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.

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.”