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E SME CLIMBED OUT of the bowels of Tosgon. She followed a villager named Abresh. It was the same woman who had carried Esme out of the ?rgos forest atop an ürsyn named Ruro. Only now this desert huntress led her to war.

Esme stared behind her. She had helped get the aged and infirm into the deepest depths of the village, farthest from any potential fighting. Arryn’s heart-bound, Yazmyn, had wanted to join the defense of Tosgon, but her gravid belly had made that impossible. Plus, she had a daughter to guard, to serve as little Asha’s last means of protection if those depths were breached.

Back when Esme had met them, upon seeing the simple happiness in her brother, she had promised to do all she could to protect them, to give everything of herself.

Even if it meant battling a Dragon.

As I must do now.

As Esme and Abresh continued upward, others crowded into the smooth-walled passageway with the same intent. Their murmurs and the brush of their sandals drowned out the ever-present rumbling of the Flüst of Tosgon.

She was amazed at how these desert folk remained so resolute when faced by the threat of the Revn-kree. She remembered Shiya dropping through flames to crash into the deck of the Bhestyan warship.

How could these people hope to withstand such a force?

Esme finally reached the cavernous entry hall. The Chanr? packed the space. They carried all manner of weapons: spears of sharpened bone, lances tipped in glass, daggers of the same, even bows of stringed sinew.

Still, these weapons looked far too feeble against the strength of bronze.

Crikit, who kept tight to Esme’s heels, clattered and chittered his distress, picking up on the tension all around. Esme had tried to get her friend to remain below with Yazmyn and the others, but he would have none of it, practically climbing over people to keep with her.

She had relented, less to satisfy him than to settle her own nerves. He had been her companion for so long, raised from an egg, coddled through his first half year, until he grew stout enough to join her on expeditions into the ruins of Seekh. He had grown to be as much a part of her as any of her limbs.

Abresh pushed through the crowd and reached the village entrance. She parted the heavy tapestry and led the way outside. The sun glared after so long inside. Esme blinked away the blindness until she could spot the rows of ürsyns lined across the sand or perched along the dune faces. She counted several dozen, all saddled, with Chanr? standing ready. Some had already mounted, all riding double.

As will we.

Abresh threw her headscarf over her face and rushed over to a rider. She chattered with him, then accepted a curled horn. She returned and brusquely shoved it at Esme.

Esme didn’t understand.

Abresh explained in the Chanr? tongue, but Esme understood well enough. “Keep with you. Blow when Ravka near.” The huntress’s eyes stared hard at her. “Ye?”

Esme nodded and hefted the horn, which curled as long as her forearm.

So, my role is to act as a scout, to warn of danger.

She struggled with the horn’s weight, then realized she had an easier way to carry it. She turned to Crikit, who hauled a water bag harnessed across his carapace. She added the horn to his load.

Abresh watched this, looked like she was going to say something, then shrugged.

The huntress then drew Esme over to one of the ürsyns. The hard woman rubbed the beast’s side. Her words softened with affection, whispering her pride. “Nah? rah, Ruro. Ye, yes, me carasyn.”

The woman then leaped into the saddle and patted for Esme to mount up. She hurried to obey, climbing far more awkwardly. Another horn hung from Ruro’s saddle near Esme’s knee. It seemed no one was taking any chances about keeping everyone alerted.

Once settled, the huntress guided Ruro up a neighboring dune. Crikit scurried after them. Once they reached the crest, the view opened wider.

Esme gasped, finally spotting the real means to Tosgon’s defense.

Across the sand, dark mountains moved toward them. Six in all. It seemed Esme was not the only one to bring a molag to this battle. While growing up, Esme had always wanted to see these massive giants who roamed the deepest wilds of the Barrens. These six molagi towered twice that of the biggest she had ever seen, those scarred, bridle-bound beasts who hauled trains across tracks. But these were no slaves. No one had clipped their massive claws.

Riders stood atop their backs, balancing deftly, holding woven reins. She sensed no coercion from the molagi’s easy rolling gait. If the beasts were ever aggravated, those huge pincers could easily pluck a rider off.

As they neared, she sensed the same camaraderie and affection that she shared with Crikit. She remembered the soft words this hard woman had for Ruro. These desert people clearly lived in harmony with their landscape, not in war against it.

