Gavin watched the dragon fall. 1Exrech was making scent; bogglins were shaking snow out of their wing cases and getting to their feet.

By Gavin’s side, Tamsin said, “The emperor is gone.”

“He’s dead?” Gavin asked.

Tamsin put a hand on him. “Yes, man.”

Gavin drew the Fell Sword that had been Hartmut’s and spurred his charger toward the dread Wyrm, who lay across the field before him.

Gabriel had always intended to bring the dragon down.

*

And finally Michael blinked away his tears and turned to his friends. “Now we go and finish it,” he said.

Sauce nodded, her face grim.

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he said, and that was all.

But all of their eyes went to Blanche; slim and white and gold. By chance, or fate, she had ridden in among them and was by the banner. Her face forbade any comment, any show of grief, any condolence.

“Finish it,” said the empress.

The Duchess of Venike stood back from their grim grief and instead led her scarecrows down the hill, to the left, to complete the encirclement. The dragon had fallen half a mile from the base of the hill; the duchess needed no orders to know what happened next.

Michael and Tom and Sauce had a long walk down the hill through the snow. Long, and yet very quick; and already the trumpeter was calling the company to their feet, and to their horses. Everyone was awake, thanks to Blanche; Oak Pew had already rolled out of her cloak, folded it, and had it stowed behind her saddle before Bad Tom was fully in sight. They were just behind the brow of the hill.

A slim, dark man walked slowly out of the gate behind them, bearing in his hands a heavy spear. He walked uphill, toward the trio of officers.

Closer to, Ser Michael saw that it was Master Smythe.

Smythe bowed. And handed Michael a ghiavarina.

“I am almost without power now,” he said. “But this much I can do.”

“Is it . . . his ghiavarina?” Michael asked.

Master Smythe shrugged. “Yes and no, as always,” he said.

“He is dead, then?” Blanche asked, her voice cold.

Master Smythe nodded. “He is gone, and he will not return as mortal man,” the dragon said.

And then Michael was mounting his warhorse, and grief and betrayal and death fell away from him.

He rode to the side of Conte Simone, and pointed across the field at the great reserve of stone trolls standing like rocks. “Would you open the ball, my lord?” he asked.

“Hah!” Conte Simone said. He threw his sword in the air and caught it. “It will be my delight!”

The knights of the north and east raised their lances and gave a cheer, and the earth began to shake.

Michael trotted back to the wedge of banners at the front of the company and Blanche, sitting like a white fury in their midst.