HIS SLEEP WAS DEEPand untroubled, a blanket of silence and darkness wrapped tightly about him. He was unaware of time’s passage, of anything having to do with the waking world. Kirisin.

His mother was calling his name.

Kirisin.

Her face appeared from out of the darkness, familiar and welcoming, and he smiled with joy.

“Kirisin!”

His eyes snapped open. Praxia was bending over him, her small, wiry frame taut, her face dark with misgiving and fear. She put a hand over his mouth when he tried to speak, silencing his effort. She bent so close he could feel her breath in his ear. “Get up. No talking. Walk over to the transport and get inside. The skrails have found us.”

He flinched at her words, even without knowing yet what skrails were. She released her hand and straightened, turning away from him and staring off into the darkness. Looking past her, he could see Logan Tom still working on the Ventra, hunched over the open hood, hands buried somewhere in the engine workings. His black staff rested against one fender, its runes glowing as if they were on fire. The other Elves were spread out in a loose circle, weapons drawn, dark shadows in the pale glow of the starlight.

He listened for a moment. He could hear nothing.

He climbed to his feet carefully, making no noise at all. Praxia was standing right next to him, a long knife in each hand, crouched and ready.

“How long was I asleep?” he whispered.

She shook her head. “Not long. Get inside the transport.”

From somewhere off in the distance, back the way they had come, a series of high-pitched screeching sounds broke the silence. It reminded Kirisin of the cries of hunting birds, large and fierce predators, and it sent a chill up his spine.

“Go!” Praxia hissed at him, gesturing urgently with her long knife. He had only moved a couple of steps when he was struck from behind, a hard blow to his head and shoulders that sent him sprawling. Fire lanced across his back where claws had raked through his clothing to tear into the skin, and he could feel the blood running freely from his wounds. As he struggled to his feet, he saw dark forms swooping down out of the night, a gathering of shadows that completely surrounded the Elves and the Knight of the Word. Sharp, piercing cries filled the night, mingling with shouts and cries of warning.

“Kirisin! Run!”

Praxia dodged and weaved as the night fliers came at her—one, two, three of them, claws ripping at her head. But she was small and quick, and they missed their target, catching only air. Her knives flicked out at them as they passed, and two shrieked in pain and anger, one rising only momentarily before falling back, wings beating uselessly. Kirisin saw it clearly as it landed, a human-shaped form with leathery wings and a reptilian spine and tail.