BLOOD AND SAND 
by Matt Ralphs 
	
	'The crusades into Araby are a proud leaf in the illustrious history of our Empire. For a hundred years men took up the hammer and sought to bring light and learning into the heathen lands. Many fell, for the path to victory is oft travelled over the bodies of faithful men. And for those who were captured? Well, it was better to die than to become a slave to the men of Araby.'
	
	- FromArmies of the Hammer,
	The Forgotten Crusades
	
	He knew that to make a sound was to die.
	Echardt Drager winced as sand crunched under his foot. He could hear the deep, rhythmic rasp of the creature's breathing. It remained regular - mercifully undisturbed. Dust motes swirled in a column of light which pierced the gloom, tumbling and turning, kept aloft in the heavy air; illuminated in the light was a patch of scaled skin, the colour of the desert. It reminded Drager of the armour worn by Arabyan warriors: flat, regular-shaped plates of burnished gold that glittered in the sun. But this was no Arabyan soldier, this was a sand dragon.
	Despite his fear, he was thrilled. The creatures kept in the emir's bestiary put to shame those of his former lord - the Elector Count of Averland - whom he had served for many years as keeper of the war-beasts before his capture. His Arabyan overseers, recognising his worth, set him to work with the animals, but this was the first time he'd been put in the sand dragon cage.
	Drager was within touching distance of the creature. Its body loomed over him, curled sinuously around a boulder. He felt intense heat radiating from its skin; a nerve rippled and scales scratched together, sounding like parchment burning. In the patch of light he spied what he sought: a half-shed scale, about the size of his hand, with a shining new one peeking through beneath.
	His fingers closed around the loose scale. It felt like dry leather. He pulled gently and it began to come away. He licked his lips and gave it a tug. His heart missed a beat as the scale tore off. He was felled as the creature's tail whipped out and struck him hard across the chest. The wind was knocked from him as he landed hard on his back. The beast uncurled from around the boulder and hauled itself up onto long hind legs. It turned to face him with fluid grace, its vast, crested head towering up on the end of a lithe neck, black eyes reflecting Drager's terrified face with emotionless curiosity.
	Drager saw the dragon's lungs expand and he rolled to one side as its head thrust forward, jaws agape. A blast of burning sand vomited from its throat, rattling against its teeth and blasting the ground where Drager had been a second before. He screamed as scorching particles lacerated his arm and burnt into the flesh. It turned to face him again, head cocked, as if puzzled by something. Drager watched helplessly as it drew in another breath.
	Two men, each holding blazing torches, leapt to either side of him, whooping and screaming as they thrust the flames into the dragons eyes. It bellowed and staggered back, cowering from the light. Drager struggled up and ran for the cage door. His rescuers backed out behind him, keeping their brands held in front as the beast cautiously stalked after them. They stepped into daylight and bolted the cage door shut.
	Drager blinked in the bright sun, nursing his blistering arm. He leaned on the heavy cloth draped over the dragon's pen, there to keep out the sun. Drager handed one of the men the scale. He studied it.
	'Well done, Empire,' he said in halting Reikspiel. 'This aphrodisiac will replace some of our great emir's lost vitality.' He put the scale in a pouch hanging from his belt. 'You learned valuable lesson today, no? Try not to wake a sleeping sand dragon.'
	Drager slumped to the ground as he walked away, chuckling.
	It is said that in Araby, the only people who work in the middle of the day are slaves and slave-drivers. Even sheep, considered by Arabyans to be the lowest of beasts, have the sense to rest in the shade. The sun rode at its zenith, gazing down like a burnished coin, pouring out heat and bleaching all colour from the world.
	A line of men - pale except where the heat had burned their skin red - laboured in a line swinging picks along a dusty road. They were tethered together by chains and wore tattered rags. Many had torn strips from their tunics and tied them over their heads. Some still sported the badge of their crusade across their breasts - a knight of the Empire, with the hammer of Sigmar above him, encircled with a ring of flame - as if in defiance of their defeat and capture. These once proud crusaders were now slaves to the people they had sought to subjugate. Around them prowled slave-drivers, armed with whips and cudgels and swathed in long, purple robes and white turbans. They shouted and cursed, and the constant report of the picks was accompanied by the crack of their whips.
	Behind them was a city.
	It was called Zarekten, and it dominated the valley. A shallow moat - carved through the ochre rock by a river long since dried up - hugged the bottom of a soaring curtain wall. Square towers sprouted along the length of the defences which stretched out from one valley wall and back, like the tip of a spear. The main gate was at its apex, a wide, arched door flanked by two towers. The city gazed blankly through a thousand murder holes. Soldiers patrolled the parapets, long spears over their shoulders, their silver mail coats caught the sunlight and shimmered with many shades of blue. Sloping up behind them as it climbed the rock face was the city itself. Inner walls and bastions were thrown into relief by the sun: flat surfaces dazzled with light, whilst doors, windows, arrow-slits and arches remained black with shadow. As the city climbed ever higher, the defences made way for small, square dwellings with domed roofs. Around these tightly packed buildings was a warren of passages, alleys, bridges, avenues and covered walkways.
