When he reunited with Tadg and Viola, all three of them were shaking.

“Here, get on Root,” Barclay told them, sliding off Root’s back so they could switch places. “We need to run to the beach. Now!”

Neither of them argued, and they took off down the hill to the evacuees. Crowds of people thronged the beach, shoving and hollering at one another so they could board the ships as fast as possible. Several vessels had already set sail to Munsey.

“Viola! Barclay! Tadg!” a voice called, and they spotted Shazi and Cecily waiting in line for the Bewlah. Barclay returned Root to his Mark; then the three apprentices stumbled to the girls’ sides.

“Are you hurt?” Cecily asked.

“We’re fine,” Viola answered, though that wasn’t entirely true. Tadg had frozen so still, he was barely breathing, and Barclay couldn’t stop his hands from trembling.

“I saw Lochmordra,” Barclay choked. “I saw two of his tentacles. He’s huge. And there was another Beast. It was tall, with red eyes, and—”

“What do you mean, another Beast?” asked Viola.

“There was a second Beast out there. I was sure it was going to attack me. It had tusks, I think.”

“Maybe it was one of the Guardians’ Beasts,” Shazi said.

Maybe, but Barclay didn’t think so. But the fear he felt facing the tusked Beast was nothing compared to the terror of Lochmordra. How could Runa and Cyril possibly battle a creature so gigantic and powerful?

They boarded the Bewlah amid such a tight crowd that the kids were crammed against the port-side rail, shoulder to shoulder. Once Ulick set sail, Barclay held his breath as the last clouds of Trowe’s mist dissipated.

Up on the cliffs, mere specks from this distance, Runa and Cyril readied themselves side by side, the other Guardians flanked around them. The last time the two of them had entered a battle together, they’d been fighting each other.

Runa and Cyril each had a Beast next to them. Though it was hard to make them out, Barclay could tell both creatures stood on all fours. Cyril’s was wide and black, with curved horns on either side of its head. Runa’s was smaller, with white fur and dark stripes—Klava, Tadg had once called her. A saber-toothed tiger, from whom Runa must’ve gotten her nickname, the Fang of Dusk.

Below them, Lochmordra raged at the foot of the cliffside, squeezing his tentacles around the island as though he hoped to drag all of Trowe into the ocean. Barclay could only see the back of his head from the Bewlah, and he felt a lurch of panic over what would happen if Lochmordra turned and spotted the vessels sneaking past behind him. He’d heard stories that Lochmordra’s mouth was large enough to swallow ships whole.