The grey-haired man smiled. “That is correct. Ten’kin. We have spoken before, Sir Pagaloth.”

No, Pagaloth thought. It was the other man I spoke with, the younger man with the dark hair. The other man was called Ten’kin. Confusion blew through him like a cold wind.

“You look perplexed,” Sa’har noted, with that same teacherly smile. He gave a little laugh. “I do think our noble dragonknight is overworked and under-rested, Ten’kin.”

“What is the trouble?” Ten’kin asked, innocently.

“Nothing.” Pagaloth shook his head. Overworked and under-rested. Perhaps that’s all it was. “I wanted to ask of Fronnfallow. You said you came from there?”

“Yes. I did.”

“And there are men in camp there, is that right?” He waited for the man to nod. “Why did you leave?”

Ten’kin frowned and looked at Sa’har Nakaan, who said, “We have been through this already, Pagaloth. Ten’kin was sent out to find others, to bring them together. That is when we found him.”

“I…” Pagaloth rubbed his forehead, trying to remember. His sleep had been a paltry thing of late, there was truth in that, and maybe it had addled his sense of recall. He had another look at the man Ten’kin. He was old, into his fifties, much older than he had thought, and those eyes…were they kind? He thought they were kind before, but there was something strange in them as well, something empty. His lips were in a smile, but those eyes… it was like they were features of two separate faces, not in sync with one another. “My lord,” he said, turning to Sa’har. “A word in private, please.”

The Skymaster looked befuddled, but nodded and stepped away with him all the same. Ten’kin watched them go, smiling his empty smile. “I do not trust him,” Pagaloth whispered, when they had gone beyond the reach of his hearing. “There is something off about that man. How can we be sure he is who he says he is?”

“And who do you think he is, Sir Pagaloth?”

Pagaloth frowned at the question. “A common soldier, from the battle. He was…a spearman? Or…or was he a…” He could not recall. “I do not know, Sa’har.”

Sa’har smiled once again, a patient smile. “He was no soldier, Pagaloth. No man of the sword or the spear or the bow. He is Fireborn, a dragonrider, who lost his dragon as I did.”

“He…” Pagaloth shook his head. That was not how he remembered it. “No, my lord. That…that isn’t the case.”

“Now come, Pagaloth. You are beginning to vex me in this. We have spoken of this already. Two nights ago, when Ten’kin came to us. Do you not remember? I told you he was a dragonrider.”

Two nights ago… “I don’t…I don’t remember any of that, Sa’har.” His eyes moved back into the crowd of Agarathi deserters, all in their scratched and stained leather armour and robes. A few dragonknights moved among them, and here and there a fallen Fireborn dragonrider as well, in his coloured cape and fine dragonscale armour. He could not see Ten’kin anymore, and nor was that a known name. The true dragonriders of Agarath were famed all across the kingdom, rejoiced in song and tale at taverns and feast halls and palaces from Skyloft to Highport, from the Trident down to the Bloodgate. Everyone knew their names. Everyone. But not the new ones, Pagaloth thought. Not the unnatural ones, bonded by Eldur. “I don’t trust him, Sa’har. If he’s a dragonrider, why is he wearing plain garb?”

Sa’har Nakaan chuckled in bemusement. “Plain garb? You consider fine scales of dragonskin plain, Pagaloth? His soft silken cape in crimson and green? My, you must have some rich tastes.”

Pagaloth breathed out, astonished. “You are toying with me, my lord. You must be. He…he was wearing plain clothing, Sa’har. Leathers, linen.”

Sa’har Nakaan’s face went serious. “Pagaloth, my dear boy. I do not know if this is some misjudged jape on your part, but perhaps now is not the time? We have a distance to go still and I find myself in no mood for…”

“Listen to me, Sa’har.” Pagaloth grabbed him roughly by the arm, shaking. “Something is amiss here. That man...” He looked around. “Whoever he is…he is in your head. Think, really think. What was he wearing?”

Sa’har tried to pull away from him, but Pagaloth held on tight. Some of the nearby Agarathi were starting to notice. “I just told you, Pagaloth. Let me go. Just let me go.”

“Yes. Let him go, Sir Pagaloth.” The voice belonged to Sir Hadros. “Just what’s going on here? You two having a lover’s tiff, are you?”

Pagaloth hastened toward the hedge knight. “Hadros, there is a man among us, pretending to be someone he is not. Ten’kin. The man who told us about Fronnfallow. I think he is harbouring some dark intent.”

Sir Hadros looked over at Sa’har, then back at Pagaloth. “Are you sniffing a trap, Sir Dragonknight?”

Pagaloth wasn’t sure. He was suddenly unsure of everything. The men were all looking at him, frowning; some were glaring. “I…I don’t know,” he said, quieter now. “I just…you need to speak to him yourself. You have to take precautions.”

“I always take precautions,” the stout old knight said. “You hear those hooves, Pagaloth? You see those horses heading out? Those’ll be the outriders, my eyes and my ears and my nose as well, and better than this lumpy old thing.” He prodded at his own nose to show him. “And I’ve sent a pair of scouts ahead as well, just to be safe, Miller and Doris. If they come back saying there’s something nasty awaiting us at Fronnfallow, or anywhere close, I’ll turn us right around. We won’t get within a mile of the place until I know it’s safe to proceed.” He put a hand on his shoulder. “Yes?”

