Its explosion ripped through warriors and horses. Blood sprayed from the blast, limbs and shredded torsos, great hunks of horseflesh. Too many of the el-Algreb died.

Bifalt’s mind had gone blank. Too much was happening.

But then the screams of his allies reached him. Their shrill agony brought him back to himself.

He saw fanged men sprinting through the wall of sorcery. The shimmering blocked bullets and lightnings from his side: it let men and globes pass from the other.

“Retreat!” he howled. “Go! Run!”

His riflemen obeyed. Frantically, they spun their mounts and scrambled away, dragging Magister Brighten with them.

Over her shoulder, she hurled lightning that incinerated the nearest strangers. Then the urgent jostling of her guardians forced her to grip her saddlehorn while she fled.

Elgart stayed with the King. Jeck and Malder crowded close to him. Only Prince Jaspid stood his ground.

Alone against the enemy, Jaspid fired and fired. He had a wild light in his eyes. His hands were blurs of speed as he emptied his clips, replaced them, kept shooting.

Every man he killed slowed the horde’s rush for a heartbeat or two. Others fell on the dead to feed. Their frenzy blocked those behind them.

Resisting his bodyguards, Bifalt surged forward to grab his brother’s arm.

“Jaspid, no! I need you!”

His grip stopped the Prince. Jaspid seemed to hear his King for the first time. Slowly, he turned his head, focused his attention on Bifalt. The light faded from his eyes.

Then he snatched his horse around to follow the fleeing riflemen.

Bifalt turned like his brother, took his bodyguards by surprise. He collided with Malder, bounced off Jeck, and kicked his mount for speed.

He had delayed too long. Behind him, more of the horde raced through the migraine veil, slavering for food. The nearest slave sprang for Bifalt’s horse, dug his claws into the steed’s hindquarters. As it screamed, the man bit through its spine near Bifalt’s seat.

His mount pitched to the ground. Instinctively, Bifalt tucked into a roll, avoided the thrashing horse. But he landed awkwardly. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs. A bone in his off-hand snapped.

Elgart was right. Bifalt had not been training. Long ago, however, he had trained hard. Ingrained reflexes saved him. In one motion, ignoring his need to breathe and the sharp pain in his hand, he drew his legs under him while he swept out his saber. His first slash cut deep into the neck of a fanged man.

Then Jeck and Malder were on the ground with him, fighting desperately. Jaspid spun among the slaves like a whirlwind. Every swing of his blade flung blood. An instant later, Elgart joined them. He was not like Jeck, an artist with his saber, or like Jaspid, who did everything easily; but he fought with the cold calculation of a born killer.