In a contest between air and fire, most rational people would bet on air. Fire couldn’t exist without air. Air could create lightning, which burned hotter than the surface of the sun, albeit only for a fraction of a second.

Most rational people had never witnessed dragonfire. Dragonfire was not like other fire. It was heat incarnate.

Saskia knew of only two things that could endure the breath of a fire dragon. The first was a fire dragon. If fire dragons weren’t at least somewhat resistant to their own fire, they’d be a very short-lived species. The same, it turned out, was not quite true of storm dragons. Storm dragon scales were really tough—easily on par with her own rock-hard flesh. They were highly conductive, allowing them to direct the energy of a lightning strike away from vital organs. But they didn’t have quite the same level of heat resistance as fire dragon scales.

The other thing that could withstand a direct blast of dragonfire was duanum, the material Saskia and Rover Dog wore today, as they rode their storm dragon mounts into battle across the skies of Lumium. There was only so much this armour could do for them, though. Today, they weren’t sealing an arlium volcano. Today they were fighting. Unlike the monstrosity she’d worn all those months ago, these suits needed highly articulated joints, and eye holes to see out of. Thus, the protection they provided was imperfect.

So when a huge stream of dragonfire jetted forth just a few metres above her head, Saskia flinched, concerned not only for her own safety, but that of the big guy on whose back she perched: Oronchulon the Great Scale, king of storm dragons. The only sure defence against dragonfire was to avoid it. Thus far, Oronchulon had been doing just that, but there had been a few close calls.

A few of the other storm dragons hadn’t been so fortunate. The howling winds carried the smell of burnt flesh and the snarls and cries of the wounded. A dragon plunged to the ground, thrashing the blackened tatters of its wing.

A much smaller storm dragon—Linitheleske, the runty speedster—lunged forward in the air, sending twin spears of lightning into the fire dragon that had just tried to burn them. Screeching, it spun away, and she launched herself in pursuit. Rover Dog, sitting astride her back with crossbow raised, flashed a grin at Saskia as he flew past.

It would have been safer for them both to shelter inside Iscaragraithe’s bones with Ruhildi and Zarie, but then they would have been twiddling their thumbs while everyone else did the fighting. And that just wouldn’t do. So here they were, riding out a firestorm, with only thin shells of duanum standing between them and quick, painful deaths.

A slender line of light flicked across her face, warning her of an incoming attack. Too narrow to be a dragon’s breath. She ducked, and something whizzed past her ear. Moments later, a pair of skarakh archers sagged in their saddles, and Jarnbjorn came back to her duanum-reinforced gauntlet covered in red.

Saskia couldn’t hold a crossbow steady with her dead arm, so she’d been relying solely on the good old homing axe, which could be used one-handed. Jarnbjorn was a powerful weapon, capable of cleaving through dragon scales, but as always, it was a two-edged…axe. She had to be very careful where she threw it, and Oronchulon had to be careful where he turned, lest it carve a furrow through him on its way back. A few well-placed throws might take out a dragon. Right now, though, she was aiming for their riders, and letting dragons take care of dragons.

In the opening moments of the battle, she’d spotted a pair of pale eyes among the enemy riders. The owner of those eyes had been the first to go, with a troll-sized crossbow bolt in his chest, and his neck sliced open. It had been so easy, she wondered if he’d even been Chosen. He might have been a naturally pale-eyed elf. If he was, he’d come to the wrong place.

Red means dead, but not before white gets the smite, she thought.

Saskia started at the sight of the two dead skarakh rising up in their saddles. One was missing most of his head, but he wasn’t about to let that stop him. Iscaragraithe hovered nearby, and Ruhildi, sitting inside her, was up to something. The skarakh crawled across the dragon’s spiny back, drawing daggers as they reached the back of the neck. There, they began to stab, and saw, and hack. They were tiny mosquitoes to such a creature, barely able to make a dent in the tough hide between its scales. But like mosquitoes, they were annoying. The dragon turned its head and snarled, fire curling from its toothy maw.

And that was when Oronchulon struck.

In a flash, the Great Scale seized the smaller dragon by the throat. His jaws worked. Blood fountained around him. In just seconds, the grisly task was done. He released the sagging creature, and it fell limply from the sky…

…and flapped its wings, and rose again, and rammed into one of its fellows, ripping and tearing and choking.

