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thought of his own warriors being infected with that strange mental sickness was daunting. Courage alone could not shield an army from such a power. No human effort could.
    He took advantage of a moment’s respite to look out over the battlefield. His men were doing well; they had taken advantage of the enemy’s strange weakness to decimate its ranks, despite the odds against them. They might be able to carry the day even if the djira turned against them now. But time was everything inside Jezalya, and every minute they wasted made the situation more precarious for his people inside those walls. Any minute now the great gate might start to close, so that his men in the city were left isolated. He could not allow that to happen.
    Gritting his teeth, he looked back at the djira . Dead men and horses were piled around her in a perfect circle, like some ghastly siege wall. Fresh blood, gleaming blackly in the dim morning light, soaked the ground surrounding her feet.
    He waited until she met his eyes, then nodded.
    Go, then . The words resounded in his brain as clearly as if she had spoken them aloud. Ride to Jezalya. Take the city .
    For a moment he hesitated . . . but only for a moment. Then he wheeled his horse about to face the city once more, and cried out for his men to follow him. A few looked at him as though he were mad, but something in his manner must have convinced them he was not. Or else they were just willing to follow him anyway. One by one they worked their way free of the battle’s chaos to join him. Stumbling, confused, the enemy did not pursue them. The last living strength had been drained from their limbs, the last vital energy from their hearts. Whatever power the djira was using on them was truly fearsome, and Nasaan was glad he had not given her reason to turn against him.
    Hooves pounding, his small army thundered toward the city, ranks reforming as they rode. This time there were fewer arrows to contend with; clearly Nasaan’s agents within Jezalya had been dealing with the guards. The gate was still open, and through it he could hear the sounds of battle—human cries and collapsing defense structures and the ringing clash of steel-on-steel—while the sun breached the eastern horizon at last, sending lances of harsh golden light spearing across the plain, crowning his men in fire as they rode.
    He passed through the city gate with his sword raised, the names of his ancestors a prayer on his lips. And Alwat’s name as well, a prayer of gratitude for this improbable victory.
    And he rode into the fires of Hell.
    And glory.

     
    Jezalya’s surrender was finalized in the House of Gods. Nasaan had disdained the splendor of Dervasti’s palace as well as the grand plaza where his predecessor had staged official celebrations. The grandeur of such places seemed empty and artificial to him, bereft of true power. Here, in a windowless temple at the edge of the city containing all the gods of the region, was where the true power of Jezalya lay. And Nasaan meant to make it clear to all just who controlled that power now.
    Standing in the House of the Gods in his blood-spattered armor, surrounded by several hundred idols, the conqueror of Jezalya received the city’s leaders one by one. On all sides of him ancient gods watched silently, gold-chased statues sitting side by side with crude tribal totems, sacred rocks, and even a handful of artifacts whose precise identities had been forgotten long ago. Every tribe in the region had placed an image of its deity here at one time or another, every merchant his patron god, every pilgrim his protector-spirit. Jezalya honored all the gods of the world, and in return, it was said, all the gods of the world protected Jezalya.
    Even now the priests would be struggling to work Nasaan’s invasion into that narrative. Some were now whispering that the fall of the city must have been the will of the gods all along; Prince Dervasti had displeased the ancient deities,