Far to the west, something gave a great roar, and was answered. In the northeast, the light was turning orange over the peaks of the Adnacrags; in the west, the sky was an unnatural colour, at least for the heavens; more like slate than like a storm.

They ran on, lungs heaving.

An irk guide turned suddenly, and waved. Bill Redmede knew the ground immediately: a long marsh formed in the distant past by giant beaver. The giant beaver were long gone, but their smaller cousins had moved in. Even as his Jacks ran up behind him, a legion of autumn frogs leaped into the water, expecting predators; out in the orange-lit flat water to the north, a trout leapt, magnificent in its grace.

Redmede gave no order. He merely held his arms out, hands flat to the earth, and all the rangers spread out on either hand, Jacks to the left, foresters to the right, Albin militia and Moreans in the middle, as they had practiced and executed half a dozen times.

They had moved almost a dozen miles in one night—south of the old road, well south—and circled into the rear of Ash’s host.

Across the swamp, there was movement. A horn called, long and musical, and another answered.

Redmede blew a whistle. Off to his right, his brother’s whistle answered, and all around him, Alban militia began to span their crossbows. Farther left, Stern Rachel raised a heavy war bow and loosed a ranging arrow, and it flew, up and up, down and down, to strike across the swamp. Just to Redmede’s right, a short, squat Morean whirled a sling over his head and a stone flew out over the marshy pond and vanished in the weeds.

The autumn mosquitoes began to play among the waiting rangers. At first they came in ones and twos, and then in hordes. It was mostly a warm autumn, and the insects were fierce, and people began to curse in three languages.

Another roar, this one from the north—a fell beast. Horns, low and malignant, then high and piercing.

The light was growing in the sky.

Bill Redmede crouched, waiting, anxious. Worrying about everything.

A wyvern appeared, flying slowly, circling, off to the west, and then another.

Another pair of wyverns appeared from the east.

Redmede cursed.

Across the swamp, something crashed in the alder brake. Heads came up among the rangers. A militia woman clipped a bolt into her weapon, locking the nock against the heavy string. Her hands were shaking, and so were Redmede’s.

A Morean knelt with a crucifix in his hand.

Suddenly, the wyverns converged, three against two, their long, high screams filling the air, their movements almost too fast to track. At the merge there was a melee, lasting less than two heartbeats, and then there were four wyverns, two and two, and the fifth falling, falling, one wing torn away, screaming, fluttering, screaming, and hitting the ground deep in the woods a mile to the north.