“Skirmish line out front comprised of light infantry, small numbers. They will meet the first assault, fall back, drawing the enemy with them. The archers form the next line of defense.”

He pointed to where the archers could be seen snoozing in the grass, their arrows stuck into the ground around them for easy access, or stuffed in cloth bags lying beside them. Behind the archers was bivouacked the majority of the infantry, a few of whom were moving in a desultory manner about their camp, heading for the trenches that were the privies or munching on whatever food they had for breakfast. The archers, if hard-pressed, could flow back through the infantry, where they could then halt to make a stand.

“My knights and heavy cavalry will be arrayed here and here,” continued Wilhelm, gesturing, “prepared to flank the enemy. All the men are ready to fight. If we have an enemy. One that is not composed of moonbeams and fairy dust.”

He cast a dark and baleful glance at Marcus, who saw the look and heard the words, but only as a low murmur beneath the constant hissing of the dragon. His brother and father and the commanders continued to talk. Marcus gazed out across the grasslands spreading before him, and he watched a ripple pass through the tall stands of grass like a wave rising from the river to wash over the land, setting the heads of the grass shivering and dipping low, then rising up and rolling on. The ripple traveled swiftly, spreading across the miles of empty land until it sank away to nothing not far from the ridgeline on which they stood.

Marcus thought at first it was the wind. Then he realized that the air was still, one reason for the mosquitoes. What, then, had caused that odd motion in the grass? He refocused his eyes and stared hard.

Nothing. No movement. No sound.

They’re out there. He knew they were out there.

He saw his father’s mouth move. He heard, in his head, the fell words “death ahead, death behind . . .”

Marcus urged his horse close to his father’s. Breaking into the conversation, he said in a low voice, “You must sound the call to arms, Father. The enemy is almost on top of us!”

His father regarded him in consternation and exchanged glances with Wilhelm, who shook his head and looked away. Edward sighed deeply and rested his hand on Marcus’s hand.

“My son, there’s nothing out there. You’re imagining things. That’s understandable. This is your first battle. You’re excited, eager—”

Marcus ceased to listen.

All you can see is the grass waving gently in the morning breeze and the river in the distance, sparkling and murmuring to itself in the sunshine.

That is all you can see, but not all I can see. You have to listen to me! Death ahead. Death above . . .