Bifalt did not need to shout. He had no orders left to give. Careless of his aim, he snatched his rifle to his shoulder and fired once into the mass of the enemy. Then he kicked his mount into a controlled gallop.

A heartbeat later, his men fired as well, those who had clear shots: Jeck and Malder, Jaspid and Elgart, the riflemen along the outer edges of the wedge. Led by the heavy punching of bullets, King Bifalt and his company rushed at the horde.

Without transition, astonishing speed became an etched sequence of details. Prince Jaspid killed with casual ease. Elgart was a fine marksman. Jeck was good enough: his preferred weapon was his saber. Malder was merely competent. He fought better with his fists.

Beyond the wings of the wedge, the el-Algreb began shooting furiously. Against ordinary men, their fire would have been lethal. But the strangers shrugged off hits to their limbs and bellies, even to their chests. Lashed by lead like sleet, they kept coming.

Then they slowed. With their fellows piling behind them, their whole front lurched to a halt.

They were not hurt. They did not fear gunfire.

They stopped to feed.

With the frenzy of hornets, they swarmed their fallen. Fingernails like claws gripped the dead as they ripped out great chunks of flesh with their fangs, gulped down muscles and viscera. Spattered with gore, one stranger slurped intestines like noodles. Another broke open a skull with one bite, devoured the brain and most of the face.

Faster than King Bifalt could count the dead, they were gone.

Shocked by the sight, the riflemen and horse-warriors lost momentum. Gunfire staggered into silence. Men too stunned to think hauled on their reins. Even the King—

Hells! Rile’s slaves were starving. That was the goad the priests used to drive them. They were rabid with hunger. They would eat any man that fell, comrade or enemy.

Screaming, King Bifalt kicked his horse forward. As fast as he could, he emptied his clip, wrenched it out and discarded it, slapped a new one into place.

Behind him, his soldiers and the el-Algreb resumed firing. Stung by horror, they blazed at the horde.

Only Prince Jaspid had not paused or slowed. Instead, he had surged ahead, shooting as he went. With Jeck and Malder, Bifalt followed. Elgart joined them. Every gun in the King’s small army spat lead.

But now none of their bullets struck.

A swirl between Bifalt and the horde distorted his vision, a smear like a mirage, like incipient blindness. Strange theurgy veiled the massed enemy, dismissing gunfire as if the slugs had simply melted out of existence. It had the effect of a solid wall—and it was coming closer. It pushed air ahead of it, a blast so sudden and incomprehensible that it nearly unhorsed the King. Jeck and Malder crowded close to keep him in his saddle. Even Jaspid was staggered.