Page 79

ELO HAD COME RUNNING DOWN THE SLOPES WHEN HE SAW the god rise again, driving his horse over bodies and wreckage. The Talicians weren’t the only ones held together by strings of faith and hope. If she tore out their centre, destroyed the king, she would kill them all.

He blew his horn, reinforcements again. To me! To me!

But every part of the army was fighting its own battles, chasing down the Talicians and the Restish. Or they were running at the sight of Hseth returned and furious. Racing up the slopes with the Talicians, away from flame and water.

Would no one help him? Would no one be brave enough to face the god, and save their king?

A horn. A cry of response.

Lessa Craier, true to her duty, had summoned another array of horses. They rode hard down beside him, following at his back, charging at his side, straight for the god at the valley’s heart.

Gods.

Elo could see the flame of Arren facing Hseth, his brightness a match to hers, one nation’s faith against another.

Arren’s fire was the light of a flame on a cold night, the light of a sun rising in the autumn.

Elo saw him rip off his helm, the bright blue of his eyes, the twists of his hair, the antlers that just showed above the curls.

Fearless, he stared up at the god who had betrayed him, died and then lived to kill him.

And then he saw Peta draw her sword. He saw the cleric, Methsme, whispering at her side.

‘Arren!’ Elo screamed. ‘Arren, no!’

He saw the strike, true in his heart.