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Reyn’s heart gave an odd little hitch. Suddenly, it was real.

Smoke and flame rising from the Drur family warehouse by the docks was to be the signal for all the waiting attackers.

Daring spies, mostly slaveboys, had established that the Chalcedeans had amassed their loot there.

Surely, they would return to fight a fire.

Bingtown would burn its stolen wealth to draw the Chalcedeans to a central location.

Once that fire was burning, they would attempt to set the Chalcedean ships ablaze with flaming arrows.

A team of Three Ships men, their bodies well greased against the cold waters, would swim out to the Chalcedean ships and slip some anchor chains as well.

The various Bingtown groups had planned these diversions to disorganize the invaders before they made a massed dawn attack.

Each man had armed himself as best he could.

Ancient family swords would be wielded alongside clubs and butcher knives, fish bats and sickles.

Merchants and fishermen, gardeners and kitchen slaves would all turn the tools of their trades to war today.

Reyn squeezed his eyes shut for an instant.

Bad enough to die; did they have to be so pathetically ill-equipped as they did so?

Reyn poured himself a hot cup of tea, and silently wished well to all the grim saboteurs slipping quietly through the chill and rainy night.

Selden, seated beside him, suddenly gripped his wrist hard under the table. When he looked at the boy questioningly, a strangely grim smile lit his face. ‘I feel it,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Don’t you?’

‘It’s natural to be afraid,’ he comforted the boy quietly. Selden only shook his head and released his grip on Reyn. Reyn’s heart sank. Malta’s little brother had been through far too much for a boy of his years. It had affected his mind.

Ronica Vestrit brought fresh bread to the table.

The old woman had braided her greying hair and pinned it tightly to her head.

As he thanked Ronica, his own mother entered the room.

She was not veiled. Neither of the Rain Wilders had covered their faces since the day Reyn had removed his veil at the council table.

If all were to be a part of this new Bingtown, then let all meet eyes squarely.

Were his scaling, growths, and gleaming copper eyes all that different from the tattoos that sprawled across the slaves’ faces?

His mother, too, had confined her hair in securely-pinned braids.

She wore trousers rather than her customary flowing skirts.

In response to his puzzled glance, she said only, ‘I won’t be hampered by skirts when we attack. ’

He stared at her, waiting for her smile to make her words a jest. But she didn’t smile.

She only said quietly, ‘There was no point in discussing it. We knew you would all be opposed. It is time the men of Bingtown remembered that when we first came here, women and children risked just as much as their men did. We all fight today, Reyn. Better to die in battle than live as slaves after our men have died trying to protect us.’

Grag spoke with a sickly smile. ‘Well, that’s optimistic.’ His eyes studied his mother for an instant. ‘You, too?’

‘Of course. Did you think I was fit only to cook for you, and then send you out to die?’ Naria Tenira offered the bitter words as she set a steaming apple pie on the table.

Her next words were softer. ‘I made this for you, Grag. I know it’s your favourite.

There is meat and ale and cheese set out in the dining hall, if you’d rather.

Those who went out before you wanted a hearty meal against the cold. ’

It might be their last meal together. If the Chalcedeans did overrun them today, they would find the larder empty.

There was no point in holding anything back any more, whether food or beloved lives.

Despite the hovering of destruction, or perhaps because of it, the warm baked fruit, redolent of honey and cinnamon, had never smelled so good to Reyn.

Grag cut slices with a generous hand. Reyn set the first piece of the warm pie before Selden and accepted another for himself.

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. He could think of nothing else to say.

As Tintaglia circled high above Bingtown harbour, the simmering anger in her finally boiled.

How dare they treat a dragon so? She might be the last of her kind, but she was still Lord of the Three Realms. Yet at Trehaug, they had turned her aside as if she were a beggar knocking at their door.

When she had circled the city and roared to let them know she would land there, they had not bothered to clear the wharf of people and goods.

When finally she had come down, the people had run shrieking as her beating wings swept crates and barrels into the river.

They had hidden from her, treating her visit with disdain instead of offering her meat and welcome.

