He spanned the crossbow and set the first bolt ready, then moved his head a little … could he see anything? Unbidden, for he had not prayed for sight for a long time now, he found himself naming the gods and asking their mercy for the people of the village. The High Lord, Tir, Alyanya of the Flowers, Gird and Falk and Camwyn and Esea Sunlord and Barrandowea Sealord, as the locals had taught him.

The gray blur he had known so long shattered into bright shards of color and movement—nothing like the sight he remembered. It sickened him for a moment—too bright, too confusing, but there—there was movement flicking from one place to another. Stammel blinked, struggling to make sense of what he saw. There, armed men—not there now—over there—not there but another place … He blinked again and again and finally understood that what he had was vision as different from what he had known before as the ability to see the fire inside the dragon. Whatever moved flicked in and out of sight, moving from one window, as he thought of it, to another.

And he could use it.

The men toiled up the steep trail toward the outcrop, where it turned. Most wore leather jerkins over their shirts, short dark leather trousers, and low boots. Long hair, braided behind with colored yarn or ribbons. Stammel remembered Alured the Black, green ribbons and other gewgaws in his braid. He thought one or two might be wearing a breastplate or a mail shirt. They had curved blades thrust through belts, a long dagger in one hand and a short pike in the other. With them were two slaves, roped together and carrying coils of rope and bundles of what looked like sails. Something to put plunder in, Stammel thought.

All but the slaves wore some head covering, but only three had a metal helmet. The others wore cloth wrapped around the head or a leather coif. Good protection against thrown stones or the light arrows they’d expect from hill peasants with no training. A crossbow bolt might penetrate even the metal, depending on its quality, and would certainly pierce a leather coif. The cloth—if thick enough—might withstand a bolt, but it would surely hurt.