What could Pagaloth do but nod? The men were looking at him like he was a madman, and frankly, he felt like one right now. It had come on so quickly. “Yes,” he said, at last. “I am…tired,” he admitted. “Perhaps that’s all it is.”

Hadros gave him a shake. “You’re a wary sort, Sir Dragonknight. No wonder you made a good sworn sword to Captain Lythian.” He drew his hand from his shoulder. “Now come, ride with me at the front. We’ll be the first to hear if there’s trouble ahead.”

Pagaloth nodded doubtfully, but did not deny him. He turned to have a final word with Sa’har but the Skymaster had already moved off, drifting away into the crowds. Perhaps he has gone to speak with Ten’kin, Pagaloth thought. Later, he told himself. I will let things settle and speak with both of them later.

He mounted up and rode to the front of the lines with Hadros. There were calls to get the host moving, ringing out through the woods, and the men moved into motion. Almost at once the rain began to come down, sprinkling softly through the trees, pitter-pattering on the leaves and soaking into their cloaks.

The hedge knight scowled at the skies. “Damn this weather. Was a few hours without rain too much to ask?” He snorted. “Bardol says Vandar’s weeping, for all the bloodshed across his lands. What do you make of that, Sir Dragonknight? You think a dead god can cry?”

“I think men find ways to explain things they don’t understand,” Pagaloth said. “For that they often look to the gods.”

“Aye. We’re of the same mind there. So…you going to explain what that was about?” He glanced behind them. “Not like you and the Skymaster to feud.”

“It was a misunderstanding,” Pagaloth said.

“Aye, about this Ten’kin. Well, we’ll get to the bottom of it later, Pagaloth. Just watch yourself, you hear? I didn’t much like the way those men were looking at you. Like you were some foreigner to them. Never good to alienate your own.”

Pagaloth wasn’t certain what he meant. “Foreigner? I am a dragonknight of Agarath. I have always served my people.”

“I’m not saying you haven’t. Just that there were some dark looks in your direction, and those eyes…I didn’t like them. Some of those men don’t trust you.”

Pagaloth was getting a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Why should they not trust me?”

“Why do you think? You’ve got a northern stink about you now. Well, maybe stink’s not the right word. To me it’s a pleasant smell, but I’m Vandarian, so it would be. To the rest…” He shook his head. “Guessing they know all about your time with the captain, in service to some northern lord. Your hair’s been shorn and your beard’s been cut, and even your skin’s gone a little lighter out of the sun. They don’t see you as one of their own anymore.”

A man of no nation, Sir Pagaloth thought. He had become a pariah the moment he swore his sword to Lythian, abandoning his oaths as a dragonknight. He was a rogue now, an exile and an outcast, but above all he remained a patriot to the true nature of the land he loved. I will see it restored, he told himself. And my honour with it.

They rode on in silence for a time. The rain made a peaceful tinkling as it fell through the trees, and the rustle of the four hundred men at their back had a calming quality to it as well.

“So, you never heard of Fronn before?” Hadros asked, after a while.

Pagaloth looked over at him.

“I saw you in the cabin. Your face. You don’t know the story, do you?”

The dragonknight shook his head.

“Aye, well let me tell you then. We got some time to kill, so why not?”

The hedge knight set into his tale as they continued through the trees, telling of the giant wolf god Fronn and how he’s been slain here long millennia ago by Drulgar in his rage. “Was a time of titans,” Hadros said. “That dragon wanted to prove himself the meanest, so he went out on his hunts. Three times he tried to slay Fronn, and three times he failed. The first time, the wolf howled so loud the dragon tucked its leathery tail and flapped away in fright. On the second, he leapt so high he managed to get onto Drulgar’s back, scratching and biting at him until the dragon gave up and flew home. The third time, Fronn outran him, dashing about across these here lands, avoiding his attacks. The dragon plunged down upon him a thousand times and a thousand times the wolf sprung away, snarling and mocking. That’s how these dales were formed, during that battle, the legend goes. Eventually, the Dread got tired and flew south as he had those first two times. He was so tired, in fact, that he slept for five hundred years, brooding all the while.” He shrugged. “Or so the singers like to say.”

By then they had left the wood behind and were crossing one of those valleys, a misty vale peppered with stands of tall elm trees and lonely old oaks. The grasses had grown high between them, stroking at the flanks of their horses as they went, and here and there massive puddles had formed, large as lakes, pooling in the lowlands.

“This rain,” Hadros grunted. “Wasn’t joking about swimming home, was I?” He gave a bitter laugh that lacked his usual vigour. A shadow passed his eyes as he looked forward, across the sloping rise and beyond. “He died just over those hills,” the hedge knight went on. “Down in a dale on the other side. In places you can still see his bones poking up from the dirt, though most of them are covered over by now. Massive they are. Gives you a good idea of how big Fronn was, though supposing we don’t need to imagine it all anymore…not since we saw the Dread.”

“What happened?” Pagaloth asked. “The fourth time Drulgar came?”