She had waited, telling herself that they were fearful.

Soon they would master themselves and give her proper greeting.

Instead, they had sent out a line of men bearing makeshift shields and carrying bows and pikes.

They had advanced on her in a line, as if she were a straying cow to be herded, rather than a lord to be served.

Still, she had kept her temper. Many of their generations had passed since a dragon came calling on them.

Perhaps they had forgotten the proper courtesies.

She would give them a chance. Yet when she greeted them just as if they had made proper obeisance to her, some behaved as if they could not understand her, while others cried out ‘she spoke, she spoke’ as if it were a wonder.

She had waited patiently for them to finish squabbling amongst themselves.

At last, they had pushed one woman forwards.

She pointed her trembling spear at Tintaglia and demanded, ‘Why are you here?’

She could have trampled the woman, or opened her jaws and sprayed her with a mist of toxin. Yet again, Tintaglia swallowed her anger and simply demanded, ‘Where is Reyn? Send him forth to me.’

The woman gripped her spear more tightly to still its shaking. ‘He is not here!’ she proclaimed shrilly. ‘Now go away, before we attack you!’

Tintaglia lashed her tail, sending a pyramid of casks into the river. ‘Send me Malta, then. Send me someone with the wit to speak before she makes threats.’

Their spokeswoman stepped backwards to the line of cowering warriors and conferred briefly there. She only took two steps from the shelter of the mob before proclaiming, ‘Malta is dead, and Reyn is not here.’

‘Malta is not dead,’ Tintaglia exclaimed in annoyance. Her link with the female human was not as strong as it had been, but it was not gone, either. ‘I weary of this. Send me Reyn, or tell me where I may find him.’

The woman squared herself. ‘I will tell you only that he is not here. Begone!’

It was too much. Tintaglia reared back on her hind legs and then crashed down on her forelegs, making the dock rock wildly.

The woman staggered to her knees, while some of the warriors behind her broke ranks and fled.

A lash of Tintaglia’s tail swept the dock clean of crates and barrels.

Tintaglia seized the woman’s puny spear in her jaws, snapped it into splinters, and spat them aside. ‘Where is Reyn?’ she roared.

‘Don’t tell!’ one of the warriors cried, but a young man sprang forth from them.

‘Don’t kill her! Please!’ he begged the dragon.

He swept the other spear-carriers with a scathing glance.

‘I will not sacrifice Vala for the sake of Reyn! He brought the dragon down on us; let him deal with her. Reyn is gone from here, dragon. He went on Kendry to Bingtown. If you want Reyn, seek him there. Not here. We offer you nothing but battle.’

Some shouted that he was a traitor and a coward, but others sided with him, telling the dragon to leave and seek out Reyn.

Tintaglia was disgusted. She levered herself back onto her hindquarters, allowing the pinioned woman to escape, brought her clawed forelegs down solidly on the dock, dug in her claws and dragged them back, splintering the planking of the dock.

It crumpled like dry leaves. A lash of her tail smashed two rowing boats tied to the dock.

She let them see that her destruction was effortless.

‘It would take nothing at all for me to bring your city crashing down!’ she roared at them. ‘Remember it, puny two-legs. You have not seen nor heard the last of me. When I return, I shall teach you respect, and school you how to serve a Lord of the Three Realms.’

They rallied then, or tried to. Several rushed at her, spears lowered.

She did not charge them. Instead, she spread her wings, leaped lightly into the air, and then crashed her weight down on the dock once more.

The impact sent the humans’ end of the dock flying up, catapulting would-be defenders into the air.

They fell badly, landing heavily. At least one went into the water.

She had not waited for more of their disrespect, but had launched herself into the air, leaving the dock rocking wildly.

As she rose, people screamed, some shaking fists, others cowering.

It mattered nothing to her. She sought the air. Bingtown. That would be the smelly little coastal town she had flown over. She would seek Reyn there. He had spoken for her before; he could speak again, and make them all understand the wrath they would face if they did not do as she commanded them.