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were rejoicing at his reappearance. Sourly, he studied the feasting, carousing rabble that were his officers and cursed himself for leaving Challish so abruptly.
    He could not afford to upset Queen Tayesha and yet he had let his temper get the better of him. He'd stormed out of the palace, the red mist of anger clouding his judgement. Patience was his long-time ally and yet it had failed him as if he were a blood-hungry young saur.
    He blamed his wounds. His bones ached if he stayed in one place too long. Queen Tayesha had rewarded him after the conquest of Knobblond, but after that she'd paid no attention to him. The few times he'd ventured to any of the barracks and encampments around Challish she'd recalled him on one pretext or other. It was as if she was afraid to have him near, but reluctant to have him leave.
    He snorted. A young Plated One nearby looked at him, but turned away quickly at the fierceness of Wargrach's stare.
    No, Wargrach thought, hardly even noticing the young saur. I know better than to try to deceive myself.
    It was true that he'd been impatient. It was also true that his old wounds were playing up. But these things were nothing new. He'd learned to deal with them and to bide his time.
    The truth lay in the old books he'd gathered – the ones he hadn't given to Queen Tayesha.
    In Challish, these curious texts had been much on his mind. The hints he'd read haunted him while he was away from them. They disturbed his sleep, and more than once he woke trembling. Eventually, he needed to see them again, to pore over them to see if they could reveal more about the return of the A'ak.
    He ground his teeth together. If the A'ak came back, all his plans could be spoiled. But if they were as powerful as legend said, was there anything he could do?
    Yes, he thought, I can prepare.
    And preparation – for the A'ak or for the anger of Queen Tayesha – was going to be difficult. When he had arrived back in the Eastern Peaks he'd found it abandoned. The entire population of the mountain province had vanished, leaving farms, houses, whole villages empty. The castle of High Battilon had been left vacant, doors swinging in the wind, with animals wandering in and out as if they owned it.
    As well, his cronies had scattered, fearful that their leader was in disgrace, or defeated, or dead. When he'd returned, they crawled back, shamefaced, glad to abandon the grim life of the outlaw they'd been forced to live. He had made his displeasure known. It was remarkable how this inspired his followers to find hidden caches of food, to spring to repairing the castle, to do all they could to make their leader proud.
    He raised a claw. Instantly, a Horned One lieutenant dropped his goblet, leaped up and hurried to his commander's side.
    'Take a message to the Queen,' Wargrach growled. 'Tell her I've come to the Eastern Peaks to quell an uprising against her. Grovel, apologise, do what you need to. Beg forgiveness, assure her of my loyalty, abase yourself. Leave now, make all haste.'
    The Horned One saluted and was gone.
    Wargrach scratched at his empty eye socket. That would have to do.
    The feasting saur were growing louder as they devoured more food, ale and wine. He stood. The diners were on their feet, instantly. Wargrach was pleased. Respect was good.
    'Eat your fill,' he said. 'You deserve it after the glory you won in Knobblond. But tomorrow we have work to do. Our army needs to grow, quickly. You and your troops will have to find saur to press into our service. You will scour the countryside. You will hunt. You will squeeze the saur from their hiding places. You will be relentless.'
    As he limped away, a roar filled the hall and shook the lanterns until shadows lurched around the many-beamed ceiling.
    Wargrach made his way to a library near the Great Hall, a narrow room whose walls were entirely made up of bookshelves, the tallest only reachable from wheeled ladders. It was lit by lamps that did little to illuminate the