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.

They were not enough. They could not stand against the horde’s numbers. Only the hunger of their foes spared them. The nearest attackers sprang on their dead and dying fellows instead of tearing Bifalt and his defenders apart.

But rifles were firing again. Their sharp retorts were getting louder. Bullets staggered the slaves. Wounds bloomed on their arms, their hips, their chests. Some of them fell and became food.

Grinning, Prince Jaspid committed slaughter.

Overhead, two more globes sailed above the fighting. Flame answered them. Bolts of lightning stalked among the men around Bifalt and his defenders.

Covered by Decimates, Suti al-Suri appeared with several of his warriors. They swept Bifalt off his feet. Malder, Jeck, and Elgart. Even Jaspid. Galloping madly, they carried the King and his comrades away.

The King had lost his rifle. His hand hurt as if it had been bitten. He struggled to breathe. But his grip on his saber was iron. He clenched it like a man who would never let go.

One, he thought bitterly. One priest. That was all. None of the others had been touched.