The poet shrugged. ‘I cannot. You have lost a lot of blood and you are weak.’
‘You have the Eyes of Alchazzar.’
‘I wish I did, old horse – I’d heal everybody here. By Heaven, I’d even raise the dead.’
Talisman looked closely at him, but Sieben met his stare with blank equanimity. Placing his arm over Zhusai’s shoulder, Talisman kissed her cheek. ‘Help me to the wall, my wife,’ he said. ‘We will stand upon it together.’
As they moved off, Sieben heard a small voice whisper in his ear. ‘Go with them.’ He swung round, but there was no-one close. The poet shuddered, and stood where he was. ‘Trust me, my boy,’ came the voice of Shaoshad.
Sieben walked out into the sunlight, then ran to catch Talisman and the woman. Taking the warrior’s other arm he helped him up the rampart steps to the western wall.
‘Well, they’re gathering again,’ muttered Druss.
On the plain beyond, the Gothir were once more in fighting ranks, waiting for the drum-beat signal. All along the wall weary Nadir defenders also waited, swords ready.
‘Must be more than a thousand of them,’ said Sieben, feeling the onset of terror.
The drum-beat sounded, and the Gothir army began to move.
Zhusai stiffened, and drew in a sharp breath. ‘Put your hand on her shoulder,’ ordered Shaoshad. When Sieben reached out and gently touched Zhusai, he felt the power of the stones flow from him, like a dam bursting. She released her hold on Talisman and moved to the ramparts.
‘What are you doing, Zhusai?’ hissed Talisman.
She turned to him and gave a dazzling smile. ‘She will return,’ said the voice of Shul-sen.
The woman climbed to the top of the ramparts and raised her arms. Overhead the sun – brilliant in a clear blue sky – shone down now on the woman in bloodstained clothes. The wind picked up, stirring her raven-dark hair. Clouds began to form with astonishing speed – small white puffballs that swelled and grew, darkening down and obscuring the sun. The wind roared, buffeting the defenders. Blacker and blacker grew the sky, then a clap of thunder burst above the Shrine. Lightning forked down, exploding in the midst of the Gothir army. Several men were hurled from their feet. Jagged spears of dazzling light flashed into the enemy force, while thunder rolled across the heavens.
The Gothir broke and ran, but still the lightning tore into them, catapulting men into the air. The fierce wind brought the smell of burning flesh to the stunned defenders. The Gothir horses uprooted their picket ropes and galloped away. On the plain men were tearing off their armour and hurling aside their weapons – to no avail it seemed. Sieben saw a man struck, his breastplate exploding. Those close to him were punched to the ground, where their bodies went into spasm.
Then the sun broke through the clouds and the woman in white turned and stepped back to the ramparts. ‘My Lord is in Paradise,’ she told Talisman. ‘This is a debt repaid.’ She sagged against Talisman, who held her close.
On the plain more than half the Gothir force was dead, many others suffering terrible burns.
‘They’ll not fight again,’ said Gorkai, as the clouds dispersed.
‘No, but they will,’ muttered Druss, pointing to a line of cavalry breasting the hills and riding down towards the shattered Gothir camp.
Sieben’s heart sank as more than a thousand men came into sight, riding in columns of twos.
‘Who would have my luck?’ said Nuang bitterly.
Chapter Thirteen
Premian rolled to his belly and pushed his blistered hands into the cold mud. Lightning had struck three men close to him. They were unrecognizable now. He staggered to his feet, his legs unsteady and dizziness swamping him. The dead and dying were everywhere, and the living staggered around as if drunk.
Some way to his left Premian saw the Lord Gargan sitting beside his dead horse. The man looked old now, and sat with his head in his hands. Premian had been wearing no armour – Gargan had stripped him of his rank, and had sentenced him to thirty lashes for disobedience – but the lack of metal on his frame had saved him during the lightning storm.