	Zarekten guarded the entrance to the Great Erg - a blistering, white sand plain visible to the south through the mouth of the valley - and the rich trade routes running through it. It represented the last frontier between the principalities and city-states of the prosperous north, and the nomadic tribes who inhabit the deserts to the south.
	Tomas Strauss tore his eyes away from the desert, gulped a breath of hot air and swung his pick into the ground. Every muscle ached and his back felt as if it had been branded with hot coals. He muttered a prayer to Sigmar and made the sign of the hammer with his calloused hands. He spied a slave-driver making his way down the line, dosing out ladles of water to each prisoner. Tomas smiled, it was Huashil. Sigmar had answered him today.
	Huashil held the dripping ladle out to Tomas who drank the water, smiled and leaned on his pick. 'Thank you.' he said.
	'Slow going, eh, Empire?' Huashil said. He surreptitiously pointed to the ground and dropped two figs at Tomas's feet.
	'Aye, but Sigmar lends me strength.' Tomas said, smiling.
	Huashil frowned. 'You find your god here, even in the desert? After he abandoned you?'
	'Sigmar is everywhere.' Tomas said. 'And he has not abandoned me. I have him always nearby.' He patted the left side of his chest. 'Where do you keep your faith, my friend?'
	Huashil was about to speak when searing pain lashed across Tomas's back. He fell to his knees and picked up the figs.
	'Work, Empire, work!' a slave-driver screamed in his ear. When Tomas looked up, blinking away tears of pain, Huashil was back to hurriedly ladling water. The slave to Tomas's left leaned over, his freckled face red from the sun. He took the proffered fruit from Tomas and popped it into his mouth before anyone noticed.
	'It seems to be working,' he said, chewing delightedly and indicating to Huashil.
	'Indeed, Dieter.' Tomas said. 'We may hook the fish yet.'
	Huashil walked towards the shade cast by Zarekten's walls and sat down. He began to scribe looping, elegant letters into the sand with his finger:
	
	The emir, may the vultures peck out his eyes, has forbidden anyone to write. But I must, or I feel I will forget how.
	Again, I cast my mind into the river of my desires. If I were back home, I would be sat beneath the acacia tree, copying the chronicles, writing of new births and the passing away of elders, recording the history of my tribe. With no one to write the days, my people will lose their past. But I have no choice. When the Sigmarites came from across the seas, the emir rounded up the men from the villages to bolster his army. Now I wring the last doses of strength from those captured in his wars. I am a slave, driving slaves.
	Why do the Sigmarites come here, with fire and sword to my land?
	I watch the slaves. They are forbidden to practise their primitive religion, but many has been the time when I have listened to Tomas as he tells tales of gods like Sigmar - who was also a man! - who banished evil and set up a nation united, a nation of learning, light and scholars, a land of green trees and deep rivers. I look forward to night guard duty, so I can hear again these wonderful tales.
	
	Already the wind had erased the first sentences. He watched the desert steal his words, and wondered where it took them. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of swift hoof-beats coming up the road towards the city. A horse and rider appeared from behind an escarpment of rock. The rider was standing in the stirrups and riding hard. Huashil knew no Arabyan would push an animal like that at this time of day unless he was in desperate need. A dozen soldiers marched out from the main gate, spears levelled. The rider dismounted and ran up to them.
	Huashil strained to hear their words, but they were carried away by the breeze. After a minute's conversation the rider was allowed into the city. The guards beckoned to the slave-drivers who began to hound and whip their charges back towards the gate.
	A sonorous blast from the horn in the gatehouse echoed around the valley, bouncing from the sheer walls which only listened impassively.
	The slaves were herded into the fortress with whips and curses. As the last man passed under the arch, soldiers goaded teams of brightly apparelled camels to heave the iron-studded gates closed. Once more the horn gave forth a mournful cry. The slaves exchanged nervous glances.
	As Tomas and Dieter shuffled up the wide thoroughfare, they passed groups of soldiers running to the gate. Townsfolk scurried up alleys, calling to their children and shutting their doors. Tomas grinned.
	'I smell trouble.' he said. Another group of Empire slaves jogged up beside them. A muscular man fell into step next to Tomas.
	'Greetings, Tomas. Have you heard the rumours?' he said.
	'No, Jurgen, but something's stirred up the beehive.'
