The vision was one Shavala hadn’t seen before, but it had the sensation of great age.

She was in an elven village surrounded by a sparse forest. Only a few tershaya dotted the landscape, towering over the other trees—a mix of deciduous and evergreen. There were a dozen wooden huts scattered around, similar to those the dorvasta used for structures that were either too large or too heavy to be built up the trunks of the tershaya.

The visions always came from the point of view of the staff-bearer. In this one, her clothing was nondescript, but her hands—when she caught a glimpse of them—were a man’s, though with the slenderness that indicated an elf. The staff had been carried by an elf in nearly every memory, but this elf seemed familiar.

Perhaps it was the hands, or the plain, almost primitive clothing, but Shavala was certain this was the first bearer of the staff—the man who’d claimed the still-green branch while a wolf, bear, and owl had looked on. Or the Wolf, Bear, and Owl.

The vision sped up as the staff-bearer spoke with the villagers. Shavala couldn’t hear any of the words, but in the end, the people seemingly agreed to something he’d proposed, and the vision slowed back down to normal speed.

An elder stepped forward out of the small crowd. The staff-bearer greeted him and led him to a row of potted tershayaseedlings the villagers had prepared for planting. The elder chose one, and the two men carried it to an open spot where no trees were growing, then dug a hole using knapped stone tools. Had the events in this vision taken place before the elves learned to work metal?

After the seedling was planted, the elder held out his hand. The staff-bearer carved a gash into the man’s palm with a flint knife, and then the elder knelt and grasped the base of the seedling. The staff-bearer directed a trickle of magic into the young tree. It began to grow, doubling in size in a short time, a smear of the elder’s blood seeping into the bark.

This was old magic, from a time when Shavala’s people had been more superstitious. The blood served no purpose, but stories said the early druids had used it in rituals to show their connection to the world around them.

The ritual may not have been real but the magic was, and the staff soon joined in to help, enhancing the spell and speeding up the growth. Its aid was much weaker than Shavala had seen before, as if the staff itself was still learning how to use its abilities.

Once the tree had grown to the size of a large sapling, the two men stepped back. The elder swayed, appearing dazed, and a younger woman came over to steady him.

The staff-bearer viewed the world through his elder senses, examining the tree’s roots as they continued growing out farther and farther until they’d reached the root systems of the three nearest tershaya. The roots mingled and grew together, forming a single root-bond between the four trees.

Satisfied, the staff-bearer gestured to the woman. She helped the elder to sit, then went to retrieve a seedling of her own. The process began again.

The vision came to an end and Shavala awoke to the pre-dawn darkness, trying to understand what she’d seen.

The staff hadn’t given her a new vision in months. What was it trying to tell her? And why now?

In response, she saw another new vision—but this one was of herself. She was telling Nariela and Zhailai how the nilvasta had lost the tree bond. The vision didn’t include sound, but the others were standing in the same positions they’d been during the conversation.

“What are you saying?” Shavala asked. “Did that memory have something to do with the tree bond?”

A flash of feeling from the staff—contentment at serving its purpose.

It ignored her questions after that, so she slipped out of her bedroll and ate a travel bar made from nuts and fruit pressed with honey. The grasslands were a poor place to forage at this time of year, but she’d brought enough trail rations to catch up with the expedition. If she was late in arriving, Leena had promised to check on her and bring more supplies.

Packing up the camp didn’t take long. Shavala hadn’t brought a tent, just setting up a rough shelter by stretching an oiled canvas between two bushes. She rolled up the canvas and her bedroll and tied them to her pack, then strapped her quiver to the side.

Grabbing the staff and her unstrung bow, she set off, following Corec’s direction in her mind. She’d made a game of it, trying to guess how much farther south she should angle her route to keep up with his progress day by day.

She was close now, though, so she aimed straight for him.

#

She reached the expedition the next day, passing by four men who were digging stinging nettle bushes out of the remains of the old roadway. They stopped and stared, apparently not having expected anyone to come from the south.

Beyond them, a row of wagons and carts were coming to a halt as they waited for the road to be cleared. Corec was at the front of the procession, wearing an odd-colored suit of armor. Leena accompanied him, and he leaned over to ask a question Shavala couldn’t hear. The Sanvari woman shook her head.

“All right, let’s take an early meal!” Corec shouted to the rest of the group. “Cold camp. We’ll have hot food tonight! Nedley, your squad eats first, then go relieve the road crew!”

