The last army was most welcome, a third force assembled in the north of the great ward, tents and shelters packed shoulder to shoulder in the shadow of the high battlements, all in tight lines and rows with many lanes and alleys between them. Those colours showed mostly brown and green. Banners fluttered with the crossed sword and hammer of Tukor. One pavilion sat in a space of its own, grander than all the rest, multi-roomed with many poles supporting its canvas walls.

Elyon smiled. It was the largest pavilion of them all, larger than those of the Vandarian greatlords and heirs. Well, that makes sense. He is a prince, after all.

Elyon began his descent, flying lower, looking east beyond the battlements as he went. The lands outside the fortress were open and flat for half a mile, before thickening with woodland and forested hills. The trees had once come right up to the river, but those had been cut back so that no enemy could approach unseen, concealed beneath a canopy of leaf and branch. Elyon cast his eyes that way, searching the skies, and saw wings in the distance, shadows circling. Dragon scouts, he thought. He did not doubt that Vargo Ven was near.

The men upon the battlements were beginning to spot him, shouting to one another, raising their fists. He flew above them, his newly oiled blade gleaming bright beneath the sun. A cheer rang out, spreading.

Men began to emerge from their tents at the sound, stopping in their duties to look up. The cheering grew louder, erupting from the lips of the soldiers he had fought with, travelled with, the men who had been there at the Battle of the Bane. He felt a rush of pride at the sound, as they welcomed back their prince, a fluttering in his heart, and for a moment it felt like victory. Despite King’s Point, despite Varinar and Vesryn, hope remained.

Hope.

He saw his uncle step out of his pavilion, armoured, a cloak of Varin blue at his back. Waves of chestnut hair fell from his head, bright brown eyes peering up. A smile spread upon his lips. Elyon flew right down to greet him, landing in a swirling dismount, the canvas walls of tents and pavilions billowing, men shielding their eyes.

He stood from his knee, strode forward. “Uncle.”

“Nephew.”

The two men wrapped arms in a strong steel embrace, then parted.

“You got here safely,” Elyon said. “Did you suffer any further attacks after I left?”

Sir Rikkard Amadar shook his head. “Ven was good to his word.”

The word of a snake cannot be trusted, Elyon thought, though perhaps Vargo Ven had a few shreds of honour after all. He had met the dragonlord at the Burning Rock, invited to join him in parley. There, Ven had said his raids upon Elyon’s army would stop, that he would allow them to continue to Rustbridge unmolested under terms of a temporary ceasefire. Well, he didn’t lie about that. Though he did try to kill me, as soon as the parley was done…

Elyon looked around, saw many faces he knew among the men gathering nearby. They smiled at him, nodded. Elyon returned what gestures he could and turned to look back at his uncle. “How are the men?”

“Well enough. The Pentars have helped to resupply us, though we’re on strict rationing here. It’s worse for the civilians across the river. Our soldiers are being prioritised.”

Elyon understood. Their strength was needed. During the march along the Mudway, Vargo Ven’s dragons had made sure to target their baggage train and food stores, leaving the men to march on meagre nourishment. Most of the wagons transporting their tents and pavilions were left unharmed, only those containing food and fodder attacked. The dragons could smell it, Elyon thought. They knew which wagons to burn.

Rikkard put a hand on his arm. His eyes were serious. “How is it in the west?”

It was a conversation Elyon had had already. With Lord Harrow, with Artibus, with his grandfather. He turned to the tent flaps. “We should speak inside.”

Rikkard nodded, waving over a spearman in Amadar pink and blue. “Send word to the others. Convene a council in my pavilion.” He stepped inside with Elyon.

The interior was basic; bed, chest, command table, a few camp stools and chairs to sit on. An iron brazier sat to one side, unlit. There was a mannequin upon which Rikkard could mount his armour, a rack beside it for his weapons.

“I noticed poles outside, Uncle,” Elyon said. “Something I should know about?”

He had seen them when flying over, scores of enormous great posts that rose at intervals throughout the ward, like the masts of ships, surging skyward, much higher than even the tallest pavilions. They seemed to be wrapped in lengths of tarp, so far as Elyon could tell, glistening under the rising sun.

“A new defensive system,” his uncle told him. “Each post is rigged with sails of fire-proof canvas. They can be raised up to create a roof above the ward.”