	'Indeed it has.' Jurgen said, laughing. 'I think our opportunity has arrived, my friend. Crusaders are near, and they're heading this way.'
	Prince Friedrich Weiss, commander of the first grand crusade from Wissenburg, leader of five hundred knights and five thousand men-at-arms, sacker of cities and conqueror of towns, reclined in his chair, grateful for the shade his pavilion afforded from the cursed sun. He had just inspected his siege line, which straggled just beyond bowshot around Zarekten's walls. Bivouacs had been pitched, and his army was settling into the siege with well-practiced skill. But the situation was tenuous: his engineers judged that the stony ground of the valley made mining the walls impossible; and the besieged had food, water and thick walls to cower behind whereas the crusaders were running low on supplies and could expect attack from the front or the rear at any moment.
	From outside the pavilion came the creak of the trebuchets as their beams were ratcheted back, and the crash andswish as the counterweights were dropped, launching rocks at the city. The siege engines had been toiling like this for a week, to little avail.
	The pavilion flap was lifted and a tall man entered. He rested his warhammer against a support pole and ran his hand over his bald scalp. It came away slick with sweat, which he wiped on his robe. He regarded Friedrich through heavy-lidded eyes.
	Friedrich returned his gaze and wondered how this warrior priest stayed as pale as a fish's belly in this blasted heat.
	'How is my lord today?' the priest said.
	'Perfectly fine, Brother Kristoff. Except that I look at the walls and see they are still intact.' He stood up and peered out of the pavilion. 'What I would dearly like to see is that place ablaze. What I dearly want to hear are screams as we put the faithless to the sword.' He looked at Kristoff. 'Sigmar is being cheated of his due.'
	'I, too, share your vexation. But Zarekten is a fine fortress.'
	'Be careful what you say, brother. It is a citadel of the godless, a cradle of evil. I expect more intolerance from a man of Sigmar.'
	'Intolerance has nothing to do with it,' Kristoff said. 'The point is, lord, we still remain outside.'
	Friedrich slumped back into his chair. 'It's time we changed tack. We have prisoners?'
	'Aye, lord.'
	'Pick one. Pick a man with a family, and bring them to the armourer's. Treachery runs in an Arabyans' blood. Let's use that to our advantage.'
	Kristoff nodded and left.
	Upon driving the Sultan Jaffar's forces from Estalia, the armies of the Old World had followed them over the sea and into their own land. Prince Friedrich's desire to build a reputation on the field of battle in Araby had given his armourers and weaponsmiths much work to do.
	Prince Friedrich's crusade had burnt and slaughtered its way into Araby and was now many miles inland. It had breached the walls of Gobi-Alain on the coast and defeated every hastily mustered army that marched to meet it. Castles, towns and villages were being crushed under the heels of the grand crusades from the Empire and Bretonnia, and Araby was reeling.
	The air in the armourer's tent reeked of smoke. Friedrich stirred the white coals in the giant furnace with a brand, as a group of people entered.
	'Translate for me, Brother Kristoff,' he said.
	'As you wish, lord.'
	Four Arabyans were on their knees: a young man and woman, and two young boys. Friedrich felt a twinge of admiration at the defiance in their eyes. He motioned to a guard who stepped forward and grabbed the woman by her hair. She yelped in pain, but kept her eyes on Friedrich. The corner of Friedrich's mouth twitched as he noticed fear flash across the man's face.
	'What's his name?' Friedrich asked Kristoff.
	'Mashtub, lord.'
	'You have a choice to make, Mushtub.' As Friedrich spoke, Kristoff translated in fluent Arabyan. 'If you make the wrong choice, your family will die, but only after my men have had their fun.' Friedrich thrust his face close to Mashtub's, who bowed his head. 'Listen carefully...'
	Dusk settled. The sky, purpled like a bruise, was speckled with stars and formed a benign roof over the shadowed valley walls. The captain of the gate-tower guard leant over the parapet and scrutinised the siege lines. Campfires burned along the crusaders' picket. He heard men's voices drifting on the breeze and wondered what the barbarians were saying.
	He was about to go to the guardhouse for a cup of sweet tea when he spied movement in the enemy camp and heard angry shouts. He could see three - no, four - figures running towards his gate. Sigmarite soldiers appeared from bivouacs and chased after them. More shouts were raised as one of the pursued tripped and fell. The soldiers set upon him, beating him with their swords hilts. As the others got closer, the captain could see they were Arabyans.
	'Open the gates!' he shouted. Below, the camels lowed hoarsely as they were goaded to stand up.
	The escapees had made it halfway when he saw a line of Sigmarites form up in a line. Crossbowmen. They raised their weapons.
	'Hurry, get that gate open.'