“I thought you said you couldn’t raise any more zombie dragons, Ruhildi,” said Saskia through their voice link.

“I said I couldn’t raise more than one or two,” said Ruhildi. “Now we have two.”

The second one had just expired, and together with its killer, it sought new prey. Risen fire dragons lost the ability to breathe fire, but they were still powerful creatures; fast and strong and extremely hard to kill.

With two of their enemy dead, and two new allies on their side, the tables had turned. The already-intense winds kicked up another notch as the storm dragons redoubled their efforts against a foe now on the defensive. Lightning arced across the sky, stabbing again and again into fire dragon flesh, leaving them stunned and vulnerable to follow-up attacks with teeth and talons.

With most of the riders dead, Saskia and Rover Dog turned their weapons against wings and eyes. Together, they managed to bring down two dragons before the battle was over, and the sky was clear of any living dragons but their own. At least in this little neck of Lumium.

The enemies they’d just defeated had been patrolling the skies at the northernmost end of Lumium, where it connected to the trunk of Arbor Mundi. Their purpose had clearly been to cut off any escape attempt by her people or any other denizens of Lumium. It had been a small force in the grand scheme of things, but still nearly equal to her own strike force. The battle to come would not be so easy.

Watched through her vassals’ eyes, she could see the city of Ambiellar descending into chaos. Her regent, Illiur, had betrayed her. The city was surrounded by high alvari loyal to Abellion. And the fire drackens were closing in fast.

As her squadron swept south, she watched her friends’ attempt to evacuate as many of the city’s inhabitants as they could. Kveld and the stoneshapers opened up an escape route for those trapped in the tunnels beneath the city, while Vask’s squadron swooped in to pluck random people from streets and rooftops—willing or not—and Nuille’s dragon form bore dozens of survivors away in the nick of time.

The city crumbled and burned behind them. It was small consolation that Illiur had been one of the first to burn, and now his allies inside and outside the city walls were feeling the dragons’ wrath as well.

Arriving at the gorge where many of her allies had congregated, Saskia looked down at the carnage they’d wrought. Dragon corpses littered the base of the ravine, along with the wreckage of the Hindenburger. Dallim had survived his reckless gambit, but his airship had been taken out by a combination of dragonfire and falling debris. It would never fly again.

But that was okay. Airships, they could rebuild, in time. Also, they had dragons. Dragons were way more awesome than airships. Also faster, and sturdier. Granted, an airship wouldn’t bite your head off if you made it angry, and you needed a good head for heights to ride a dragon without peeing yourself, but the advantages outweighed the disadvantages as far as she was concerned.

Oronchulon settled in to land as the survivors emerged stepped out to greet her. There were fewer than she’d hoped for, but more than she’d feared. Among her vassals fighting in the surrounding hills, she’d lost beastmasters Vannach and Cargard, Sionne the greenhand, Vanglebrower the stoneshaper and Brugor the lifter. Nine dwarven cannoneers and many more regular warriors had also died. These were far outstripped by her losses in Ambiellar, but most of the latter were recent high elf recruits whom she didn’t know personally, so she felt their loss less keenly. It was selfish of her, but she felt relief, more than anything, that none of her closest circle of friends had been among the fallen.

“Och about time you showed up,” said Baldreg. “What took you so long?”

Saskia rolled her eyes at him. “We only had to fly all the way from frocking Tarthaxis. We haven’t had a single rest along the way.”

“Are we leaving now?” asked a dwarf whose name she didn’t know.

“Not yet,” said Saskia. “Ambiellar may be toast, but some of our people got out. We’re not abandoning them. Nor do I want to abandon the high alvari to their fate. The fire dragons are killing everyone, even the ones who never sided with us. It makes no sense that they’d slaughter their own allies, but that’s what’s happening.”

“It makes a certain kind of sense,” said Ruhildi. “Abellion is setting an example. Anyone who turns against him dooms their entire branch. Remember what he did to Old Ulugmir.”

“That’s monstrous,” said Saskia. “And probably self-defeating. Not that he hasn’t shot himself in the foot before already.”

“Whatever his reasons, I say let the high alvari burn,” said Baldreg. “We owe them naught. They brought this on themselves.”