She felt honored to witness these giants.

Though considering the circumstance behind their arrival…

Maybe I should be more careful what I wish for.

F ROM THE STERN deck of the Fyredragon, Rhaif stared to the east. Worry kept him glued to his vigil. After Shiya had headed off aboard the sailraft, he had watched until the small boat vanished into the glare. He resented being left behind, especially as his skills were deemed of little use.

He had disagreed.

One never knew when the talents of a thief might be needed.

Then again, he felt pretty fekkin’ useless himself right now.

The ship’s crew hurried across the sand, freeing mooring lines.

Darant bellowed directions from atop the deck, while winding in a cable himself with muscular cranking. Once done, the captain wiped his sweating brow on a sleeve.

Needing some distraction from his fears, Rhaif crossed over to Darant. While maintaining his vigil, Rhaif had missed much of the preparation for the day ahead.

I had better see if I can actually be of any use.

Rhaif eyed the work below. “So, Darant, let me understand. The plan is to free the Fyredragon, fly off, and abandon these poor people.”

Darant scowled. “We’re not going anywhere at the moment. We’re staying hunkered down in this sandy gully. At least until that buzzing around the Dragon starts flying this way.”

“Ah, then we abandon the villagers below.”

The captain’s scowl deepened. “We’ll be no safer up high. You know that. But we’ll have a better chance of battling the bastards in the air, where the ship has room to maneuver versus being mired in these dunes. It’s also the best way we can help the villagers.”

“By running.”

“By luring the ta’wyn after us.” Darant turned to the sweep of the deck. “Plus, when it comes to a fight, we’re far better equipped.”

Rhaif wasn’t sure that was true. As a thief, he knew the advantage of a good hiding place. And at the moment, that deep warren of a village held great appeal.

Still, the Fyredragon was clearly being readied for a battle. Its cannons had been loaded, both with solid iron balls and those meant to shatter into spiked fléchettes that would shred through a target. Likewise, the bows of the giant ballistas already had steel spears resting atop them, ready to be cranked back.

The ship had one additional means of defense. It came in the form of four sets of wings. Daal’s second rider, Tamryn, would lead an assault with the raash’ke to harry any ta’wyn, to keep them away from the gasbag above. It was a vital duty. While the ship’s balloon was baffled into different sections, with enough damage it would eventually fail, sending the ship crashing into the sand.

Rhaif watched these final preparations with trepidation. Darant noted a problem and left his side, bellowing out a correction. His daughter, Glace, marched through their defenses, checking both crew and armaments. Her temperament was firm but supportive. Unlike her father, who roared with irritation and outrage.

Rhaif shook his head.

They do make a good team.

Rhaif turned toward the stern, ready to resume his vigil, but he never made it. Through the copper mouth of a highhorn, Fenn called up from the wheelhouse. His words sounded hollow and failed to carry the import of his message.

“The Dragon stirs! The enemy moves south!”

A frantic ringing of bells followed, summoning all to their stations.

Darant cursed and rushed for the wheelhouse. Rhaif hurried to follow. As he did, he passed Glace, who kept to the deck to oversee their departure. Rhaif saw her features harden into her father’s countenance. She bellowed and stomped, taking over his role here, too.

Darant swept through the doors, down a short flight, and burst into the wheelhouse. Rhaif matched his pace, trailing in the wake of his fury.

“How many?” Darant shouted out.

Fenn, Krysh, and Jace all manned the navigation station, fixed to various farscopes.

“Hundreds!” Jace answered.

Rhaif winced.

Hundreds?

Krysh clarified, his words calmer. “Between two hundred and two-fifty. It’s hard to be more exact.”

Rhaif expressed his own fear, one close to his heart. “Are any of them heading toward the Heep, toward where the others went?”

“So far, no,” Fenn answered. “But that may change.”

Darant crossed to the maesterwheel and called out crisp orders. The ship roared and trembled. The flaring forges brightened this sandy valley, turning the sides of the dunes a fiery red.

Slowly, the Fyredragon rose out of the desert.

As they cleared the ridgeline, the village of Tosgon appeared. On the ground, its meager forces scurried across the sand, clearly having noted the danger, too.

Rhaif grimaced as he watched the sight recede below.

Despite Darant’s assurances…

This still feels like abandonment.