	He heard the staccato rattle as the crossbows fired. One man dropped like a sack of sand with a quarrel through his throat, and another tumbled as a bolt buried itself up to the fletch in the meat of his thigh. He cried out, thrashing on the ground as the Empire soldiers calmly reloaded and took aim.
	The last man was nearly at the gates. Another rattle of bolts and the wounded man was silenced forever, just as the survivor squeezed through the door and collapsed. Guards propped him up against a wall.
	Mashtub stared at them with wild eyes. His right arm was held against his chest. It ended just above the wrist, the stump seared with a brand shaped with an 'S'.
	'Take him to the emir.' the guard captain said.
	'You're a fool.'
	'And you are a coward.'
	Tomas held Drager against the cage wall, his powerful hands gripping his tunic.
	'Call me what you want, Tomas, but there is no shame in survival.'
	Tomas let him go. 'You call this survival?' he said, waving his hand around the cage. 'This is worse than death.'
	'Death is what you will bring us, if you go through with this.'
	'Wecannot waste the opportunity we now have. Not half-a-mile away are our countrymen. At last we have a chance to escape from these wretches.'
	'It's not so bad here...'
	'Not so bad for you, you mean.' Tomas shouted.
	'Hush, Tomas.' Dieter said. 'You'll have the guards down on us.'
	'Wetoil, feeling the lash on our backs.' Tomas said in an angry whisper. 'They work us like donkeys until we fall down dead. You, meanwhile, work with the beasts in this zoo, shovelling dung and sitting in the shade.'
	'It's not like that.'
	'Yes it is. I can see the guilt in your eyes.'
	'Our lives were no better at home. We worked the fields, and in return we have to fight in the count's wars.'
	'This is not just any war. This is a holy crusade.'
	'You deceive yourself.' Drager said.
	Tomas floored him with a fist and turned to the rest of the prisoners. 'Brothers, we have waited long for this day. Our preparations are not in vain. At last, we now have a place to escape to.' There were mutters of approval and nods of assent. Drager sat down, shaking his head.
	'Listen.' Dieter said. 'Someone approaches.'
	Arabyan guards marched up to the cage. Huashil opened the door and Mashtub was hurled inside. One of the guards spat on him and slammed the gate closed. Mashtub crawled into a corner, eyes averted, his bandaged arm held close to his chest.
	The slaves stared at him. What terrible crime could he have committed to be put in with the lowest of the low?
	'He could be a spy.' Dieter whispered.
	'Perhaps.' Tomas said. 'Let's get some sleep. We'll have a hard day tomorrow.'
	Huashil, hidden in the shadows near the sand dragon cage, crept off, disappointed that there would be no tales of Sigmar or the Empire that night.
	'If only I could see through stone. I would dearly like to know what goes on outside,' Dieter whispered, as he heaved another piece of shattered masonry into the handcart. The slaves had been set to work clearing the roads of debris caused by the constant bombardment from the besiegers' trebuchets.
	'I share your thoughts, my friend,' Tomas said. 'But soon we will be marching alongside them, avenging our captivity.'
	Drager snorted and spat into the sand. Tomas glared at him. 'You know Dieter,' he said, 'Arabyans rarely spit. They reserve the act as the gravest insult possible. Water is scarce in this land, and they believe that to waste it in such a manner is the act of a bitter or a stupid man.' He picked up another rock and hurled it into the cart. 'Which, I wonder, is Herr Drager?'
	After an hour of backbreaking toil, Mashtub sidled up to Tomas. 'You speak Arabyan?' he asked, pronouncing each syllable slowly and loudly.
	Tomas continued to work. 'I do. I was appointed leader due to my rank and learning, a go-between 'twixt slave and master. I was taught a smattering of your evil language and have had over a year to ingest its foulness.' Tomas turned to him. 'So there is no need to speak so damned slowly.'
	'I am most relieved.' Mashtub leaned closer. 'I am here to help you. I have been sent by your countrymen,' he whispered, pointing towards the curtain wall.
	'Why would you help us? We're your enemy.'
	'I have no loyalty to the emir. He threw me in a cage. He called me a thief.' He waved his stump at Tomas. 'I told him the Empire dogs did this to me. He said, "No matter, is shame on our people that you were captured".' He bowed his head. 'Besides, they have my family. I have no choice.'
	Tomas was not without pity, but, like any opportunity, he grabbed it with both hands. 'What do we need to do?'
	'How can we trust him?' Dieter whispered.
	'I don't trust him. How can I? He's heathen.' Tomas glanced over his shoulder to make sure Mashtub was asleep. Most of the slaves were slumbering after being herded back to their cage after an exhausting day. 'But I do believe his story. You've seen how these scoundrels behave, they have no loyalty to each other. He'd betray his own people to save his skin.'