“Actually, we brought it on them,” said Saskia. “That’s why I can’t let it stand. Besides, this may be our best chance to neutralise the fire dragons once and for all. Maybe we’ll catch them off guard. Maybe not. Either way, we’ll do what we can to end this threat today. Anyone who wants to join me, hop on a dragon. Everyone else, hold tight, and take shelter again if you have to.”

Despite his objections, Baldreg was among the first to join her squadron of dragon riders, along with just about everyone else she knew by name, and many others besides.

While they were organising themselves, Queen Vask’s roptir squadron arrived, bearing their precious cargo of people rescued from the city.

“Wanna trade in for a bigger model?” asked Saskia, as the troll queen strode forward to meet her.

“Huh?” said Vask.

“Do you want to ride a dragon?”

Vask gave her a toothy grin. “Yes. Yes! Why even ask such a question?”

The storm dragons trumpeted their alarm as a solitary fire dragon approached from the south. “Hold!” shouted Saskia. “That’s Nuille. She’s with us.”

While Nuille offloaded her passengers, Garrain came to greet Saskia.

“Your dracken is larger than the rest,” he noted, looking up at Oronchulon, who loomed over them both.

“This is Oronchulon, the Great Scale,” said Saskia. “He’s the closest thing to a leader they have. Oronchulon, this is Garrain.”

The dragon opened his jaws wide. Electricity arced between his teeth.

Garrain swallowed. “If you—and he—would be willing, I’d like to ride with you. Along with some…unusual cargo. Weapons, actually.”

“If you mean the cannons, that wouldn’t be a good idea,” said Saskia. “Lightning and fire makes things go boom, you know?”

“Not the cannons,” said Garrain. “These weapons may be a little…flammable, but I will do my best to protect against that.”

“Okay, well, if you’re okay with it…?” She looked up at Oronchulon, who dipped his head in what she took to be assent. “Then show us what you’ve got.”

A few minutes later, she was trying—and failing—to hold back her giggles.

Clinging to the dragon’s back stood a menagerie of mobile trees whose branches had formed into giant bows, each with several spear-sized arrows nocked. Oronchulon gave her an indignant look, reminding her of a certain dog she’d dressed up in a pink, frilly tutu when she was a young girl.

“Is something amusing?” asked Garrain, raising mossy eyebrows at her.

“Oh no,” she lied. “Nice…bow-trees.”

A snort sounded through her oracle voice link, coming from Ruhildi. “What she means is they look ridiculous, Garri.”

“Oh, so this is tree sculpting contest now, is it?” said Garrain.

Saskia shrugged. “Hey, if your crazy spells work, it’s all good.”

“And if they don’t, we’ll have something else to laugh about,” said Ruhildi.

She could see why Garrain hadn’t wanted to subject a shapeshifted Nuille to this treatment. Not only would she have had a hard time changing forms with trees clinging to her back, but she’d also have wanted to murder him.

Preparations complete, they all took wing, and flew south to Ambiellar—or at least, the spot where Ambiellar had stood. Now there was just rubble, and corpses, burnt trees and pools of lava.

The fire dragons had dispersed to attack the numerous smaller settlements scattered across the midlands, now that there was nothing left of Ambiellar for them to burn. It was going to play out exactly as it had on Grongarg. Every notable city or settlement or farm would be razed. Only wilderness areas would be left untouched, and only a few high alvari who burrowed underground, or scattered to remote areas, would survive.

Saskia wondered how often Abellion had done this kind of culling before, across all the branches of the world tree. This might be why they all seemed to be so sparsely populated, and most of their inhabitants so primitive compared to the precursor civilisations she’d witnessed in dreams and visions.

Not any more, she thought. Today, Abellion will lose his dragons. And then I’m coming for him. Again. More successfully, this time.

Seeing the approaching storm, the fire dragons had began to coalesce again. More and more of them gathered in the sky over a small village just south of Ambiellar. If any of the villagers were still alive, they were in for quite a show. The fire dragons outnumbered her storm dragons three-to-one. Not impossible odds, but still daunting—especially considering that the Primordial, Xonroth, was probably among them.

