Above the camps of the captured were stakes that held the bodies of those who had tried to escape, those who had tried to stand up to the random cruelty of their guards, those who hadn’t quite given up hope. Some of the bodies were moving, but they were still bodies for all that. The living were prisoners now, slaves when the conquest was complete.

Arra looked away from her mirror and out at the empty landscape between the city and the army. She could see shadows lying where shadows should not be. Moving in ways shadows did not move. The vanguard of the Shadowlord—his eyes and ears.

Magic kept them from the city—hers and the two remaining members of her order. Three. All that was left. Four had died in battle, unable to stand against dark magics fueled by a seemingly endless supply of pain and blood. Two had been killed when they returned to the city controlled by shadow—but not before the shadows had used their power to do great damage. The eldest had died finishing the wards that protected the walls, wards fraying under the constant onslaught of power, wards that would fail, by her calculations, just about the same time the invading army reached the gates.

The last three wizards would walk out together to face the Shadowlord.

In spite of all they had done, in spite of all they had made ready, in spite of all they hoped, their linked power would not be enough.

Arra had looked into the crystal. She knew how this would end.

They would die, then the wards would fail, the gates would fall, and the city, filled to overflowing with those who had thought it a refuge, would be destroyed.

She turned, the heavy rubber soles of her sneakers squealing against the dressed stone. The city stretched out before her now, both the large icons like Stanley Park, Lions Gate Bridge, and Science World as well as the smaller, more personal ones like the Sun-Yat-Sen Garden, The Boathouse, and Café Bergman. All these would fall to shadow, the people into slavery.

No more walking down to the coffee shop on the corner for the Saturday Globe and Mail and a double mocha latte.

She looked deep into the cardboard cup she held between both hands and breathed in the steam rising off the foam, enjoying for maybe the last time the scent of. . .

. . . tuna?

That wasn’t right. The cup filled with shadow. She fought to draw in breath against the weight on her chest. A point of pain on her chin. And then another . . .

Arra opened her eyes to find Zazu perched on her sternum, one paw half raised, the claws still extended. Freeing her hand from the tangle of the afghan, she rubbed between the black ears.

“We asked for help from those countries we traded with across the sea. And do you know what they said?”

Zazu blinked amber eyes.