	'Has he agreed to talk to Huashil?'
	'Aye. I just hope he'll see things our way.' He ignored Dieter's sceptical look. 'We'd best get moving,' he said.
	Tomas crept over to Mashtub and shook him.
	'It's time to go,' Tomas said.
	The two men went to the back of the cage where Jurgen pried open a loosened bar. They slid into the narrow gap between the bars and the stone wall and shimmied towards the edge of the cage. They could see the arched gate out of the zoo. As usual it was closed, and two guards stood on the other side. Tomas beckoned Mashtub to follow him.
	'We've been working on a way to escape for months.' Tomas whispered. 'We were just waiting for the right opportunity.'
	They stopped where the perimeter fence of the bestiary met the cliff wall. Tomas lifted up a curtain of rock-creeper to reveal a gap. They slipped through and began to descend through the city. Tomas led the way, creeping through low walled gardens, over flat rooftops, along deserted alleyways and under window eaves. They often had to wait in shadowed doorways as soldiers or citizens passed by. After an hour of nerve-jangling evasion they reached the city wall, at the sixteenth tower, near the east gate, just as Mashtub had instructed.
	They entered the tower. Stone steps spiralled upwards to the parapet, and they made their way up them slowly to the first arrow slit. They could hear sentries' footfalls getting closer, then they faded to silence.
	Tomas peered out. The rocky ground sloped away, bathed in the milky glow of the moons. He took a torch from a sconce in the wall and waved it in front of the slit. Nothing moved. The moons were so bright, how could anyone move undetected? Mashtub pointed to the sky. A cloud passed over the moons and the landscape was plunged in darkness.
	A figure appeared from behind a boulder and sprinted up to them. Tomas held his breath, expecting the alarm to be raised at any moment, but silence prevailed.
	'I'm relieved to see you at last, my friend.' the man said, grasping Tomas's outstretched hand. 'My name is Brandt, Prince Weiss's chief scout. I'm glad we have help, this fortress is proving a difficult nut to crack.'
	'It does this old campaigner's heart good to see a freeman's face again. I am Tomas Strauss, halberdier from the first grand crusade from Averland. My comrades and I are sworn to do whatever you need.'
	'Very well. The walls are too strong to break. Tomorrow night, mounted knights will hide themselves near the east gate. We need you to open it, so they can ride in and hold off the heathens until the infantry arrive. A feint attack will be directed at the main gate to distract attention. Can you do this for us?'
	Tomas did not hesitate. 'We can, and we will.'
	'Sigmar bless you, Tomas.'
	'Be careful.' Tomas said, as the scout disappeared amongst the rocks.
	Tomas and Mashtub, Arabyan and crusader, made their way back to the bestiary, cooperating to survive, but each one wrestling with his own troubles.
	'We're relying on two Arabyans for this to work. Does that not worry you?' Dieter asked.
	Tomas heaved another rock into the cart. 'It does, but there is no choice. We need Huashil to cover our escape. We cannot all leave our cage without raising the alarm. Mashtub is going to tell him that Empire men are merciful, and if he takes Sigmar into his heart he will be freed after the city falls.'
	'Mashtub will choke on those words.' Dieter chuckled. 'Crusaders cut off his hand and even now hold his family hostage. But is Huashil ready to come over to us?'
	'We'll find out soon enough.'
	The slaves were clearing rubble from a market square. Tomas spied Huashil sat alone on a low wall, scribing shapes into the sand with his spear butt. Tomas caught Mashtub's eye and motioned to him. Mashtub nodded and edged his way towards Huashil. He began to clear the area around his feet of stones. Tomas and Dieter watched as the two men began to converse. Soon, all the slaves were looking over as well.
	Tomas knew the risk he was taking. If Mashtub failed to convince Huashil to help them, their plan would fail before it had even begun. His heart dropped as Mashtub walked towards him, slowly shaking his head. Tomas gripped a rock in his hand. They would not take him without a fight. He waited for Huashil to get up and raise the alarm about the planned escape. But he didn't. He remained seated, eyes downcast as he continued to make swirling lines in the sand.
	And Tomas knew he still had one more roll of the dice.
	Prince Weiss stood, arms outstretched, as squires strapped a black steel cuirass around his chest.
	'It feels good, does it not?' Weiss said. 'The thought of action at last, after sitting on our arses for so long.'
	'For myself, lord, I have been far from idle,' Kristoff said. 'I brought with me many texts to study. And besides, I praise Sigmar in a multitude of ways. Whether it be leading the faithful in rousing prayer, or breaking the faithless with a hammer, it makes no difference to me.'
	'Man cannot live on faith alone,' Weiss said irritably.
