. If you stay, when they talk about this battle, my men will remember that you were here. But if you leave, you will carry the stain with you for the rest of your days.’

Agathon steadied himself. ‘Of course, General. It’s my choice to be here, and I would never have it otherwise.’

‘Good man,’ Dhuma said, clapping him on the back and withdrawing.

Suddenly a soldier cried out. ‘Something’s happening.’

Agathon squinted at the enemy on the flat desert plain. Their line still hadn’t moved, but with the sun cresting the horizon a clutch of warriors in the middle had begun to sparkle as slanted rays shone off their steel armor.