The other Chevalier managed to beat a little further aloft, and shouldered past Chalcedony's eager but over-optimistic attempt to repeat Maximus's feat, bowling the Yellow Reaper over; but Iskierka was lunging with ferocious glee, and a torrent of flame engulfed the Chevalier's wing and neck.

‘Ow!’ Chalcedony said, barely dodging the edge of the flames himself. ‘You needn't hit me!’

‘Well, get out of the way, then!’ Iskierka called over her shoulder, already pursuing the crying Petit Chevalier, whose hide and tender membrane showed the blackened marks of her flame. The dragon was trying to come back around: his captain was yet upon the ground, and despite his wounds, the dragon would not abandon him.

‘Je me rends!’ the captain cried, from the ground, through a speaking-trumpet; he was waving a white handkerchief furiously. ‘Je me rends!’

It was the only hope for his dragon. Lily was winging in from the other direction, and Temeraire hovered aloft; the Reapers had barred every point on the rose. In a moment they would bring the Petit Chevalier down.

For a moment, Laurence did not move. A heavyweight was difficult to manage. Then he said, ‘Mr. Allen, signal Captain Berkley to take charge of the prisoner. Temeraire, tell that dragon to land by those trees and keep away from his captain.’

The rest of the French aviators backed away as the dragons came down, and then fled into the dairy-house and the woods behind. The dead dragon's crew dragged their captain away, the man wept openly like a child. Laurence looked down at the misery and hatred in their faces turned briefly towards him.

The other French captain submitted to being bound, and was put aboard Maximus while his dragon called to him anxiously. ‘Is he fit to fly, Berkley?’ Laurence asked.

‘I am only a little jarred,’ Maximus said, trying to nose at his own chest. Berkley's surgeon Gaiters was already palpating the massive ribs with his hands, carefully, in either direction.

‘I do not believe there is a crack,’ he said, ‘but a few days’ rest—'

Berkley snorted. ‘After this? Not unless we were in Scotland. They will be out in force after us.’

‘No,’ Laurence said, still cold, ‘they will not. They cannot afford it.’

In the morning the first reports came from their little spies. The French heavyweights were retreating south, towards London, forced back into territory more thoroughly under French control, where their hunger could be satisfied. The rest of the combat-weight beasts melted away after them, more every day as the stores depleted, until nothing remained but the small couriers. Now their infantry were exposed, unless they kept to their encampments; in which case they would starve. A few large bands ventured out with artillery, but could not find enough for all, and in desperation soon broke into smaller parties for foraging. These were at their mercy.