Then again, she had Ruhildi and Zarie, Garrain and Nuille, Rover Dog and Baldreg and Kveld and Velandir and…the list went on. Any one of her primary vassals could go toe-to-toe with a Chosen, and stand an even chance of winning. The Primordial was quite possibly the most powerful Chosen they’d ever faced, but their strength had to count for something too, right?

At her command, the storm dragons formed into a loose wedge, with Oronchulon and Iscaragraithe and Nuille near the tip of the spear, and Rover Dog’s dragon, Linitheleske, not far behind. Wings and wind drove them forward, faster and faster—straight for the heart of the enemy formation. The sky darkened yet further. Lightning stabbed at the earth. Sharpened spears of ice formed in pockets of super-cooled air. Some of the frostlings who had summoned them rode dragonback, while others shot through the sky of their own volition.

Once again, Saskia was amazed at how quickly her frostling friends had recovered from the death of their queen. Or perhaps recovered wasn’t the best word. They had been acting more than a little crazy throughout the earlier battles—throwing themselves at their enemies with fanatical fervour, and dying by the thousands. She didn’t know the full extent of their hive mind before and after the loss. All she knew for certain was that she was no longer a part of it. Until a new queen took over—and she was reasonably certain there would be a new queen—the only way to make them her vassals was to bond to each frostling individually. She’d only had time to do that with the family that had rode with her in Iscaragraithe, and some of the tempests who had met up with her on the way here.

In her head, she was counting down. Thirty seconds to contact. Twenty. Ten. Five, four, three—

The fire dragons opened their maws, and breathed. A wall of fire billowed forth, bathing the sky orange. Unavoidable. All-consuming.

And we have ignition, thought Saskia wryly. Lift-off of the Dragon module.

Hundreds of frostlings at the head of the wedge turned their frosty magic against the threat. Dragonfire was potent, but each dragon’s breath was localised to a relatively small area; a drop in the bucket compared to the scale of the arlium rifts she’d sealed. The frostlings directed their magic not at the looming wall of fire, but inside the maws of the dragons creating it. An instant before the front of the wedge passed through it, the fire went out like a snuffed candle, and the dragons thrashed in the air, their throats suddenly blocked by solid ice.

Saskia had been pleasantly surprised by how effective her little friends could be, even though only a few of them remained her vassals. Following the death of their queen, she’d only had time to rebind a few of them. Yet those who weren’t her vassals any more were still able to direct their frost and storm magic with nearly the same power and precision as those who were. Could it be that some residual connection to the hive mind remained, even though she couldn’t feel it any more?

With a roar that shook the skies, Oronchulon plunged through the gap opened up by the frostlings. Lightning speared three fire dragons, and he went for the closest with his powerful jaws. Saskia hurled Jarnbjorn into the eyes of another. Garrain let loose a barrage of spear-arrows into the broadsides of two passing dragons. A short distance away, a swarm of frostlings did likewise with their spears of ice.

One of the larger fire dragons dove at them from high in the sky. Even from this distance, she could feel the heat building within the gigantic maw, as it prepared to let loose a torrent of flame.

With no time to ponder the situation, Saskia acted instinctively. Like a storm dragon, this fire dragon had foci embedded in its body—or more specifically, in the roof of its mouth. She reached for the essence gathering inside it—and pulled. Spidery filaments of arlium burst forth from the roof of the dragon’s jaws, coiling through the air ahead of the dragon itself. The building flames sputtered and died. A moment later, the arlium slithered through the gaps in her armour, and into her skin. She slammed the off button for the dragon’s magic. It let out a pathetic wheezing gasp as it tried to draw essence now sealed within her.

A moment later, Nuille had it by the throat, and they fell from sight. The shattering of the newly-formed mirror in her interface a moment later told her that Nuille had made short work of the now-fireless dragon.

All around her, dragons flailed, and choked, and bled, and died. Most of the dead were fire dragons, but her side was incurring its share of losses as well. And they could ill-afford to lose anyone.

Meanwhile, Ruhildi now had three undead dragons tearing into the living. It took all she had to sustain them, leaving her barely able to move her own undead body inside Iscaragraithe. Her efforts were paying off. Each dead dragon could take down two or three of its former kin before they tore it apart, and she raised another.

Dogram her friend was so overpowered, it almost felt like cheating sometimes. Today though, she’d need every cheat she could muster to have a prayer of winning.