A small group of men groaned at that, but set their staff-spears and shields down and hurried to one of the larger wagons. Others assembled behind them at a slower pace.

Leena saw Shavala first and pointed her out to Corec.

He grinned and strode toward her, pulling her into an awkward hug against the brownish-gray armor. Then he held her out at arm’s length to look her over.

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

“I missed you, too.” Her relationship with Corec wasn’t quite romantic in the same way that Katrin’s was, but it was comfortable, and they’d been apart for too long. “And Katrin. Leena said she stayed in Four Roads?”

“Yes, she’s … well, I guess there are some things you don’t know about. We found two children who’d been orphaned by the dragon, and someone needed to stay to watch over them.”

“And you didn’t want her here.”

Corec grimaced. “She can’t protect herself—not from a dragon. The rest of us can fight back, but …”

Shavala laid her fingers on the back of his gauntlet. “I know. I would have told her the same thing.”

He let go of her shoulders, suddenly aware of the onlookers. “Leena said you’d be here today. The others will be happy to see you—especially Sarette. Now that you’re here, the three of us need to talk about the plan. You know what we’re trying to do?”

“You want to kill the dragon.”

“Yes. Will you help us? I know you don’t like killing.”

She gave him a sad smile. “It’s killed a lot of people. You have to stop it. I understand.”

Before he could respond, someone yelled her name. Treya was hurrying toward them, followed by Sarette and Ellerie.

Her sad smile became a real one as she greeted her other friends.

#

“Second rank, up shields!” Cenric shouted. The five men in the back row lifted their silversteel shields up off the ground, holding them above the heads of the men in the front row to provide extra protection.

Sarette stood nearby, watching as the former red-eye drilled the infantry in close formation fighting with a spear-and-shield wall. They’d undergone similar training with pikes before leaving Four Roads, but the expedition had brought along staff-spears as backup weapons. The men carried the spears during the day, while the pikes, which were heavier, were stored in the nearest freight wagon to be retrieved when needed.

Sarette had approached Corec with her concerns about the men needing more training to work together. He’d allowed it, but only for an hour each night, and no more than one night in three for each man. With the full days of travel, plus everyone having to take turns cooking, driving, and clearing the road, he was worried about the effect on morale if they gave the recruits too much extra work.

She’d divided the men into three groups, keeping the infantry together since they had more experience than the rest, then recruited Cenric to help with the training. He’d been part of Larso’s army when he was younger, before returning to Highfell to get married. When his father died, he hadn’t been able to run the family farm on his own so he’d joined Rusol’s mercenary army after hearing about the higher pay.

Sarette had more experience than Cenric with a staff-spear, but as a stormrunner, she’d learned to wield the weapon more like a quarterstaff. In trained hands, a staff-spear’s blade could either thrust like a spear or slash like a sword, and the weapon’s shaft could make crushing blows. The back of the blade had a hook that could catch an opponent’s armor.

It was a versatile weapon, but to use it to full effect required plenty of room to maneuver. It didn’t lend itself well to formation fighting.

Staff-spears could serve as regular spears, but Cenric was better at teaching that style. Sarette had remained involved, though—the extra training was her idea, and she wanted to see it through.

“Keep your spear up, Jenson!” she called out.

Jenson and Odis, two of the town guards from Four Roads, didn’t have any real fighting experience, but Boktar and Corec had assigned them to the infantry anyway because they were big and strong and weren’t very good with the siege weapons. Those two plus Rolf, a former armsman for Baron Greendale of Dalewood, were the weakest points within the frontline troops.

The other men who’d been placed in the infantry unit were a mix of mercenaries and former soldiers, all of whom had at least a small amount of real combat experience—though most of the mercenaries hadn’t fought in formation before.

“Forward advance slow!” Cenric said.

The infantry moved together as one unit, keeping their shields in position. It was better than they’d managed in any of their earlier attempts. The maneuver was one they hadn’t practiced with pikes since they couldn’t move while carrying both pikes and shields. To make an assault with pikes, they’d have to leave their shields behind.

“I think that’s a good place to stop,” Sarette murmured. The cooks were nearly ready with supper, and the men would resent having to practice while the other recruits started on their meals.

Cenric nodded. “All right, you lot, that’s enough for today! Go get some food!”

