Tapio’s face was set. “I leave you behind,” he said.

South of the Cohocton, the allied army was in rout. The column that had crossed in the darkness had no idea that the dragon was gone; the wave front of his terror had been more than enough. Nor did the rear guard do much better; Mogon walked, hollow eyed, her feather cloak lost. Gavin had lost both his horses and all of his squires, and he walked beside her, his sabatons weeping water as they trudged over a trail churned to black soup by the flight of his army. Ahead went Tamsin, her powers so far spent that she spared nothing for the glamour of beauty with which she usually surrounded herself; Ser Gregario walked his horse and contemplated cutting away his greaves and sabatons and leaving them to rust.

But behind them, it was the bogglins’ day. 1Exrech had not just proved victorious, but had tripled his numbers, and in the wake of the shattered allied army, the phalanx of free bogglins marched in close array, unbeaten, unbroken, and ready, if required, to save the army.

Gavin looked back at them. He was trying not to ask questions; Tapio lost, and Master Niko, and the flower of Alba’s chivalry. It was a dark hour, despite the sun, but there was a host of bogglins, marching, their spear points glittering. There were certainly more of them than there had been the night before.

He was trying to get his head around that when Giannis Griatzas rode up with a riding horse by the reins.

“My lord earl,” he said. “Your horse.”

Gavin shook his head. “For Tamsin,” he said.

She was too tired to even protest at his chivalry. She needed young Griatzas to help her into the saddle. Once there, she sobbed once, and her hands went to her face.

“Ah!” she said. “My love!”

Under her horse’s hooves, flowers burst from the leaf mould; a carpet of Adnacrag wildflowers.

She whirled, as if startled, or under attack, but her face was alight. “He lives! They live!” she said.

Gavin’s heart gave a great beat.

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Harndon—Queen Desiderata of Alba

Far to the south, on the Albin River’s wharves, a hundred river-boats and barges were loading under the direct eye of the queen and her officers, barricaded by a line of guardsmen.

Ser Gerald Random stood on the wharf, remonstrating with his queen.

“My lady, you are safer here,” he said.

“With the plague?” she said. “Nay, Ser Gerald. There is no safety here. This is the last effort, the last throw. I am too puissant to cower here in my castle; indeed, such is my inclination that I would go if I were the least of my archers, with a bow in my hand.”

Ser Gerald paused. “Then I can only wish that I were allowed to accompany you,” he said bitterly.