‘But, Laurence,’ Temeraire murmured, as he climbed aboard, ‘why do we not stay and fight them? It is our first chance of a real battle, and perhaps they will have eagles—’

‘There is no honour to be won in battles between thieves,’ Laurence said flatly, taking the maps Demane held out to him, and skimming over them. ‘Divide into parties of no more than three and take separate routes, all of you; we rendezvous at Cross Fell,’ he called. And one and all they lifted away.

They were too agile a band to be easily tracked or caught, with a thousand eyes in every direction looking out danger for them. Three more such attempts failed as thoroughly as the first, never finding more than their abandoned fires and cooking pits. Rewards, offered in vast sums, were scornfully ignored, and in frustration the French grew savage and turned instead to reprisals against any they suspected of providing intelligence or comfort. At Howick Hall, perhaps two weeks into their raiding, Laurence's band caught a large company, busy pillaging not only the cattle and the food, but carrying out paintings, and china plate, and great silver candelabra, also; while the house burned slowly down around them, and their officers laughed and drank wine from the cellars in the courtyard.

The dragon-shadows falling over them silenced their merriment, and two dozen muskets were raised up hurriedly. Temeraire hovering over them roared at the house, and almost the whole front wall, flickering with flame, slid down in a heap and buried half the soldiers with it, leaving the building looking like a doll-house, open for viewing, with more of the looters staring out of the exposed rooms.

Then the roof, groaning in complaint, gave way, and the great house folded in upon itself, walls crumbling into brick, slates clattering and spilling down upon the lawn. The horses and cows stampeded, and the remaining soldiers fled in the other direction, leaving a great heap of goods in an ox-cart, next to the smouldering ruins.

The village had also been struck. The men had tried to resist and had been slaughtered nearly one and all. The women and children had taken shelter in the church, which had not given them much protection: the soldiers had come in, outraged some of the young women and murdered the elderly vicar when he had feebly tried to intercede.

‘We ought to hunt down the rest of them,’ one young midwingman said, ‘every last one,’ and there was no disagreement.

Laurence felt very weary. ‘Berkley,’ he said, ‘have your men clear the village, and let the dragons bury the dead. Sutton, Little, take the other Reapers, and bring over what you can from the house: they will need more supply, here. Or we can take you to Craster,’ he offered, to the matron who had arranged the survivors into some order.