	'If all men of the Empire were like me, we would rule all lands under the sun.'
	'If all men were like you, chaste brother, there would be no new men to fill up the ranks of your armies.'
	Kristoffs face remained still, but Weiss noticed his hands were balled into fists. He smirked. 'Order the men to launch a fire bail. I want a look at the defences before we set out.' He glanced out of the tent flap at Zarekten. 'Order the feint on the main gate to begin fifteen minutes after my departure.' He turned back to Kristoff, grinning. 'That should distract them, eh?'
	Tomas gazed up at the stars. He imagined the Empire knights leading their horses through the rocky defiles towards the east gate, all depending on him. He peered through the bars. He could see two figures behind the zoo gates, and recognised the stooped posture of Huashil. Tomas beckoned to him.
	Come on, little fish, he thought.
	Huashil opened the gate and made his way towards him. 'I will not help you, Tomas.' he said sadly. 'I cannot betray my people.'
	Tomas licked his lips. 'How can it be wrong to turn away from a life without faith, and face the glory of Sigmar?' Tomas said. 'He was a great man, who through learning and wisdom transcended his mortality to become a deity. You are a learned man, I've seen you write. You must understand.'
	Huashil looked at the ground and shook his head. 'But I don't believe. My faith is only in what I see and hear.'
	Tomas looked despairingly at him, but he caught a flicker of doubt in Huashil's tone.
	'I need a sign that Sigmar would recognise my faith and reward it.' Huashil said at last.
	'Sigmar will not reward you before you turn to him, for then you are not showing true faith. Only those whose faith is blind will prevail.'
	Huashil shook his head, and before Tomas could act he turned and made his way back to the gate.
	From behind the distant city walls, a blazing comet of yellow light rose sharply up, smearing the night sky with its radiance. It grew bigger as it arced over the outer buildings of Zarekten, flames roaring like a vengeful dragon. The city was awash in a bright orange glow and the flaming orb seemed to hang in the sky, before plummeting back to the ground on the end of its burning tail. It disintegrated on impact, sending waves of fire and fountains of sparks into the air.
	Tomas knew it was a fire bail launched by the crusaders, but he seized this last chance. 'Mercy! See Sigmar's sign.' He rattled the cage, noting with relief that the other guard had disappeared to take a closer look at what had happened. 'Huashil, open the door, Sigmar has sent his comet for you. It's a sign. Do as he says and earn his eternal gratitude.'
	Huashil lay face down on the floor, wailing. He picked himself and pulled out his keys, muttering confused prayers. He swung open the cage door. Tomas gestured to Huashil, and Jurgen and another grabbed his arms. Tomas stood in front of him. 'You are marked, Huashil, marked by Sigmar. You must do as I say.'
	Huashil nodded. The fish was hooked and landed.
	Tomas left a man at the zoo gates, garbed in the sentry's clothes. Huashil chained the slaves together, and led them towards the east gate in a shuffling line. No one took notice of them; the main gate was being assaulted, and all efforts were being made to defend it.
	In a deserted courtyard, a street away from the east gate, Huashil unlocked their fetters. The slaves picked up rocks and anything else they could use as weapons. Drager edged to the back of the group, his mind racing. He had no desire to be rescued and made to fight again. A choice had to be made; he slipped away towards the main gate garrison.
	Tomas could see the two towers of the east gate rising up behind the buildings on the square. The plan was set, no words were spoken. The men made their way around to the gate from the sides, using the alleys running along the outside of the market square. Tomas hunkered down behind a cart. Clouds scudded across the night sky, and everyone kept to the shadows.
	'Where's Drager?' Dieter asked. Tomas shrugged his shoulders.
	The crusaders had virtually ignored the east gate during their previous attacks, and the trebuchet crews had concentrated their fire on the front of the great city. Arabyans had bolstered the defences around the main gate, leaving only a small garrison guard to defend this section of the wall. A lone soldier stood in front of the doorway into the tower, leaning on his spear, his eyes fixed in the direction of the main gate where the sounds of combat drifted on the night air.
	Tomas signalled to Jurgen, who crouched behind a market stall. He nodded and untied a length of material from around his waist. He picked up a stone and placed it in the improvised sling. He began to spin it around his head. Tomas held his breath. Jurgen stepped out from behind the stall and let loose the missile. It whipped through the air and struck the guard on his cheek with a crunch. He dropped to one knee, clutching his face. Tomas sprinted towards the guard then smashed a rock down on his head, staving in the skull.
	He dragged him into a corner, picked up his sword and beckoned to his men. Jurgen procured his spear. He grinned at Tomas and led his men inside the tower to deal with the sentries on the parapet. The rest positioned themselves around the square, hiding in doorways and alcoves.
