The Eika murmur among themselves at this astounding news.

Dragons! Have the First Mothers risen out of the wake of the sorcery that altered the world? Have things changed so greatly?

“Come.” Stronghand rises. He leads them up the stairs, into the tower, and by ladders and steep steps to the roof. It is a stiff night, cuttingly cold up so high with the wind’s bite on hands and face. The men shiver and rub their hands, but he leans into the wind and listens.

After a while, he speaks.

“It was long told among my people that the FirstMothers bred in ancient days with the living spirits of earth and in that time gave birth to the RockChildren. It’s said that in Wintertide, in the Western Sea, one may hear them calling …”

“Listen!” cries Erling.

Yes!

They all lean south, many pressed against the stone battlements as though likely to hurl themselves over if only that would bring them closer to what they seek. The call thrums through the air, its vibration so low that he feels it through the stone.

A sun rises in the southeast.

“Look!” cries Trueheart.

There are two of them, seen first simply as a bending, twisting aurora of light far off but approaching fast. Their bellies gleam. Their tails lash like lightning. They are coming up the river, following the course of the water as they fly inland on what errand he cannot guess. Alarm bells clang, and he hears a clamor as folk rush out of their halls and hovels.

They grow in size; they near; they are huge, impossibly vast. A hot stream of stinging wind pours over Hefenfelthe and in their wake the clouds churn and the forest roars.

“Look!” cries Erling. “The stars!”

Above, the clouds have parted to reveal those pinpricks, the most ancient ones, the eternal stars. But as the dragons course northwest, as the heat and wind falter and the cold night air sweeps back, mist shrouds that glimpse of the heavens and soon all is concealed again.

“It’s time to move,” says Stronghand, when all is silent. They stare northwest, but there is nothing to see. Night veils all things. “That is an omen, indeed, Lord Erling. You were right to bring news of it so quickly.”

“Yes, my lord,” the young man says, but he is barely breathing. He is still in shock, staring fixedly northwest as if turned to stone.

“We must make ready,” continues Stronghand. “Trueheart, you’ll remain here as my governor. Stores must be set aside for next winter. Seed corn hoarded, as much as possible. Plant fields. Hunt and trap, raid our enemies in the north and west and take their grain and seed corn for ourselves and our loyal servants. If they starve, so much the better. Lord Erling, you and the other lords I have raised will remain secure if your people have enough to eat. Be prepared for anything.”

“So have we seen!” Erling whispered, still staring after the vanished dragons.