 Harper Collins presents The Bloodprint, Book 1 of the Horazan Archives, by Osmer Zainat Kahn. Read by Jenny Bryce. Chapter 1. 7. 8. 6. Arian traced the numbers in the sand. She was crouched behind a dusty ridge, surveying the land ahead. The wide flat plains extended in every direction, broken in places by sparse shrubs, the faintest traces of greenery in life. She passed her field glasses to the coal-skinned woman perched to her right. Do you see it? Yes. Four talisman. Two at the front, two at the back, and a boy who takes the tally. Yes. Arian's voice was thoughtful. They beat him nearly as much as they beat the women. The other woman stretched to her full height. She summoned the horses with a low whistle. It doesn't seem to have taught him any kindness. His whip is as swift and furious as theirs. What is your judgment, Arian? Arian was the older of the two women. Also the more seasoned. She carried the senior companion, first oralist. We do what we always do with slave chains. We break them. Get ready to ride, senior. Through the eerie quiet and the dust, the Hamza mares approached. Both women mounted, cloaks thrown back, arms bared to reveal the gold circuits they wore. Arian spurred her black horse to the left, her green cloak staring in the wind. She nodded to the slavers below. Let's not give them warning. Let's fly. They descended down the ridge, the Hamza sure-footed, hungry for speed. The thunder of their hooves was swallowed by the sand, little whirls of dust rising into the sun. Soon they were spotted by guards at the rear of the slave chain. The guards turned, braced themselves in a synchronised movement, bringing up their swords. Sinia let loose two arrows, aiming for the neck. The guards fell. A startled cry rose from the long line of women, robed in the sorrowful blue of dusk, their pale eyes tasting light for the first time that day. The women were chained together in pairs, and now Arian and Sinia parted at the rear to outpace the column on either side. The tally-taking boy with the whip sprang into Arian's path, his crop glancing off the flanks of the black horse. Take him! Sinia shouted. But Arian left the boy. The man at the head of the slave chain was a more formidable target. Clearly battle-tested, he had gained the saddle of his war-horse at the first sound of unrest. He used his shield, parrying the thrust of Arian's quick silver daggers. He was too big for her to match in direct combat, so she fainted beneath the out-thrust of his sword to slice through the girth on the flanks of his horse. When the saddle slipped, the horse stumbled under its rider's weight. The slave handler went down, his foot caught in the stirrup as the horse bolted. Sinia's arrow took him in the distance. That left one apart from the boy. The man was on his knees before Sinia. She lashed the man's hands behind his back with a thick fold of softened leather. Then she spooled out the strips of leather and staked them in the hard, cold ground. The boy rallied to his master, brandishing the only weapon at his disposal. But a flick of Arian's wrist sent his crop into the dust. She held up a hand to motion him to stillness, and as she did, the sun glinted off the gold circlet on her upper arm. A murmur of astonishment whispered through the slave chain at the sight of it. The boy, scrawny and dirty in his tattered rags, fell back from his master, his blue eyes bright in a wind-reddened face. With slow considered movements, Arian slipped to the ground, while Sinia unhooked the ring of keys from the belt tied at the slave master's waist. One by one, she unlocked the iron rings that had bound the long row of women to the slave chain and each other. As Sinia moved up and down the ranks of the women, she saw scarred wrists, broken fingers, bruised arms, and shadow.