The men set their shields down and stretched their arms and backs, chattering amongst each other as they split into small groups and headed to the cooking fires. They seemed excited about finally doing it right.

“They’re getting better,” Sarette told Cenric.

“This group is, but those spears would put them too close to the dragon,” he replied, frowning. “A spear wall is for fighting a war, and I didn’t sign on for that.”

“They’ll use pikes for the dragon. Practicing the spear wall is to improve their discipline and morale. I think it’s working.”

“I suppose.”

“Besides, after we’ve dealt with the dragon, Corec’s going to want to hire some of the men for the long term. We might as well train them now and see which ones are any good.”

Cenric grunted. “He won’t be the only Larsonian lordling trying to make a go of it in the free lands. Without their fathers’ money, most don’t ever amount to much, but maybe Corec’s better suited for it than some. I didn’t see any of the others volunteering to go after the dragon.”

“You should join us,” she said. “He’ll need a sergeant.”

“No. As soon as we’re done with the dragon, I’m leaving. What does he need armsmen for in the free lands, anyway?”

Sarette checked to make sure none of the recruits were close enough to overhear. “That day at Jol’s Brook wasn’t the first time Rusol sent men to kill Corec. We’re worried he’ll try again, so we want to go someplace where no one else will get hurt. Close to Larso, but away from any towns or villages.”

Cenric stiffened. “Why …” he started, then stopped to wet his lips. “Why are they fighting?”

“We don’t know. Corec’s never met Rusol, and he left Larso years ago, but Jol’s Brook was the third time your friends tried to kill him.”

“Don’t call them my friends!” Cenric said, his voice hoarse.

“I’m sorry—I just meant the mercenary army. The others that came were demon-controlled too, like your group.” Sarette hadn’t been around for the other attacks, but she’d heard the stories.

The soldier stared away, not meeting her eyes. “That’s what was controlling us?” he asked. “The voice was a demon? Not a wizard?”

“It was probably a demonborn mage, but there may be wizards too. We think Rusol has been recruiting mages.” If he was a warden, that was almost certain. “There weren’t any attacks while we were in Cordaea, but now that we’re back, Corec’s worried it’ll happen again. That’s why we came here.”

“It had better not happen any time soon,” Cenric said. “I don’t want any part of it.” He stalked off without another word.

Sarette couldn’t blame him for his reaction. Jol’s Brook had been one of the worst days of her life, seeing the bodies of the dead villagers and then having to kill for the first time. She’d killed three of the red-eyes that day before Treya discovered they could be healed of the magic that controlled them. Three men who might have been as blameless as Nedley.

For Cenric—and Nedley—it must be worse, knowing they’d murdered those innocent people. Sarette grimaced. Nedley didn’t like to talk about any of it. She should have known better than to bring it up with Cenric.

It was a shame, though. Good sergeants were hard to find.

#

“Who’s up for sparring?” Georg asked as Ariadne joined the knights around their campfire for the evening meal. Only Sir Kevik was missing from the group. He usually ate with Corec, Ellerie, and Boktar.

Nobody took the older knight up on his offer. “Trentin, want to get your ass beaten again?” he said.

“I’ll spar with you,” Ariadne offered. Corec wanted someone to keep an eye on the knights, but he felt doing it himself would just drive them further away, so the task had fallen to her. They didn’t accept her as one of them, but they tolerated her presence.

“Don’t be silly,” Georg said.

“I sparred Willem and Trentin,” she said. She’d won both matches.

Georg snorted. “So you can fight boys. That’s not the same as facing a real knight.”

Willem scowled at the older man.

“Try me,” Ariadne said. “Unless you’re too frightened to face a woman?”

Georg just shook his head, not bothering to reply. “What about you, Osbert?”

“No, but will you take another look at Ballista Four?” the bald knight said. “It’s still making that noise.”

Ballista Four fell under Ariadne’s purview. She listened in.

“You’re imagining things, Ozzie,” Georg said. “I looked at it yesterday and it was fine. All the weapons creak while we’re on the road.”

“It doesn’t sound like the others!” Osbert insisted. “It gets worse when the ground’s uneven.”

“I suppose it could be the cart rather than the weapon. I’ll need better light—I’ll look at it in the morning.”

“Will you show me what to look for?” Ariadne asked Georg.

The older man snorted. “Why bother? It’s clear you don’t know anything about ballistae or catapults.”

“My people had specialists for that. The Mage Knights are front-line troops.”

