Then another shape came stumbling into the open space between Simon and the giant, an Erkynlandish soldier so dazed and bloody he did not even see the monster, but stopped, swaying, to peer at Simon as though he recognized him. Simon did not even have a chance to shout a warning before the giant swung the great tree, obliterating the upper half of the soldier in a wet burst of blood and flesh.

Simon placed himself between the monster and the wounded harper and lifted his sword. The blade trembled like a mariner’s compass too close to a lodestone, but that did not matter: Simon knew that no sword was going to stop such a thing, or even slow it. The giant thundered toward him, each flat-footed step making the ground shake so that Simon could barely stand. The sounds of terrified men, the many small fires blossoming on the wooded hillside, even the great, bone-shaking roars of the thing itself all faded away until he could hear nothing and see only the great shadow bearing down on him.

Like the dragon. His thoughts were swirls of dust, blown feathers. Like the dragon all over again. Again and again fighting, and never to rest . . . !

He lifted his sword. Better to die fighting, that was all—he and his blade would make no other difference. Everything that was him, that was Simon, would fly into bits before he could even pink the creature.

The great trunk swung toward him, a storm cloud, a whistling darkness. Simon was thrown sideways, and instead of a blow that would knock his bones to powder, felt only the blast of great wind. He fell down, down.

Is this what it feels like to die? Am I dead?

He was lying on something that was neither soft nor hard. He opened his eyes, and saw that he had tumbled across the body of Rinan. Although he still had no idea what had happened, he tried to scramble back so that he did not crush the harper. Something was holding his legs. Something . . .

Another thundering noise, that of hoofbeats this time, and then a flurry of pale shapes burst out of the darkness of the hillside and galloped past him, swift and unexpected. He rolled onto his side to watch the white horses as they rushed away, following in the track of the giant. The creature’s great back was toward Simon now as it led the Norns toward the road. The White Foxes galloped after him, their hair whipping like pennants as they sped toward freedom, toward escape. Simon was stunned to count no more than half a dozen Norn riders—so few to cause so much horror, so few—!

“But I’m . . . I’m not dead.” He realized he had said it out loud. He could not understand how the giant had failed to kill him. He tried to move his legs again, but couldn’t. A panicky moment ended when he saw that someone was clinging to him.

“Jeremias?” he asked. Jeremias had his arms wrapped tight around Simon’s knees. It seemed so unlikely—like another part of the dream: the king’s oldest friend had grabbed him and dragged him down so that the giant’s blow had missed. “God’s Blood, Jeremias! You saved my life.”

His friend stared back at him for a moment, his bloodless, shocked face covered in dirt and ashes, then Jeremias Chandler, Lord Chamberlain of the Hayholt, burst into helpless tears.

Count Eolair knew that the gods had gifted him with life and vitality beyond many, and he was grateful for that. At an age when most men were dead or doddering, he still moved among the greatest and the most powerful of all lands, and had responsibilities that any ambitious man would envy. Instead of sitting in the sun or playing with grandchildren before the hearth, he spent his days in the saddle with the young men, and worried at night about the fate of entire kingdoms. But in this hour he felt truly old—older than he had ever felt. It was as though the previous night had hollowed him out, leaving nothing but a fragile shell, as if any sharp blow or even a hard breeze might crumble him into flakes and powder.

“Just tell us the worst of it.” Queen Miriamele was composed, the only sign of her misery in the redness of her eyes. For an instant, he thought he saw in that sharp, stubborn face what her father Elias might have been had he not been lured by the priest Pryrates, had he not fallen into madness and shadows. “How many dead?”

“It makes my heart ache to tell you, Majesty. Twenty-three men dead, but with several others not likely to last the day. Twice that number hurt. Colfer will lose his arm, but he was lucky—the man beside him was crushed like a rotten fruit—” Eolair shook his head. “Forgive me, Majesties. You do not need to know all the horrors this day has seen.”

“Of course we do,” she said. “In fact, I will go visiting with you when we have finished here. The king has been wounded, so he can wait to go among them until tomorrow.”

“That’s foolish. I’m scarcely hurt, Miri,” Simon said, but to Eolair he seemed worse than hurt. If the queen looked like she had been crying, Simon looked like someone who could not even remember how to cry, as though something important inside him had collapsed and might never be rebuilt. He could certainly understand why the queen didn’t want Simon going out among the men yet. Still, there was no way he could tell that to the king.

“Rest and let the queen visit the men, sire,” he said. “I will bring your commanders here, and you can take stock with them.”

“Take stock? What is there to discuss? A handful of White Foxes just killed two dozen of our people, one of them right in front of me. Right in front of me.” Simon took a long time before speaking again. “An innocent, God save us all.”

“We must discuss whether we send a troop of men after the enemy, for one thing,” Eolair said.

“Pointless.” The king shook his head. “They would be hard enough to catch on foot, but on those tireless Stormspike horses . . . there is no sense in even following. Believe me, if I thought otherwise, I’d be leading the way myself.”

“No you wouldn’t,” his wife said. “Do not even speak that way.”

“Why?” The king grimaced and rolled into a more comfortable position on the cot. “I took no real injuries.” Simon pointed at Tiamak, who was rolling his cutting instruments back into their oilcloth wrapping, preparing to go out among the wounded again. “Ask him.”

Tiamak turned and nodded wearily. “The king is bruised and scraped and his ribs are tender—but, yes, his Majesty is largely correct.” He shared a quick glance with Eolair before turning to the king. “Still, you are terribly weary, Simon.”

“I’ve already slept. The rest of you haven’t.” The king had been all but tricked into an hour’s worth of rest around dawn after Tiamak—at Eolair’s quiet suggestion—had insisted that the shocked, heartsick monarch down a cup of strong Perdruinese brandy. “I can’t lie around any longer when the men are hurt and frightened, and many are dead. You already stopped me from going among them once.”

“They didn’t need to see you like that, husband,” the queen said. “You would have brought them no comfort. Bleeding and filthy—you looked like some monster yourself.”

The king was now almost sulking. “Only because Jeremias pulled me down into the muck. When he saved me, of course—saved my life! I don’t want to sound ungrateful. Bless him and keep him, I couldn’t believe it when I looked down and—” Simon trailed off and looked around. Eolair politely waited for him to catch up. “Your pardon,” he said. “What else is there? Why were those creatures here, so far south?”

Eolair could only shake his head. “At this point we can but guess, Majesty. No, I do not think we are even ready to do that.”

“And has anyone found evidence of how many of the evil things there were?” Miriamele asked. “Did we kill any?”

“If we did,” said Tiamak, quietly as was his usual way, but with unusual firmness, “I would very much like to see the body.”