Marcus lay in the wagon, helpless, unable to move without shards of pain splintering his body. He had dislocated his left shoulder in his fall, and he was fairly certain, by the sharp pain and horrible grinding sounds, that he had several broken bones. There was no way to tell how severe were the wounds he’d suffered until they could get him out of his armor, and it was so dented and mangled that it would probably take a blacksmith and his tools to pry it off him.

A whirlwind of confusion fed by terror swirled around him. Knights and officers were either jumping onto their horses to make good their own escape or they were standing practically on top of the king, shouting into his face, so that Edward must have been hard-pressed to hear himself think. Marcus could not take his eyes from the dragon, from the terrible, deadly beauty of Maristara.

The dragon set fire to the woods atop the ridgeline. Stands of pines and groves of oak and maple burst into flame. Fire crackled not far from the wagon holding Marcus. Smoke billowed, poisoning the air.

The dragon was forced to pull up to avoid crashing into the trees. She soared back into the sky and then made a slow, looping turn, preparing to dive down for another pass.

Edward refused to flee. Angry and defiant, he made the argument that they should stand and fight, pointing out—quite logically—that there was nowhere to run that the dragon could not catch them, no cover that she could not burn to the ground. Some of his knights, who had the example of the courage of the Prince’s Own shining before them, sided with their king. They had no intention of being found dead with their backs to the foe. Others, Prince Wilhelm among them, insisted that the kingdom needed their king and its knights alive during this crisis. A heroic death benefited only the minstrels who would later make money singing of it.

The argument was interrupted by men shouting in dismay and pointing.

Another dragon appeared in the sky, flying high above Maristara. This dragon’s scales flashed red in the sunlight, which was rapidly being obscured by the smoke rising from the crackling forest fire.

A voice spoke to Marcus, calm and cold inside his head. “Get your father the hell out of here!”

Though the movement cost him agony, jarring his bones and nearly causing him to pass out, Marcus gripped his father’s arm.

“Father,” Marcus gasped. “That’s Draconas!”

“Draconas!” Edward repeated, stunned. He stared up into the sky, shielding his eyes from the sun’s glare with his hand to see.

Intent on her sport, Maristara paid no attention to anything else. She swooped down on the humans, driving them before her. She enjoyed watching the panicked little creatures skitter hither and yon in a frantic and futile effort to escape death.