"Slay the oppressors!" he bellowed. "Slay! Slay!"
The weird pipes of the Amenalks shrilled their answer. The blue-painted men swept forward—
From the ranks of Sepher an arrow flew. It sped toward Aynger. It pierced his bare throat and drove deep—deep!
The Amenalk leader bellowed; his huge body arced like a bow. Blood spouted from his mouth.
A battalion charged out from the ranks of Kiriath. They sped toward the Amenalks, lances lowered, pennons flying.
Aynger fell! Dead, he toppled from the rock into the lifted arms of his men. The pipes skirled. The Amenalks, bearing their leader, turned and fled back into the valley!
Cursing, Elak dodged a shrewd thrust, killed his assailant, and spurred toward Sepher. The hilt of his rapier was slippery with blood. His body, under the chain armor, was a mass of agonizing bruises; blood gushed from more than one wound. His breath rasped in his throat. The stench of sweat and gore choked him; he drove over ground carpeted with the writhing bodies of men and horses.
Down the valley Dalan fought and bellowed his rage. The battle-thunder crashed on the towering crags and sent deafening echoes through the Gateway.
Still the trumpets of Kiriath called; still the drums and cymbals of Cyrena shouted their defiance.
And still Sepher slew, coldly, remorselessly, his bronzed face expressionless.