Redmede handed his berries to the warden. “Be my guest,” he said. “I don’t fancy being turned into somethin’ unnatural.”

Tapio was still watching the mist. “I agree that isss odd. Where are the animalsss?”

Albinkirk—Shawn

The Grand Squire, now captain of Albinkirk, had withdrawn most of the population of the Albin north of the river into Albinkirk. His garrison was small; mostly recovering wounded from the great battle at Gilson’s Hole, reinforced by a trickle of volunteers and replacements for the western alliance army; two dozen Occitan knights under a famous troubadour, Ser Uc Brunet; a company of Occitan crossbowmen, all borderers, released by the termination of Outwaller raiding in the west country of Occitan, and a trickle of Morean cavalrymen. All told, he had almost five hundred men and women fit for duty; a far larger and better garrison than his predecessor had. In addition, he had all the farmers of the region; this time, unlike their response to Thorn’s incursion, they had come in immediately when ordered, and every man and strong woman had joined their militia company willingly.

Albinkirk was packed not just with men and women but with animals, because by Lord Shawn’s order, every animal larger than a house cat had been brought inside the gates. Since the alarm at Mistress Heloise’s manor house, the militia had been digging out the old moat and fosse; dozens, if not hundreds, of small garden plots were ruined to scrape the old brick clean and dig the ditch back to its original depth.

Shawn had two of Slythenhag’s brood—young male wyverns with too much courage and poor language skills—but he sent them out rather than risk his knights or his archers, and they brought back frightful pictures of a countryside suddenly denuded of life, interspersed with views of a field full of various animals: deer, cattle, wolves . . . all standing together. The Grand Squire emptied his roosts sending out warnings: to the queen, to Lissen Carak, to the Count of the Borders.

Leaning on a merlon and watching her daughter like a hawk, Mistress Heloise shook her head at the orderliness of the castle courtyard beneath her feet. “It is almost as if the last time was a drill,” she said. “Or a warning.”

The Grand Squire was watching the ground toward Southford. “The queen’s army should be passing the falls today,” he said. He shook his head. “I hope they are ready for this.”

N’pana—Ash

“Ah, my lord.” Orley went down on one knee as the vast presence filled the sky and then settled on the beach. The ruins of N’pana had provided enough bark and boards for a hasty camp, and three more invaluable canoes, sunk in the shallow bay, had been recovered, but Orley was afraid, deep in his soul, and angry at that fear. He knew he had failed, when his boats were burned; he knew that his dark master was angry, and he feared Ash as he had never feared Thorn.