That could be considered an insult, suggesting Georg liked to hide in the rear ranks with the engineers, but before he could respond, Willem spoke up.

“Where are you from, Ariadne?” the boy asked.

“Van Kir,” she said. “I doubt you’ve heard of it. It’s a long way from here, in Cordaea.” A long way in time as well as distance. The nearest kingdom, Bancyra, seemed to have inherited the name, but Bancyra was not Van Kir, even if it had been built on its ashes.

Georg shook his head. “And in Cordaea, The Lady has knights? Why? She’s the goddess of families and children.”

These people had assigned characteristics to their new gods that seemed almost random. Hera had never married or had children—she’d been too busy fighting a war. And what did Iris have to do with the sea, or Boreas with the weather? The others, at least, reflected something of what Ariadne knew of the old wardens. Demea had spent much of her life improving crop yields, so perhaps it was fitting that Demesis was the Goddess of the Harvest. Did that mean the people had once known her true identity? Or had they created legends from half-remembered stories?

“My order doesn’t follow any of the gods,” Ariadne told him. “All I said was that she was at my raising ceremony.”

“You’re claiming she was actually there?” Georg asked, narrowing his gaze. Apparently he thought she’d been speaking metaphorically before.

“Of course. So was Bear.”

The knight threw his hands up in exasperation. “Bear? Bear! Bloody hell. I’m not going to deal with your nonsense tonight. Just eat and stop talking, will you?”

She hid her grin. Half the fun of the task Corec had given her was in annoying the two older knights.

They all returned to their bowls of stew except for Sir Osbert, who was staring out at the rest of the encampment. “I don’t like being bunched up like this,” he muttered. “We don’t have enough ballistae to catch the dragon in a crossfire. We should have twenty more at least.” It wasn’t the first time he’d made the complaint.

“That’s not the plan,” Sir Cason reminded him. The quiet knight rarely weighed in with his own opinions. He’d never given any clue about whether he approved of what they were doing or not.

Georg spat on the ground. “Depending on magic is foolish. Osbert’s right. We need more weapons spread out in a wider area, and more soldiers. A dragon will always reach at least one of the groups before you take it down. How are we going to fight it if it kills us all because we’re too close together?”

He was referring to the methods the Knights of Pallisur used to fight dragons without magic—but the knights only knew their own ways. Bobo had read more accounts than they had.

“Treya’s fire protection spell will only reach so far,” Ariadne said.

“Oh? And is there a protection spell against getting stepped on? What about one for being eaten?”

Osbert grimaced at that.

“Keep your voice down,” Trentin warned. “Don’t let the men hear you.”

Georg snorted. “What does it matter? We’ll all be dead soon anyway.” Yet, despite his words, he hadn’t abandoned the expedition. Either he didn’t care whether he lived or died, or he was more optimistic about their chances than he wanted to admit.

Ariadne said, “I’m sure Corec would be willing to follow your plan if you’ll pay for twenty more ballistae and this army you want to hire. Of course, you’d have to find an army available to hire.”

“I don’t understand why our army’s not coming,” Willem said. “With all those new mercenaries King Rusol has brought on, why can’t we spare any men? We’re not at war, and we’ve got over a hundred ballistae waiting back at the fort. The parts for them, at least.”

“Let’s not question His Majesty’s decisions,” Osbert said sharply. “There’s trouble in the north, with the barbarians and Blue Vale. The army’s needed there.”

“Then why send us out here on our own?” Willem asked. He was young enough that he was sometimes swayed by the older knights’ constant complaining when Kevik wasn’t around to put a stop to it.

Georg barked a laugh. “Paperwork. The field marshal and Sir Noris probably didn’t bother to talk to each other, and Noris doesn’t know what the situation is like out here. Besides, I think Kevik misread the message. He says we’re supposed to help out however we can, but Noris probably just meant helping with the refugees.”

That was a new theory Georg hadn’t mentioned before. Did he actually believe it? Sometimes he was contrary just to be contrary.

Willem pondered the idea for a moment. “Will we get in trouble for being here?” he asked.

“No,” Cason put in, giving Georg a pointed look. “We’re just following the orders we were given. If there was a mistake somewhere, it doesn’t fall on us.”

The worried campfire talk amongst the knights was nothing new—it had been happening since the expedition left Four Roads—and it didn’t take long before they dropped it and moved on to something else.

