Something that might have been a laugh or a sob caught in Carfax’s throat. He rocked back and forth in the saddle. digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, unable to express the futility of it all. So many assembled, so many dying! And to what purpose? None. There was nothing here but a failed gambit. The agonizing cries of the wounded and dying on both sides of the battlefield scourged his soul. In anguish, Carfax of Staccia committed his final betrayal. “She’s not there,” he gasped. “She’s not even there!”

The Ellyl touched his forearm, frowning. “What are you saying?”

“Oh, Haomane!” Fianna cried. “No!”

Too late, too late for everything. Far, far above them all, the dragon folded its wings and dove, dropping like a falling star. Its jaws stretched wide, opening onto an impossible gullet. Smoke trailed from its nostrils. Plated armor covered its breast, a nictitating membrane protected its eyes and its foreclaws were outstretched, each talon like an iron spike, driving earthward.

Whatever resolve Aracus Altorus had instilled in Haomane’s Allies shattered.

Crying out in fear, vast numbers of the Pelmaran soldiery fled like leaves blown before a gale, carrying ill-prepared Midlander forces with them. Here and there, pockets of Vedasian knights gathered, seeking to rally around their standards, and the archers of the Rivenlost kept their line intact.

But it was the Borderguard of Curonan that held steadfast in the center.

At the last possible moment, the dragon’s wings snapped open, membranes spreading like sails to brake its dive. Arrows and spears clattered from its impervious hide. Its neck wove back and forth like an immense serpent’s, fire belching from its open maw as it swept low over the field, cutting a swathe through Haomane’s Allies, not discriminating between nations and races. Everywhere, Men and Ellylon gibbered and wept, cowered under shields, died screaming and scorched. The dragon’s claws flexed and gathered, and bodies dangled from the clutch of its gleaming talons as it soared upward; dangled, and fell like broken dolls as the talons released.

Somewhere, Aracus Altorus was shouting, and the surviving Borderguard answered with grim determination, gathering tight around him. In the smoke and chaos left in the dragon’s wake, the Beshtanagi forces spread out and advanced, closing in on the far-flung edges of their attackers’ forces, driving toward the center with desperate urgency.

Their numbers were few—but they outnumbered the Borderguard.

A lone figure stepped forth beneath the dun standard to meet the onslaught.