Peldras shook his head, pointing. “I fear not, Lady Archer.”

High overhead the dragon halted its ascent, turning and stooping. There it hung, held aloft by the steady beating of its enormous wings, a glittering speck against the vast expanse of blue. Like a noonday star, Carfax thought, and wondered what had gone wrong. Something had. Something had gone terribly, terribly awry. The Army of Darkhaven had not come, and the Sorceress’ power had failed. What else could have caused the wall to fall? He hadn’t known every detail of Lord Satoris’ plan—only the Three had known—but he was certain that the Dragon of Beshtanag had played no part in it. Not like this. The dragons had aided Lord Satoris once, and most .of them had been slain for their role, in the days of old when doughty warriors like Altorus Farseer strode the earth and the Lords of the Ellylon wielded terrible power.

This was one of the last. It should not be here. Not like this.

“Oh, my Lord!” Carfax whispered, numb with horror.

Haomane’s Allies halted in their retreat, turning and regrouping, wary of the dragon. They were bunched together; too tight, the ranks too close. Gathering their ragtag forces, the Beshtanagi wardsmen advanced, reclaiming the gap and surging through it, re-forming their line in front of the wall.

I should have been there, Carfax thought, among those men. If all had gone as planned, I would be among them. If not for Malthus, I would be. And if the rest had gone as planned, Turin, Mantuas and Hunric should be among them, even now. They should have won through to Beshtanag. Have matters gone so terribly wrong that even their mission failed?

He strained his eyes for a glimpse of a familiar Staccian face, and did not know whether to be glad or anxious to see none.

I have no people here, he thought, despite all of Darkhaven’s cunning.

Amid the army of Haomane’s Allies, Blaise Caveros leaned down from the saddle, clasping hands with one of the Borderguardsman. There were discussion, protest, insistence. Dismounting, Blaise cupped his hands to boost the other into the saddle. Carfax watched as the last living descendent of the first King of Altoria removed his steel helmet, throwing back his head to address his army, words lost in the distance. The sunlight glinted on his red-gold hair. Aracus Altorus, who did not fear to lead men into battle, drew his sword, pointing it at the fortress of Beshtanag. Overhead, the dragon’s wings beat steadily, holding it in position, patient as a hawk before it stoops. Aracus Altorus raised his sword aloft like a pennant. A single word tore loose over the din, shouted like a paean, echoed by a thousand throats, Men and Ellylon.

“ … Cerelinde!”

“They’re going to stand,” Peldras said somberly. “For the Lady of the Ellylon, they’re going to stand their ground.”