Another Arab struck from the right. This one had a sword. Too slow, Valens parried. The tip of the blade skidded over his mailed chest. Links of mail snapped. Only the four horns of the saddle gripping his thighs kept Valens on his horse. Instinctively, without looking, he slashed backhanded. A satisfying impact ran up his arm. A howl of agony rang loud in his ears.

A tent-dweller on a camel blocked his way. Valens kicked the heels of his boots into the sides of his mount. It leapt forward. But a moment before impact, the camel threw up its great, ugly head and roared. Unnerved by the alien beast, Valens’s horse refused. Shying violently, it tripped over its own legs, fouled. Fighting for balance, the horse stumbled a few steps, but it was going to fall.

Releasing sword and shield, Valens grabbed the two front saddle horns, levering himself up. As the horse went down, he jumped clear. The earth rushed up at him. He landed hard, face down. For a terrible moment he thought the horse would crush him. The wind knocked out of him, he felt the enormous weight of the beast thump down right beside him.

As the horse thrashed trying to regain its feet, Valens fought to get up, to drag breath back into his lungs. A hoof caught him in the side, it smashed him sideways and back down. Chest and ribs searing with pain, Valens got to his knees, tugged out his dagger.

With a lurch, the horse was up. Before Valens could grab the reins, it was gone. The Arab, impossibly high on the camel, towered above him, drawing his bow.

Somehow Valens forced himself upright.

The nomad aimed at his chest. Mail would not stop an arrow at twenty paces. Valens was unshielded. There was no cover in reach. Hopelessly, he began to shuffle forward, dagger in hand. The tent-dweller was too far away.

His assailant smiled. Steadied his arm, focused on his target.

Die on your feet, like a soldier. Wracked with pain, Valens put one foot in front of the other. He would never make it.

A blur of movement in the periphery of his vision.

Intent on his prey, the Arab saw nothing.

A flash of steel. A spray of bright blood. The nomad stared with amazement at the fountaining stump where his left arm had been.

Another neat blow, and Zabda cut the Arab from his mount. Braying, the camel padded away as Zabda reined to a halt. But another nomad loomed behind the Palmyrene, with a lance still in hand.

As Zabda grinned and saluted, Valens opened his mouth to shout a warning. But with no air in his lungs, he could make no sound. He pointed wildly.