	Tomas followed Jurgen up the stairs. He looked through an arrow slit. Boulders littered the ground and spindly tufts of dry grass twitched in the breeze, but he spied nothing else. He would have to trust that the crusader knights were ready. He crept up the stairs and met Jurgen on his way down. He had blood on his face and was grinning like a maniac.
	'Those sentries couldn't guard a virgin's chastity.' he said.
	Tomas clapped him on the back. 'Let's open the gates.'
	The smiles froze on their faces when they heard the harsh clang of a warning bell and shouts from the courtyard below.
	'Sigmar's bones! The game's on, Tomas.' Jurgen said, and pushed past. Tomas raced behind, fearful that the plan might fail, but thrilled by the thought of combat.
	Tomas ran into the square. A phalanx of Arabyan guards had charged into the yard and been set upon by the hidden Sigmarites. The battle was uneven: heavily armoured soldiers against a few undernourished slaves, but they fought with a desperate ferocity that for the moment was giving them an advantage. He saw a group of slaves pull an Arabyan down and bludgeon him with rocks. Dieter struggled with another who was trying to force a dagger into his windpipe, another was skewered on the end of Jurgen's spear, who stood in the middle of the yard like an angry bear, thrusting his weapon at the men who circled him like wary hyenas.
	It was a maelstrom of savagely fighting men, and unseen in the shadows Drager stared at the scene, knowing his betrayal had cost these men dear.
	Tomas edged around the yard until he stood behind Dieter's assailant. The knife was nearly at his throat. Tomas thrust his sword through the Arabyan's mail coat and into his spine. He shrieked and fell, clutching his back. Tomas stamped hard on his face and he fell silent. Tomas pulled Dieter into a doorway.
	'We must open the gate.' he shouted over the din.
	Dieter nodded and made for the wooden doors, grabbing a comrade on the way. As they reached the heavy doors and began to unbar them, a dark shadow fell across Tomas. He looked up, and his heart almost stopped.
	Drager saw it too, and he knew his job was done. The uprising was doomed. From a side alley strode the sand dragon, and on its back was the emir himself. Clad in gold mail and holding a long, silver-tipped spear, he urged the creature towards the gate. Men, Arabyan and Empire alike, cried out and ran, but Dieter and his comrade still struggled with the doors, and Tomas was sprinting to help them.
	The dragon lunged forward, sand gushing from its mouth, engulfing Dieter's comrade. It ripped into him, stripping skin from flesh, and flesh from bone, spraying blood-red sand into the air. He died without making a sound. Tomas ran at the dragon, his sword jabbing at its throat. The emir turned his mount to face him, his thin face a mask of rage. Tomas leapt to one side as the dragon butted its spine-crowned head at his stomach. It grazed his side and he fell to the ground.
	Drager was about to leave when he saw a dark figure make its way to the gate, to where Dieter still struggled with the bar.
	Tomas picked himself up and dived under the dragon's head. The emir drove his spear at him, but the stroke was mistimed and Tomas managed to scramble through its legs. The dragon screeched in frustration and began to turn towards him. Tomas ducked his head, but was too slow as its tail whipped into his arm; his sword flew out of his hand and clattered onto the ground.
	He cast around desperately for another weapon.
	Mashtub grabbed the end of the heavy bar, which would usually be lifted by a gang of men. He knew he had to do this, for if he failed, his family - the only thing he held dear - would be killed. The courtyard was still heaving with fighting men, too distracted to notice his struggles. He looked at Dieter, who was sweating and cursing. Then he saw another slave come up behind Dieter. Help, at last.
	Drager smashed a rock over Dieters head. He collapsed, blood streaming from the wound. Drager seized on Mashtub's confusion and leapt at him, swinging the bloody rock at his face.
	Mashtub dodged to one side, the rock grazing his cheek, but before he could recover, Drager had grabbed him by the throat with one hand, trying to force him onto the ground. Mashtub struggled to keep balance, but Drager was a soldier and strong; his grip tightened.
	Mashtub's vision began to fade.
	Tomas was backed against a wall. The dragon faced him, the emir held his spear ready to throw. Tomas waited for the end.
	'Tomas!'
	Jurgen threw a torch to him. Tomas caught it and thrust it into the dragon's face. It recoiled, screeching in panic, wings flailing. The emir dropped his spear, struggling to keep upright, the dragon was sent into further panic as Tomas waved the flames in its eyes. He threw the torch back to Jurgen and ran back to the gates.
	Mashtub's life slipped from him. The only thing he felt was despair for his family, then the fingers around his throat were gone. He opened his eyes, dragging in huge lungfuls of air. Drager's face was suspended above him, eyes open, pupils wide, dark as night. His mouth sagged, blood spilled over his bottom lip. He swayed and collapsed to one side.