“The entire ward?” Elyon asked, surprised. It was common enough for fire-proof shelters to be raised in open squares, to defend from dragonfire, but those were typically individual structures, beneath which only a certain number of people could take shelter. This was on an altogether larger scale.

“That’s the theory. I’m told they have tested the system, and when all the sails are raised, they fit together almost seamlessly. The process is very quick, apparently. The engineers here are very proud of themselves.”

Elyon pursed his lips. “So if a thunder of dragons should be sighted…”

“We will not need to go running for cover beneath the battlements. They might try to rip at the roof with their claws, but they are very smooth, hard to grip. And to get that close would make them vulnerable to the ballistas and scorpions. It’s a good system. Wine?”

Elyon frowned. “It’s only morning. And wartime.”

Rikkard shrugged. “Life cannot stop entirely. Perhaps you have been away too long. You know how the men of East Vandar are. Half of them fight better when they’re drunk.”

Elyon smiled, even let out a huff of laughter. It soured at once as he thought of what he needed to say. “Uncle…I have bad news. You remember what Ven told me. About Drulgar. How he said he had awakened.” Elyon had gone straight to Rikkard and Rammas and Lady Marian after that, warning them, then flown to Varinar to warn them too. It had made no difference, in the end. Varinar had fallen all the same.

Rikkard was watching him with a knitted brow, a jug of wine in one hand, a goblet in the other. He stopped, mid-pour. “It’s true,” he said.

Elyon frowned. The way he said it… “You knew already?”

“There were sightings, some days ago. Most of the men here scarcely believed it at first, but more and more have come forward telling versions of the same tale. He was seen flying west, to the north of here. There was a fear he was making for Redhelm, but he flew right past the city, we’ve heard. We have sent out crows and riders to find out where he went, but…now that you’re here.” He stopped, to let Elyon speak.

“Pour your wine, Uncle,” Elyon said. “I fear you’re going to need it.”

He told him of King’s Point, of Vesryn’s death, and that of Dalton Taynar. He spoke of Varinar, and the desperate state of the city. And Ilivar, blessedly untouched. “Your father is well, Rikkard. I saw something in him…some fire returning to his belly. He is sending soldiers to relieve Varinar as we speak.”

Rikkard nodded, digesting what he’d heard. “And the Dread has fled back across the Red Sea, you say?”

“The trail led to the coast. Most likely he has returned to the Nest.”

There was a knock, a man rapping steel knuckles against a support post outside. “Come,” Rikkard called out.

The same spearman stepped in. “My lord,” he said. “The council members are arriving. I wanted to check with you first before I let them in.”

“Good man.” He clearly suspected Rikkard might want a few moments with his nephew first. Rikkard turned to Elyon. “Are you happy to share, Elyon? All of it?”

You don’t know all of it yet, Uncle, Elyon thought. He had made no mention of the Eye of Rasalan, and saw no great urgency to do so. He nodded and looked at the spearman. “Send them in,” he said.

Rammas was the first to enter, stamping muscularly into the pavilion, all blocky shoulders and square jaw with a tight crop of hair on his head. “Prince Elyon.” He gave a curt nod. The Lord of the Marshes had always been a man of few words. He wore his dull-coloured cloak, fastened at the neck with a brooch denoting his rank of Warden of the East, a simple golden circle split by a sword with its tip pointing to his right, denoting east.

“Lord Rammas,” Elyon said. “Good to see you.”

Lady Marian Payne followed right after, tall and graceful in her fine, smoky-grey armour, short dark hair slicked back, intelligent blue eyes taking him in. “I smell foul news in the air.”

Insightful as ever. “My lady.” Elyon gave her a courteous dip of the chin. “You look well.”

“I would love to say the same about you, Elyon.” She stepped up to him, regarding the scorch marks on his breastplate, the godsteel distorted and melted, the deep cut that split his right eyebrow. It had been sewn up, but would leave a scar. “I hope that is the worst of your wounds?”

He nodded to confirm.

“It makes you look more like your father,” Rikkard said.

“It does,” Marian agreed. “No bad thing. Though his scar is bigger. How did you come by it?”

Eldur, Elyon thought. It wasn’t time for that yet. “I sustained it in battle.”