The camp had grown. Some of the fleeing soldiers had pledged their swords to the rebels, as well as many villagers from little hamlets passed by on the way to the second ring fortress.

And with archers, whenever camp was made in the early evening, Perceval forced Marduke and Kira to practice avoiding arrows. This was a very lethal game of dodgeball, but Kira knew it was necessary.

Girded in some dragonscale armor, he climbed onto a nearly full-grown Marduke and began the evening’s training.

The wind was loud in his ears, but Marduke could hear the hiss of the wooden shafts and dove, twisted, turned, or rose accordingly. Kira had gotten used to holding on, counterbalancing, weaving with her in flight.

A group of village girls would gather behind the archers every night, pointing, oh-ing and ah-ing at each change of direction. Kira ignored them when he landed and went to eat.

Katra had found a niche among the camp cooks and enjoyed serving him his dinner every night. It gave her a chance to talk to him.