In the block of ice floating a thousand yards above the battlefield, the body of Vrath lay suspended.
The miracle waters of the Jeel had worked their magic, healing the many hundreds of wounds inflicted by Jarsun—repairing the damage and destruction to organs, limbs, flesh, blood, muscle and sinew, bone and gristle.
The process was not yet complete.
Almost, but not quite.
A little while longer, perhaps another hour or two, and the reparation would be complete. Vrath would be restored to his perfect self.
But the voices of his nephews were audible to him, even inside his cocoon of ice.
He could hear their agony, their suffering, their terror.
They needed help.
They needed him.
The enemy was bearing down upon them. They were weaponless and isolated, exposed and helpless. The enemy was strong and ruthless. Druhyu of Druhyu was eagerly racing toward them, grinning at the thought of driving his blade through that young flesh, maiming and butchering the young princes of Hastinaga. The others were not as savagely inclined toward killing young ones as was Druhyu, but they were equally motivated to kill the princes. Killing them would end the battle, win the day, and secure a triumph for the rebellion. The world would rise up against Hastinaga and tear the empire apart, sharing the spoils among themselves. And they, the first to defy the might of Hastinaga, would enjoy the lion’s share. They would be emperors and empresses in their own right. Everyone would fear and be in awe of them forever after.
All they had to do was kill two frightened young boys and show their chopped heads to the world, displaying them like prizes of victory.
Inside the cocoon of ice, Vrath knew all this and more. He had to act now, before it was too late. It was not merely his responsibility, it was Krushan law.
And Vrath always upheld Krushan law.
With a sudden explosion, the giant block of ice burst apart—
It shattered to fragments in midair, which fell to the battlefield below as a shower of tiny chips, none large enough to injure anyone and indeed already melting in the late morning sun as they descended toward the hot earth below.
Vrath hung in midair, his skin still scarred and bruised, his reparation incomplete, not fully restored to his former strength.
But he was still Vrath.
He fell from the sky, falling to the earth with blistering speed, like the great eagle god Grrud bearing down upon the army of Nagas, and landed upon the field with an impact that shook every last mortal and beast for miles. The dust from his impact rose fifty yards in the air. When it cleared, he was visible there on bended knee, powerful shoulders hunched, head lowered.
Slowly, he raised that great head, his mane of grey-white hair falling back over those mighty shoulders and arms, and turned his withering gaze to stare down the oncoming chariots and horses of the rebels who were racing toward the princes of the Burnt Empire.
Vrath rose to his full height, standing astride the field, naked and weaponless, body still oozing blood from a dozen unhealed wounds. The oncoming rebels slowed, awestruck at his appearance and the sheer majesty of his presence.
Behind him, Shvate and Adri still cowered in their chariots, aware that their guardian and protector had arrived at last, but still suffering from their respective conditions.
Vrath spread his arms wide, gesturing to the rebels confronting him.
“You wish to kill the princes of Hastinaga?” Vrath said, folding his arms across his chest. “Then you must kill me first. If you can.”