If fire-breathing dragons weren’t bad enough, there were their riders as well. There were elves and mer and dwarves and trolls among the enemy—and a couple of anthropomorphic bear-people, whom she immediately dubbed dropbears, because with any luck they would be dropping from the…yeah, awful joke. But the most numerous among them were the skarakh.

Like the dragons they rode, many of the skarakh had a thing for fire. Fireballs. Fire walls. Fire arrows—although those were almost useless in these howling winds. Regular-sized arrows were as likely to curl around and hit the archer as they were to hit what they were aiming at. Not even the super-sized arrows and bolts fired by Garrain’s trees and Rover Dog’s crossbow would have found their mark if it weren’t for the oracle aiming helper Saskia shared with her vassals.

This high off the ground, Kveld and the other stoneshapers weren’t exactly in their element, but they had carried a supply of stone and metal projectiles, which they used to great effect, shoot into their foes with a force greater than any cannonball.

Queen Vask shot a dragon in the eye from halfway across the battlefield, despite the storm raging around them. Saskia had no idea how she’d pulled that off—until she remembered that the troll woman was now her vassal, and had access to her aiming helper. Vask’s vassalage had occurred sometime during Saskia’s forgotten weeks. She had no idea how she’d convinced a queen to submit to being her vassal. Maybe Rover Dog had talked her into it.

Baldreg was also proving his worth in combat, firing explosive bolt after explosive bolt into their enemies. After becoming a Chosen, even regular bolts took on explosive properties if he willed it. That ability had persisted even after she brought him back from the pale side. Saskia had no idea how his Chosen enhancements worked, but on days like today, they certainly were useful.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t just their own side blowing things up. An immense explosion ripped across the sky, swallowing up four storm dragons in the blink of an eye. Finvi, one of the stoneshapers, had been riding one of those dragons, along with a number of regular soldiers. Five mirrors in her interface shattered. Their deaths hit her like a sledgehammer to the belly.

A moment later, the Chosen responsible for their demise was tumbling off the back of his dragon, with an enormous crossbow bolt jutting from his forehead. Saskia flicked a grateful glance at Rover Dog.

“Good job, bud,” she murmured through their voice link.

That was two Chosen he’d taken out today. Not bad for someone with no active magic of his own, riding the runt of the litter.

Nearby, a fire dragon thrashed in the sky. Blood sprayed from beneath its scales. Then it went limp, and began to fall, taking its terrified riders with it. She glimpsed Nuille tumbling through the air in her elven form. She’d shifted for just long enough to use her cruorgy against her hapless foes. Now she was, once again, a dragon, soaring toward her next victim.

Shadowmasters Velandir and Jolen, together with Myrna, Ithanius and several quickdraws, stood on the back of that victim: a dragon full of enemy spellslingers. With cruel efficiency, they proceeded to slit throats and puncture hearts. How had they even gotten onto the enemy dragon, and more importantly, how would they get off?

The dragon died with blood leaking from just about every portion of its scaly hide. When next Nuille returned to dragon form, the group were sitting on her back, looking a little too smug—

Then a spear of light shot through Jolen’s chest, killing him instantly. In the next instant, the beam sliced through the quickdraws. Not even they could move faster than light.

Velandir, Myrna and Ithanius scrambled back, their faces splashed with their companions’ blood.

Before Saskia could begin to process that, the Chosen who had fired the magic laser vanished into an undead dragon’s maw. Nice one, Ruhildi.

If only there were more she could do to help her friends. She dared not unleash her wild magic. This battle was far too chaotic, and she couldn’t focus wild magic on just a single location. It would affect all of her vassals at once, doing more harm than good.

Even so, she was pleased with how things were going so far. Enemy numbers were dwindling a little faster than her own forces. Would it be enough? Only time would tell. There were so many of them.

But where was Xonroth? She’d seen no sign of the Primordial, and that was a source of both relief and concern. He might not even be here, or he might be biding his time…

Oh crap. Something was wrong. An orange glow had suddenly suffused the air, and was now rapidly reddening. That was not fire.

“Fly up, now!” she shouted through her voice link.

Oronchulon and Linitheleske and Iscaragraithe and Nuille and two dozen storm dragons shot skyward, out of the danger zone.

