“Cinnaminson!” he shouted as he reached her, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her against him.

“Pen!” she gasped in reply, burying her head in his shoulder. Her weaving materials and loom were gone, and he could feel her heart pounding. “I couldn’t find my way out. The sounds disrupt my mind-sight. It was too much for me.”

“It’s all right,” he said, stroking her hair. Her breath was coming in quick, frantic bursts. “I’ll get you back to the others. They must have gone into the mountains to hide. The sky is full of Druid warships, right outside the walls. We have to go. Can you walk?”

She nodded into his shoulder, then lifted her face to his. “I knew you would come for me.”

He kissed her impulsively. “I’ll always come for you. Always. Come on. Run!”

They hurried back through the tunnel to the streets outside. But as they reached the far end, Pen drew up short and pulled her back against the passageway wall, keeping hidden in the shadows.

One of the Druid airships was hovering just outside the village wall and across from their hiding place. Any attempt at escape would require them to cross open ground, where they would quickly be seen.

Pen bit his lip in frustration. They were trapped.

Khyber Elessedil crouched with Tagwen on the roof of a building some fifty yards back from the south gates. Both wore dark robes drawn close and hoods pulled up. They hid behind a half-wall facade that rose in front of them, situated where they could see and hear what was about to happen.

Kermadec stood on the ramparts above the south gates, surrounded by a squad of huge Trolls wearing body armor and insignia-crested helmets. The Maturen was watching as the Druid airships—their flags clearly visible now—formed a line just beyond the outer wall, intimidating black hulks hanging over the village like birds of prey. There was an unmistakable arrogance to their positioning, as if they were disdainful of anything the villagers might try to do to harm them. No attempt was being made to suggest that this was a friendly visit. Kermadec had been right: The Druids had come to threaten.

After the foremost airship had dropped almost to the ground, a single Druid descended the rope ladder and walked forward. He was a big man, and as he approached, he lowered his hood to reveal his face, a gesture clearly meant to identify himself to the Trolls.

“Traunt Rowan,” Tagwen whispered to Khyber. “One of Shadea’s bunch.”

She watched the Southlander come almost to the gates before stopping, his eyes fixing on the Trolls standing atop them.

“Kermadec?” he called, his voice clearly audible in the near silence.

“I’m here, Traunt Rowan,” the Maturen called back.

“Open your gates to us.”

“I don’t think so.”