The Skraelings had been approaching since dawn. Isaiah had expected a great wave of them to wash over the Isembaardians . . . but instead the Skraelings had crept closer and closer, never rushing, always cautious.

Now, at noon, there was an undulating wave of grey wraiths to the south, perhaps thirty paces from the edge of the juit birds, which had gathered in one great flock, putting themselves between the Skraelings and the Isembaardians.

Lamiah and Isaiah stood, surrounded by birds, at the southern edge of the flock, alternately looking south to the Skraelings or at the birds.

Isaiah was more concerned with the Skraelings, Lamiah with the birds.

“Do you think the juit birds might be any aid against the Skraelings?” Lamiah said.

Isaiah gave a small shrug. “Maybe.”

Lamiah looked at him then again at the birds.

As one they had fluffed out their pink feathers and were weaving their beaks to and fro toward the Skraelings. They looked very, very angry, and every so often each bird would hiss.

“Perhaps save us?” Lamiah said, then grunted dismissively. “I suppose they could fluff out their feathers and hiss and look very, very angry.”

Isaiah grinned. “Hasn’t your wife ever done that to you, and haven’t you backed down every single time she has done it?”

Lamiah chuckled. “But, seriously . . . ”

“But seriously,” Isaiah said, now returning his gaze to the distant line of Skraelings, “I have no idea what is happening. I wish Axis were here so he could advise us. I had thought the Skraelings might attack . . . what are they doing just gathering?”

“They look different to what I expected,” Lamiah said.

“They are different,” Isaiah said.

Very different. He had seen them in Isembaard, and they’d each had long thin limbs terminating in heavily clawed hands and feet, with the head of a jackal atop their grey, wraithlike bodies. Although many still looked like that, others had grown into half-wraith, half-great cat forms; others looked like the gryphons from the legendary tales of Tencendor and others had become all jackal; others still were misshapen lumps of creatures for which Isaiah could assign no descriptive name.

The Skraelings also appeared to have leaders, for some of the larger and more misshapen of the Skraelings moved about the greater mass, directing and ordering.

Isaiah shivered. What was happening? Were they now directionless for want of the One?

“The army is ready?” he asked Lamiah for the sixteenth time.

“Yes,” Lamiah replied patiently, knowing the worry that underscored Isaiah’s repetitive questioning. “They are ready. Every man armed and in place.”

And little good that would do, both men thought, if this massive army of wraiths attacked.

The Skraelings stretched south as far as any eye could see, a mass of million upon million, undulating slightly in the clear noon sunshine.

“Look!” Lamiah said, and Isaiah nodded.

One of the Skraelings, among the largest of the misshapen leaders, had left the main pack and now walked across the open space between the Skraelings and the Isembaardians.

Lamiah turned and shouted some orders, but Isaiah did not shift his eyes from the creature.

It was just one.

But, oh, what a one.

The Skraeling stood about the height of a very large bear walking on its hind limbs, and even looked slightly like a bear in the shape of its lumbering body. But its head looked like a piece of dough that a cook had crumpled in her hands until it bulged unevenly.

It had two silvered orbs, smaller than the usual enormous eyes of the Skraelings, tucked away in the left side of its face. Instead of being side by side, they were arranged one above the other . . . the lower one slightly skewed to the right.

It had a slit for a mouth . . . and clawed hands and feet at the extremities of its body.

That, at least, was normal for a Skraeling, as also the constant grey shifting nature of its body so that it faded in and out of view as it shuffled forward, the mass of its comrades often appearing in perfect focus through its body.

Of all its loathsomeness, Isaiah found its unbalanced eyes the most troubling.

“I have men coming to aid us,” Lamiah said softly.

“Tell them to stay back,” Isaiah said.

Lamiah stared at Isaiah a moment, then turned and waved to a halt the squad of men moving through the birds.

Isaiah moved forward.

“Be careful!” Lamiah hissed, and Isaiah paused to turn and grin.

“Was there not a time you could not wait to be rid of me?” Isaiah said.

“Once upon a time,” said Lamiah, “when I was lost in fairytale ambitions.”

Isaiah nodded, then his grin faded, and he turned back to wade forward through the hissing birds.

He walked to some five paces past them, and stopped.

The Skraeling had halted another three paces away. Its silver orbs, so obscenely unbalanced, watched him unblinkingly.

It looked very sure of itself.

In reality, the Skraeling was extremely unsettled.

The One, who had guided the Skraelings to this point with clear instructions and purpose, had vanished. His presence was no longer apparent to the wraiths. They could no longer sense him, although they did not quite believe him dead.

Just gone.

Off somewhere.

And he’d forgotten to tell them about it.

This was not only deeply hurtful to the Skraelings, it was highly unsettling. It made them nervous.

Worse, this army they had suddenly happened upon was led by Isaiah.

God of the waters.

The Skraelings hated water, and they hated and feared Isaiah because of who he was. When the One had been with them and had wrapped them in his power, they had been able to ignore Isaiah, even approach him.

But now, with the One vanished .

The Skraelings did not like Isaiah. He made them feel not only uncomfortable, but also ashamed of themselves, and they could not understand why.

Thus they had slowed as they approached Isaiah’s army, and now they prevaricated, and sent ahead this Skraeling, one of their leaders, the most courageous of them, to see what they could discover.

The Skraeling decided to bluff, to see if he could startle Isaiah into revealing some information.

“We demand to speak to the One,” the Skraeling said, wishing he didn’t slaver so when he spoke. “Now.”

“The One is gone,” Isaiah said. He was watching the Skraeling carefully, and the Skraeling was feeling more uncomfortable than ever.

“We know you’re hiding him,” he said. “We’d like to speak to him.” He only barely stopped himself from saying “please”.

Isaiah narrowed his eyes, and didn’t speak.

“Please,” the Skraeling finally blurted. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t started on this conversation.

“The One is dead,” Isaiah said.

The Skraeling grinned, now feeling more sure of himself. “No,” he said, “the One is not dead. Only .” he stopped, adopting what he hoped was a sly expression. “We know you have him. We’d like to speak with him. Now.”

The tip of Isaiah’s tongue emerged, touching his upper lip, and the Skraeling understood that Isaiah was himself uncertain and unsettled, and so the Skraeling felt more comfortable.

“The One is within my camp?” Isaiah said.

The Skraeling, who had no idea at all, suddenly saw the means to create mischief.

“Yes,” he said, “and we’d like to speak —”

But Isaiah was gone, striding back through the sea of pink birds, and the Skraeling was left standing, staring after him, wondering what it had accomplished.

Isaiah strode back to Lamiah.

“We need to go back to camp,” he said. He paused, staring toward his army. “We need to speak with Hereward.”