At least ten others didn’t make it.

She watched in horror as dragons began to drop like stones, flapping their wings madly against some unseen force tugging them down. They landed hard—and kept sinking. In moments, the ground had completely swallowed them up. The earth churned violently.

“Can you do anything for them?” she asked the stoneshapers.

“Not from this distance,” said Kveld. “And if we go any lower…”

They’ll meet the same fate, she added for him, silently.

Clouds of steam jetted from the ground. An awful burning red spread across it, as earth and stone melted into lava.

A single island stood amidst the burning lake. And that was when she saw him. A figure in a pale robe, launching skyward. Not on a dragon, but on a miniature tornado brought forth by his own tempest magic.

Though she’d never seen this guy before, she knew exactly who he was. He could be no-one else.

“Xonroth,” growled Garrain.

The Primordial had been there the whole time, she realised. She just hadn’t seen him. Not even her oracle senses had caught a whiff of his presence. Down on the ground, he’d been completely invisible. But now he was airborne, he wasn’t fading from sight.

This wasn’t the same power Freygi had possessed as a Chosen. Saskia’s eyes hadn’t been turned away from the island before he appeared on it. And that meant…

On top of all of his other magic, Xonroth was also a shadowmaster. Frocking fantabulous. Was there any kind of magic he didn’t have? Was he going to bust out magus powers from Earth, or an undermind’s tentacles, or that freaky Jedi mind trick her dad could pull?

Regardless, they had to deal with him fast, before he could cause any more carnage. The…gravity magic, or whatever it was, had dissipated the moment he took to the air. Now they were free to go after him.

At her urging, Oronchulon dove toward the Primordial, with Nuille close at his side. The trees clinging to his back shot a volley of spear-arrows ahead of them. Saskia hurled Jarnbjorn.

At the last second, the projectiles and the axe spun away, carried by a burst of wind. She caught the axe. Then the bow-trees shivered, and flexed, and reached for herself and Garrain.

“Watch out!” she shouted, as she scrambled away from the reaching branches.

But Garrain had apparently already sensed the corruption of his magic. He pressed his hand to the closest tree, and it exploded into sawdust. The others followed a moment later.

Spears of lightning stabbed down at the Primordial, but those too seemed to be deflecting around him, somehow. Oronchulon’s great maw opened wide. He was big enough to swallow Xonroth in a single bite if he could just get through that elemental shield…

The Primordial moved, and suddenly he was standing atop Oronchulon’s snout, with a shadowy blade buried deep in the dragon’s eye.

Oronchulon roared in agony, and tried to shake his attacker free, spinning about in the air. Saskia held on for dear life. Garrain, beside her, was doing likewise.

When the dragon righted himself, she dashed forward along his back. But as she moved, she felt suddenly woozy, and a stab of pain shot into her skull. Blinking in confusion, she struggled to steady herself. Had the Primordial just done something to her?

No, this feeling was all too familiar. It was coming from within. She was on the edge of another seizure.

Not now, she thought desperately. Keep it together. Your life depends on it.

As she struggled just to hold on to consciousness, she watched as Garrain raced ahead of her. He must be using his speed-boosting magic, because there was no way an elf could move that fast naturally. In one hand, he’d conjured a leafy shield. In his other, he held Trowbane.

Xonroth reached for him, pale eyes gleaming in the lava light. From this distance, she could see the vestiges of a human face beneath the Primordial’s hood. He wore no mask, and his skin was dark, but his head was devoid of hair, and an uncanny light danced in his eyes.

Garrain swiped at the Chosen, lightning fast. But Xonroth was faster. He effortlessly ducked the blow, and Saskia could feel him preparing to cast a spell that would undoubtedly be the death of the druid.

Oronchulon rolled, and for a moment the three of them dangled upside down from his head and neck. A quivering spasm ran through the dragon.

Another mirror on her interface shattered. And in a moment of disbelief, she realised that it was Oronchulon’s. His wings had stopped beating. He was still upside down. And now he was in free-fall, and taking the three of them with him.

No, not the three of them. Xonroth fell upward into the sky, carried once again by his elemental magic, leaving her and Garrain plunging toward the lava lake.

