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they fell silent when a tornado was coming. The cloud cover, just a few ragged galleons sweeping ponderously north, suggested no bad weather. Tornados came with grim black cumulo-nimbus dread-noughts that flailed about with sweeps of lightning.
    She shook her head. Bevold was a good man, and loyal. Why couldn’t she like him?
    As she turned to the door, she glimpsed Ragnar’s shaggy little head above a bush. Eavesdropping! He would get a paddling after he brought the eggs in.
     
    II) Homecoming of a friend
    Elana sequestered herself with her teardrop the rest of themorning. She held several through-the-door conversa-tions with Bevold, the last of which, after she had ordered field rations for dinner, became heated. She won the argument, but knew he would complain to Bragi about the wasted workday.
    The jewel grew milkier by the hour. And the men more lax.
    In a choice between explaining or relying on authority, she felt compelled to choose the latter. Was that part of the jewel’s magic? Or her own reluctance to tell Bragi about Turran’s interest?
    By midafternoon the milkiness had consumed the jewel’s clarity. The light from within was intense. She checked the sky. Still only a scatter of clouds. She returned the casket to the clothing chest, went downstairs. Bevold clumped round the front yard, checking weapons for the twentieth time, growling.
    “Bevold, it’s almost time. Get ready.”
    Disbelief filled his expression, stance, and tone. “Yes, Ma’am.”
    “They’ll come from the south.” The glow of her jewel intensified when she turned the pointed end toward Itaskia.
    “Send your main party that way. Down by the barrow.”
    “Really...”
    What Lif meant to say she never learned. A warning wolfs howl came from the southern woods. Bevold’s mouth opened and closed. He turned, mounted, shouted. “Let’s go.”
    “Dahl Haas,” Elana snapped at a fifteen-year-old who had insinuated himself into the ranks. “Get off that horse! You want to play soldier, take Ragnar and a bow up in the watchtower.”
    “But...”
    “You want me to call your mother?”
    “Oh, all right.” Gerda Haas was a dragon.
    Elana herded Dahl inside, stopped at the weapons rack while he selected a bow. The strongest he could draw was her own.
    “Take it,” she said. She took a rapier and dagger, weapons that had served her well. She had had a bit ofsuccess as an adventuress and hire-sword, herself. She added a light crossbow, returned to the horse left by Dahl.
    She overtook the men at a barrow mound near the edge of the forest, not far from the head of a logging road which ran to the North Road.
    In military matters Bevold was unimaginative. He and the others milled about, in the open, completely unready for action.
    “Bevold!” she snapped, “Can’t you take me seriously? What’ll you do if fifty men come out of the woods?”
    “Uh...”
    “Get run over, that’s what. Put a half dozen bowmen on the barrow. Where’s Uthe Haas? You’re in charge. The rest of you get behind the barrow, out of sight.”
    “Uh...” Bevold was getting red.
    “Shut up!” She listened. From afar came the sound of hoofbeats. “Hear that? Let’s move. Uthe. You. You. Up. And nobody shoots till I say. We don’t know who’s coming.” She scrambled up the mound after Haas.
    Lying in the grass, watching the road, she wondered what prehistoric people had built the barrows. They were scattered all along the Silverbind.
    The hoofbeats drew closer. Why wasn’t she back at the house? She wasn’t young and stupid anymore. She should leave the killing and dying to those who thought it their birthright.
    Too late to change her mind now. She rolled onto her back, readied the crossbow. She studied the clouds. She had not looked for castles and dragons in years. Childhood memories came, only to be interrupted when a rider burst from the forest.
    She rolled to her stomach and studied him over the crossbow. He was wounded. A broken arrow protruded