Marcus left the camp and the army behind. He entered the tall stands of grass, and he pulled back on the reins to slow his horse’s mad rush. He heard the Prince’s Own coming up fast behind him. There were about thirty knights, riding hard. His horse was suddenly skittish and danced sideways, eyes rolling and ears pricking.

Marcus patted the neck. “You know there’s something out there, don’t you, boy. You know it and I know it and, now, my father will know it.”

He brought to mind the sight of Grald casting the magic that banished the illusion and caused the city of Dragonkeep to materialize before Marcus’s amazed eyes. Marcus had tried to do the same when fleeing Dragonkeep. He’d tried to lift the illusion in order to find the hidden gate that led out of the city. He had not been able to do it, but then he had been exhausted and panic-stricken, afraid for his life.

He wasn’t exhausted now. He wasn’t afraid, though he felt certain that he had only moments more to live. He was excited and eager, exalted. His first and last battle would be a memorable one. He could see the magic hanging before him—a shimmering landscape painted on a backdrop of serene blue sky and tranquil white cloud, sparkling water and golden brown grass rippling gently in the morning breeze.

Marcus rose from his little chair in his little room, and he walked to the door and flung it wide open.

The dragon, Maristara, was there, holding the curtain of enchantment over her army, ready to whip it aside at the last moment, to the shock and horror of her unsuspecting audience.

Behind the curtain were dragon warriors, a thousand strong, hunkered down among the brown grass, the sunlight shining off their scaly armor. He saw on their faces smiles of derision and disdain. He saw Maristara smug and triumphant.

Marcus drew his sword and spurred his horse and rode at the curtain of brown and blue and sparkling river. He hit the fragile fabric of magic a slashing blow with the blade of his own magic, rending it and tearing it to shreds, so that the enchantment hung in tatters that fluttered in the wind.

Behind him, the Prince’s Own had been shouting for their prince to stop. He heard their shouts choked off by gasps of astonishment or garbled curses. The curtain had gone up and the knights were face-to-face with their enemy—an enemy that had not been there one minute and was there the next; a strange and outlandish enemy that looked like no other enemy they had ever encountered.

The knights were thrown into confusion by this astonishing sight. Reining in their horses, the Prince’s Own milled about in consternation, uncertain what to do.