“No.” Carfax frowned, following the dragon’s flight. “Beshtanag was meant to be a trap. But not like this.”

“How?” The Ellyl’s voice was calm.

Atop her mount, Fianna was trembling. “Oh, Haomane!” The quiver she bore at her back pulsed with light. “Carfax, they are dying. Dying!”

It was true. Whatever had transpired before to breach the wall, Haomane’s Allies were dying now, by the score. Bodies littered the ground inside the wall, many of them charred beyond recognition. Beshtanag’s defenders surged toward the gap, seeking to secure their position and retake the breach, sealing it. And above them all, the dragon circled, casting a vast shadow on the base of the mountain.

“Curonan!”

A knot of men answering to the dun-grey standard had forged their way to the forefront. It was to their aid that Blaise had streaked, battling against the tide to reclaim the gap in the wall; where a handful of men held the gap by dint of sheer valor. Above them the. dragon circled, then stooped. The prudent Beshtanagi fell back to regroup on the mountainside. The men of Curonan flung themselves to the ground beneath the dragon’s shadow. It passed over them, so low that its scaled belly almost scraped the top of the wall. The mighty jaws opened and gouts of white-hot flame issued forth from the gaping furnace.

One of the Borderguardsmen screamed, rolling. Others cried out and beat at smouldering garments. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air.

“Blaise!” Fianna whispered in anguish.

He was clear, wrenching his horse’s reins mercilessly, his mount sidling free of the fire’s scorching path. The dragon’s wings beat hard, creating a powerful downdraft as its gleaming body banked and rolled. Its scaled tail, tipped with deadly spikes, swept like a cudgel. Blaise’s mount danced, avoiding it by a narrow margin.

“Retreat, you idiots!” Watching the battle unfold, Carfax clenched his hands, longing for a blade. “For the love of Urulat, retreat!”

Horns echoed, silvery and clear, sounding a charge.

“My kinsmen!” Peldras’ voice held a yearning note.

Beneath the banner of the gilded bee of Valmaré, a squadron of Rivenlost archers advanced in a gleaming line, paused and knelt, bows bent in taut arcs. A flurry of Ellylon arrows split the air, grey shafts arcing. In midair, the dragon turned, effortless as a fish in water, presenting a scaled shoulder. Arrows fell like rain, glancing off that scaled flesh and bouncing harmlessly on the stony ground as the dragon launched itself skyward, ascending out of range. Another horn sounded, Man-wrought, calling the retreat in urgent, brassy tones. Under the cover of Ellylon archers, the Borderguardsmen began a methodical retreat to the siege-lines, flanked by Pelmaran and Midlander soldiers. Blaise wheeled his mount, cantering alongside them. On the slope of the mountain, Beshtanagi wardsmen watched and waited.

“It’s all right,” Fianna breathed. “That’s all right, then.”