There were men about him, dressed in clothes of red and blue, but they were not the uniforms familiar to him. They moved around him and through him, bearing arms and shields that he did not know, though he knew their devices – sword, star, and eagle. In the grisly distance a watchtower looked over a stream that ran red into a field strewn with corpses. A man rode across the murky field. He was robed in blue, and his armour shone brightly in the dim light. His sword was high in his hand. Words that Eamon could not hear were on his lips. A trumpet called men on to war. As the rider reached the stream, Eamon saw men in the darkness there. One knelt in hiding among the fallen, dressed in blue. The one in blue arose, sword in hand, towards the rider. He gave a cry and a killing blow to the steed. Behind him was a man with flaming red hair. In striking bound… Suddenly Eamon’s eyes were his own again. He was on his feet with his sword in hand. A gap opened in the ranks before him, a tunnel that led to a blue-marked rider on a star-white horse.