	Towering over him was Tomas, a dripping knife in his hand. He dropped it and helped Mashtub to his feet. Together they lifted the bar and opened the gates. A warm desert breeze washed over them, bringing with it the sound of thundering hooves.
	The chronicles record that on that night the city of Zarekten was brought under the merciful dominion of the Empire. In truth, mercy was far from the crusaders minds. The slaughter lasted for three nights and two days. Prince Weiss ordered that the buildings were to be kept intact, but their inhabitants were to be afforded no such preservation. He knew there was little point in trying to protect the citizens from his soldiers, and he had no compunction to do so anyway. As he said to Brother Kristoff - against the noise of screaming - an army glutted with victory will have its fun, and he'd be damned if he'd lift a finger to stop it. But the savage appetite of his men had, at last, been sated. The sloping streets were stained pink, as the sun burned dry the blood on the ground.
	Weiss sat in the emir's high-backed chair at the head of the throne chamber. Suspended from the ceiling, by an ingenious array of ropes, chains and pulleys, was the sand dragon. Its wings were spread across the width of the chamber, and its head was raised proudly. Only its dead eyes and lolling jaw detracted from the overall effect. Weiss savoured the memory of running the beast through as he charged through the east gate. Strapped to the saddle was the emir's naked corpse. His feet and hands had been removed - much to Weiss's amusement - and he was beginning to rot. The startled expression on his ashen face was, as far as Weiss was concerned, fitting humiliation for such a godless son of a whore.
	To think the heathen had tried to buy his life with information! Although his talk of a fabled city, Jabal Sin jar, full of riches across the desert, had planted a kernel of greed in the prince's heart. When the emir had produced maps of its whereabouts, he made up his mind to seek it out. He was a man of considerable vanity and compulsion. He would leave a garrison at Zarekten to protect his rearguard and the valley passage, and venture into the Great Erg. His glorious destiny awaited him.
	But there was one more job to do first. He took a swig of wine and waved, beckoning to the guards who waited on the threshold. They marched in, leading Jurgen, Dieter and the rest of the freed Empire slaves up to him. Lastly, in chains, were dragged Mashtub and Huashil.
	'Quite an adventure you've had, eh?' Weiss smiled languidly at his countrymen, who bowed their heads in deference. 'Our victory here is, to a great extent, down to your actions. You will not find me ungrateful. You are to join the ranks of my army, charged to bring the light of Sigmar into the dark places of the world.' He was in good humour and of a mood to listen to his own voice. 'I have heard tell, from the great emir himself,' he pointed to the slowly spinning corpse above his head, 'of a great fortress city, brimming with riches and wealth. What better way to honour Sigmar than to bring to his altar the stolen treasures of the heathen?' There was a murmur of excited approval.
	'But first we must pass judgement on these specimens,' he said, pointing to the prisoners.
	'In Sigmar's name, I pronounce them guilty,' Kristoff said.
	'My lords,' Tomas said, shaking off Dieter's restraining hand. 'I must speak up on their behalf.' Both Arabyans looked astounded. Tomas charged on. 'Mashtub was instrumental in our plan. Without him we would never have succeeded. And Huashil has renounced his godless ways, and wishes to be inducted into the Sigmarite faith.'
	Kristoff laid a cold stare on Tomas. 'There can be no redemption for these wretches, despite their actions. They are of this land and their blood runs with sin and dishonour. Sigmar shall not be insulted in such a manner.' He nodded to the guards who stepped forward, drawing their swords.
	'Wait.' Tomas said. 'To find this city you will need someone to read Arabyan maps, and guide you through the sands.'
	'Go on.' Weiss said.
	Tomas pointed to Huashil. 'This man is a scholar. He can help you.'
	Weiss looked at Huashil. 'Chain him up.' he said at last. We will take him with us.' Huashil gave Tomas a grateful look as he was taken from the room.
	Mashtub was left alone in the middle of the floor, staring unflinchingly into the prince's eyes.
	'I do not forget your part in my victory over your kind, either.' Weiss said smoothly. 'However, your family is not alive to see your imminent sacrifice.' He nodded to a guard. Mashtub roared and leapt at Weiss like a lynx. The prince did not move. With a practiced sweep, the guard clove Mashtub's head neatly from his neck. Tomas closed his eyes, but heard the heavy thump as it hit the floor.
	Weiss swept out of the room, with the crusaders in tow. Tomas stayed behind. He knelt over Mashtub's body.
	'May Sigmar take you into his keeping.' he whispered, making the sign of the hammer. 'And may he forgive me my sins.'
	As he walked out, head bowed, the last drops of blood seeped out of Mashtub's body, to mix red with the golden sand on the floor.