The Horn on the Ridge

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1. Trang 1

   The horn split the afternoon like a crack in ice. Mira was mucking out the scale-warm caves, and by the time she reached the square a Highcrag rider lay sprawled in the snow, his beard white with frost.

   "Our hearth-fire is dead," he gasped. "The eggs... they'll freeze before dark."

   The elders looked at the sky. Black cloud boiled over the ridge, and the grown dragons would be torn apart in that wind. Nobody moved.

2. Trang 2

   Mira did. She lifted the ember-lantern from its hook, its coal pulsing orange behind the iron grille, and strapped it to Wren's saddle. Wren was barely two winters old, small enough to slip beneath the gusts. Her mother shouted something. Mira pretended the wind had stolen it.

   They flew so low through the pass that Wren's claws scraped the drifts. Once the lantern swung so hard she had to clutch it to her chest.

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