Ash had no sooner settled his vast bulk to the sandy beach than he transformed, his enormity gone. A single dark-haired man strode up the beach, a long cloak trailing off his shoulders like a pair of sooty wings, and he limped heavily. He bore no weapon, wore no jewel.

Orley’s host stood silent, their tongues stilled with terror. Because the entire wave front of the dragon’s terror preceded the tall, dark-haired man like the prow of a great ship.

“How many?” Ash asked. His feet didn’t actually touch the sand. His boots were black, a deep black, like velvet or soot. His appearance had an artistic falsity to it; the breeze did not move his hair, nor did the sand stick to his clothing.

“My lord?” Orley asked.

“I ask you how many. How many what, you ask?” Ash’s derision was like the cut of a sharp sword. “Perhaps I mean gems, or beautiful damsels.” He paused, his face almost slack; thinking, working on something else. Then the life returned. “How can Lot stand to work in such a limited carcass?” His eyes met Orley’s, and they were circles of fire, as red and bottomless as the molten rock that burned under the Lake-on-the-Mountain. “Orley. How many useful fighting . . . things . . . do you have?”

“Almost four thousand,” Orley said proudly. “My lord.”

Ash nodded. His face was expressionless. “That is better than I expected. Open yourself.” He did not look away, and his eyes, lacking pupils, also lacked any semblance of humanity. “How did you permit Muriens to delay you?”

Orley stood silent.

“Answer me,” Ash said. His voice was quiet, and yet it carried through all the ranks of antlered men, twisted wardens, irks, and bogglins. The Rukh shuffled and looked uncomfortable.

Orley moaned. “My lord?” he asked again. “I . . .”

“Yes?” Ash said. He hissed the last syllable.

“My sentries failed me! And he had overwhelming strength of arms and ops!”

“Really?” Ash’s voice drawled contempt. “Your collection of things outnumbered him ten to one. Your powers are the equal of his; you have other sorcerers to call upon.”

“My lord, I . . .” Orley’s voice crawled with self-contempt and irrational anger.

“I hate men,” Ash said loudly. “I hate their vanity, I hate their promiscuity, I hate their selfishness, their endless greed, their pettiness, and most of all, I hate their failure to pay attention to details. When I have extirpated man, this world will return to its natural order. And the details will be properly attended to. Kneel.”

Orley stood silent under the lash of his master’s anger.

“You failed, and in your failure you exposed me to defeat.” Ash reached out suddenly and put a hand between Orley’s mighty antlers and forced him to kneel with a twist of his hand. “Open yourself, Kevin Orley,” he said.

Orley squirmed. “My lord, I . . .”

“Comply,” Ash said.

Orley complied, and Ash flooded him.