He hadn’t expected to find them. He was high up on the edge of the Purple Spur, cruising along the edge of the Great Cliff with the jagged peaks of the Spur to one side and the great grey emptiness of the Plains of Ancestors far, far below on the other. He hadn’t expected any trouble at all. And yet there they were, far off and high over the desert plains. Eight of them. Six hunters and two war-dragons. The air was so clear and dry that even from this distance he could make out what they were. He looked over his right shoulder. Twenty-five war-dragons filled the air behind him, stretched out in a line. On their backs were nearly a hundred dragon-knights. They had scorpions and fire-bombs. Enough to start a war. The Red Riders were supposed to be far away, deep in the Worldspine harassing Valmeyan. Sakabian was in the wrong place and everyone knew it. He was here to watch the northern edges of the Spur, keeping an eye on the speaker’s borders and the alchemists’ precious convoys travelling along the Evenspire Road. And yet there they were.
