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rose in yet another wave of torment at sunset when the armies parted and many of the women learned that their own husbands, sons or lovers had been left slaughtered on the bloody field.
    The forces of Maghalla withdrew to the tents and camps that were massed along the edge of the forest. The warriors of Karakhor retreated to the edge of the river where they collapsed to rest. Both sides had to eat, tend their wounds and sharpen their weapons for the dawn. Men too severely wounded to fight again were carried back into the city. The women came out with food and water jugs to search desperately for their own loved ones among the bleeding, exhausted ranks of the survivors.
    The princes and house lords returned to the city to eat and rest, and then to gather in a silent, subdued group in the great audience hall where the elephant tusk throne of Kara-Rashna now stood empty. They glanced frequently at the vacant symbol of power, but none so often as Prince Rajar, the elder of the dead monarch’s gathered sons.
    They waited for Jahan and Kaseem. The Warmaster General was busy ensuring that his warriors, horses and elephants were all fed and cared for, that guards were set for the night watches, and that the burial parties were retrieving the dead. The old priest was supervising the rituals and ministrations that preceded the cremation of Kara-Rashna, who now lay in silent state in the courtyard of the temple of Indra.
    At last priest and Warmaster appeared together, both of them looking tired and drawn. Jahan had removed his helmet and chain mail armour, but otherwise he still wore the same blood-and-dust-stained clothing of the day and his sword still hung sheathed at his waist. He glanced grimly around the gathered assembly, noting how many were there, and his mouth tightened a little more as he noticed how close Rajar had edged to the vacant throne. He knew instinctively how much the young prince longed to be seated there, although as yet he dared not make that move.
    Kaseem spoke first, his hands clasped as though still in prayer. His bony shoulders sagged beneath his thin robe, but he held his chin high and met their eyes. “Our King had no wound,” he offered with only a slight quaver in his voice. “No enemy blade or arrow has touched him. It seems that his heart died inside him. His great soul saw too much pain. His noble heart stopped beating. Karakhor has lost her king, but in this there is no victory for Maghalla.”
    â€œNo victory for Maghalla,” Prince Devan agreed, but his hand slapped down hard on the hilt of his sword. “But there will be vengeance for Kara-Rashna and for Karakhor. I will seek out Sardar of Maghalla and avenge my brother. By all the gods, I swear it.”
    There were sombre nods of approval, but Kaseem flinched and he looked down. He had washed and anointed the body of Kara-Rashna with his own hands, dressing his old friend again in his finest robes and jewels, all the while uttering the sacred rites and prayers. He had lit the sacred fires and made the all-important sacrifices. Soon, after due time of mourning, he would have to light the final cremation fire. Now he wondered how many more times he would have to perform the same sad tasks. Anger and bloodlust made men reckless with their lives and he wondered whether the angry Devan would be the next to fall.
    â€œWe will avenge our brother,” Sanjay affirmed. “Today it was important for all our battle banners to be in the front rank of chariots but tomorrow I ride a war elephant. The greater height will give me a wider view of the battlefield. Sardar will not be able to hide from my javelins.”
    â€œSardar will be well protected.” Jahan growled a note of warning.
    Devan scowled but Sanjay turned the talk away from any possible argument. “How many others did we lose?” he asked grimly.
    â€œSome three hundred warriors,” Jahan answered, “Most of them dead. Only a few live with