A sleek azure form streaked beneath them. In a supreme burst of effort, Saskia leapt toward their saviour. She seemed to move with glacial slowness through the air, but that was because they were all falling at an incredible speed.

Finally her feet made contact with something solid, and she felt weight beneath her once more. Only after she and Garrain were safely out from underneath the Great Scale, and being bourne into the sky, did she realise who it was who had rescued them.

It was Linitheleske, Rover Dog’s runty speedster of a dragon. The troll himself flashed her a toothy smile, though his expression faltered as his eyes turned toward Oronchulon’s body, now sinking into the lava.

“Where is he?” murmured Saskia, knowing her voice went unheard against the screaming wind and clashing lightning. “Where is the fucker?”

She received no answer. And if she had, she wouldn’t have heard it. Her ears were ringing, her vision contracting into a narrow tunnel, and the world seemed to splinter around her.

When Saskia came back to consciousness, she found herself staring up at Rover Dog’s crooked grin.

“Welcome back, princess,” he said.

“Ugh, my head feels like someone drove a railway spike through it,” she muttered. Then she sat bolt upright—and teetered slightly, as she realised she was still on the back of a dragon, high in the air, supported by Rover Dog’s steadying hands. “The battle—”

“Is over,” said Rover Dog.

“What? Seriously?” Glancing about the raging sky, she was shocked to find it almost clear of fire dragons. Those that remained had disengaged from the battle, and now flew north.

“What about the Primordial?” she asked.

“He got away,” said Garrain, who sat ahead of them on Linitheleske’s back.

“From our brief encounter, I got the impression he could have slaughtered us all single-handedly,” she said.

“Don’t give him any ideas,” said Garrain.

Saskia shook her head, half expecting Xonroth to appear out of nowhere and smite them.

This didn’t feel like a victory. Too many friends and allies had died, and the Primordial had escaped.

On the other hand, she’d just eliminated some of her enemy’s most powerful allies. The fire dragon threat was over, unless Abellion had a lot more of them up his sleeve. And she still had dozens of storm dragons on her side. Compared to her enemy, she was in a stronger position now than she had been before today. She just hoped it was worth the cost.

A tiny form fluttered down beside Garrain, and suddenly Nuille was sitting there, looking shell-shocked, with vicious gashes and scorchmarks down one side of her body. Without a word, she worked her healing magic upon her own body.

Where were Velandir, Myrna and Ithanius? They’d been riding on Nuille’s back when last she saw them. Looking through Velandir’s eyes, she saw that the trio had transferred to Kveld’s dragon sometime during the last few minutes. Well that was a relief. After everyone else they’d lost today, she wouldn’t have wanted to add their names to the list.

Garrain and Nuille flew west to retrieve Wuishe and their precious offspring while the rest of them surveyed the damage, took care of the wounded, and retrieved what few of the dead they could find. Most had been incinerated, leaving no bodies to bury.

“What a mess,” said Saskia, looking out across the scorched hills and burning fields. “I’m pretty sure we’ve outstayed our welcome here. Not that we were ever really welcome. It’s time for us to make our exit.”

With so many of the high alvari dead, she didn’t see much hope of securing an alliance with the various factions of southern Lumium. But nor could she see them joining Abellion willingly. Not after what he’d just done.

“Where will we go now?” asked Zarie.

“I’m thinking we’ll take another crack at the Crown of the World,” said Saskia. “With the dragons gone, we might have a chance to figure out how to get through that pesky barrier. I know it didn’t work out so well the first time, but we can’t afford to give Abellion a chance to rebuild his forces.”

Left unsaid was the fact that she and Ruhildi didn’t have much time left in this world. Saskia hadn’t suffered any more memory loss over the past couple of days, but the seizures and fainting episodes had been coming alarmingly often. It was clear her deterioration was accelerating. She wanted more than anything to see this through to the end.

“Aye,” said Ruhildi through her voice link. “Let’s get this done.”

“Now that’s what I wanted to hear,” growled Baldreg. The elves and dwarves and trolls gathered with him voiced their resounding agreement.

Several hours later, Garrain and Nuille woke her from a restless slumber. Their faces wavered between rage and despair.

“Wuishe has been slain,” said Garrain. “The egg is gone. That bastard, Xonroth, has taken her!”