It was true. Whatever had transpired before to breach the wall, Haomane's Allies were dying now, by the score. Bodies littered the ground inside the wall, many of them charred beyond recognition.
Beshtanag's defenders surged toward the gap, seeking to secure their position and retake the breach, sealing it. And above them all, the dragon circled, casting a vast shadow on the base of the mountain.
"Curonan!"
A knot of men answering to the dun-grey standard had forged their way to the forefront. It was to their aid that Blaise had streaked, battling against the tide to reclaim the gap in the wall; where a handful of men held the gap by dint of sheer valor. Above them the dragon circled, then stooped. The prudent Beshtanagi fell back to regroup on the mountainside. The men of Curonan flung themselves to the ground beneath the dragon's shadow. It passed over them, so low that its scaled belly almost scraped the top of the wall. The mighty jaws opened and gouts of white-hot flame issued forth from the gaping furnace.
One of the Borderguardsmen screamed, rolling. Others cried out and beat at smouldering garments. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air.
"Blaise!" Fianna whispered in anguish.
He was clear, wrenching his horse's reins mercilessly, his mount sidling free of the fire's scorching path. The dragon's wings beat hard, creating a powerful downdraft as its gleaming body banked and rolled. Its scaled tail, tipped with deadly spikes, swept like a cudgel. Blaise's mount danced, avoiding it by a narrow margin.
"Retreat, you idiots!" Watching the battle unfold, Carfax clenched his hands, longing for a blade. "For the love of Urulat, retreat!"
Horns echoed, silvery and clear, sounding a charge.
"My kinsmen!" Peldras' voice held a yearning note.
Beneath the banner of the gilded bee of Valmaré, a squadron of Rivenlost archers advanced in a gleaming line, paused and knelt, bows bent in taut arcs. A flurry of Ellylon arrows split the air, grey shafts arcing. In midair, the dragon turned, effortless as a fish in water, presenting a scaled shoulder. Arrows fell like rain, glancing off that scaled flesh and bouncing harmlessly on the stony ground as the dragon launched itself skyward, ascending out of range. Another horn sounded, Man-wrought, calling the retreat in urgent, brassy tones. Under the cover of Ellylon archers, the Borderguardsmen began a methodical retreat to the siege-lines, flanked by Pelmaran and Midlander soldiers. Blaise wheeled his mount, cantering alongside them. On the slope of the mountain, Beshtanagi wardsmen watched and waited.
"It's all right," Fianna breathed. "That's all right, then."
Peldras shook his head, pointing. "I fear not, Lady Archer."
High overhead the dragon halted its ascent, turning and stooping. There it hung, held aloft by the steady beating of its enormous wings, a glittering speck against the vast expanse of blue. Like a noonday star, Carfax thought, and wondered what had gone wrong. Something had. Something had gone terribly, terribly awry. The Army of Darkhaven had not come, and the Sorceress' power had failed. What else could have caused the wall to fall? He hadn't known every detail of Lord Satoris' plan—only the Three had known—but he was certain that the Dragon of Beshtanag had played no part in it. Not like this. The dragons had aided Lord Satoris once, and most of them had been slain for their role, in the days of old when doughty warriors like Altorus Farseer strode the earth and the Lords of the Ellylon wielded terrible power.
This was one of the last. It should not be here. Not like this.
"Oh, my Lord!" Carfax whispered, numb with horror.
Haomane's Allies halted in their retreat, turning and regrouping, wary of the dragon. They were bunched together; too tight, the ranks too close. Gathering their ragtag forces, the Beshtanagi wardsmen advanced, reclaiming the gap and surging through it, re-forming their line in front of the wall.
I should have been there, Carfax thought, among those men. If all had gone as planned, I would be among them. If not for Malthus, I would be. And if the rest had gone as planned, Turin, Mantuas and Hunric should be among them, even now. They should have won through to Beshtanag. Have matters gone so terribly wrong that even their mission failed?
He strained his eyes for a glimpse of a familiar Staccian face, and did not know whether to be glad or anxious to see none.
I have no people here, he thought, despite all of Darkhaven's cunning.
Amid the army of Haomane's Allies, Blaise Caveros leaned down from the saddle, clasping hands with one of the Borderguardsman. There were discussion, protest, insistence. Dismounting, Blaise cupped his hands to boost the other into the saddle. Carfax watched as the last living descendent of the first King of Altoria removed his steel helmet, throwing back his head to address his army, words lost in the distance. The sunlight glinted on his red-gold hair. Aracus Altorus, who did not fear to lead men into battle, drew his sword, pointing it at the fortress of Beshtanag. Overhead, the dragon's wings beat steadily, holding it in position, patient as a hawk before it stoops. Aracus Altorus raised his sword aloft like a pennant. A single word tore loose over the din, shouted like a paean, echoed by a thousand throats, Men and Ellylon.