The new conversation was about the horse Willem wanted to buy, a topic that came up on a near-daily basis. It seemed to annoy Georg, who stood abruptly.

“All right, you want to spar?” he said to Ariadne. “Let’s get this over with. First to five points.” They normally went to ten.

He stalked over to his tent to retrieve his shield and helm. Everyone was still wearing their armor and sidearms in case the dragon attacked by surprise, but Ariadne had to go retrieve her helm before she could face off against the older knight. The others gathered nearby to watch.

Georg started off in a defensive position, waiting for her to make the first move. Her first few attacks were tentative, probing his defense. Despite his age and bulk, he moved his wood-and-metal heater shield quickly, seeming to know where she was going to strike before she did.

When he’d had enough, he batted her blade out of the way with his shield, then rapped the flat of his sword against her side.

“One!” he said, a smirk on his face.

The knights’ sparring rules favored Georg’s fighting style. A strike against an opponent’s armor counted as a hit despite Ariadne’s mirrorsteel plate being nearly impervious to normal weapons. Yet, when she struck his shield it didn’t count, even though she could have hacked it to pieces if she’d used a spell to strengthen her blade.

She stepped back and watched him, but again he waited for her to attack. His shield was on his left side, so she darted to his right, but he anticipated the move, swinging his body around and slamming the shield against her shoulder. It knocked her off balance before she could tap her blade against the backplate of the silversteel cuirass he was wearing. It didn’t quite fasten together completely over his bulk, but he wore his old mail underneath.

She missed, and while she was catching her footing, he struck with his weapon. “Two!”

On her next attempt, she feinted as if going to his right again, but then planted her foot and spun around to his left just as he swung his shield. Her mirrorsteel was lighter than the plate armor he was familiar with, allowing her to change directions quickly, and she caught his shield side undefended.

“One!” she said, stepping back out of reach.

He growled and rushed at her, moving faster than she’d expected from a man his age. He forced her back with an odd pattern where he alternated blows from his shield and sword. It left him open half the time, but she couldn’t take advantage of it while being forced to defend herself. He managed to strike her armor before she could attempt an attack.

“Three!” he said. This time, he was the one who stepped back to catch his breath.

She managed to score against him twice more before he won the bout. She’d watched the knights spar before, but it seemed there was a reason Georg never lost a match. He was a better fighter than Boktar. Better than Corec, if Corec wasn’t using enchanted weapons or magic.

“Hah!” Georg said. “I knew you weren’t a knight.” It didn’t matter that she’d done better against him than Willem or Trentin usually did. They were still his brothers in arms, and she wasn’t one of them.

“Let’s have another go,” she said.

“’Why bother?” he asked. “You lost. You’re not going to do any better next time.”

“I was holding back.”

The gloating smile slipped off his face. “What?”

“I had to see if you were any good before we sparred for real,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to hurt an old man by accident.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“There’s an easy way to know for sure.”

“Fine,” he spat, and readied himself.

She’d started from farther away this time and sprinted at him. It would normally be an odd move, since it allowed him time to prepare a defense, but as she ran, her combat spells snapped into place.

Just before she reached him, she blinked in and out, reappearing behind his back and rapping her blade against his helmet. “One!” she said, then flickered away again out of his range.

“What—” he started to say as he caught sight of where she’d ended up, but she blinked again and tapped his side.

“Two!” She disappeared just as he swung his shield through the spot where she’d been.

She ran at him again, and this time, to give him a chance, she didn’t blink away. He swung his sword, but she twisted out of the way, her enhanced speed and agility allowing her to avoid his attack.

As she passed him, she struck, hitting the back of his shoulder. “Three!”

“What are you … ? You can’t—”

“Four!”

He yelled and charged straight at her. She waited until the last moment and then dodged to the side, kicking the back of his knee as he went past. He tripped and fell to the ground, rolling over onto his back to look up at her as she pointed her sword down at his chest. She summoned flames to line the blade.

“Five,” she said, not bothering to touch him with the weapon.

She stepped back and let the flames dissipate. The other knights were all staring at her wide-eyed. “And that’s why we’re going to fight the dragon with magic,” she told them. “We don’t need an army.”

They’d seen Sarette fly during the training drills, and they’d seen her summon lightning, but they didn’t truly realize what it meant. They didn’t understand the impact magic would have on the fight.

Perhaps the personal demonstration would help.