Beli Flinthammer groaned and rolled over in bed.

“Mmmmm, what time is it? If ye wanted to play ‘ride the mole machine,’ ye should have said so hours ago, when the kid fell asleep … ”

“What?” Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer snapped, louder than he had meant to. He had been sitting up in bed, alarmed, fumbling for his gun in the dark. “Ah didn’t … that weren’t me …”

He stopped and listened, holding his breath. The animals had heard, or felt, whatever it was, too: Frostmaw, Lucky and Daedalus were all awake, their eyes shining in the starlight, alert and just as puzzled as Ringo was.

So what was it, then? It had felt like the ground had shook, but Loch Modan and the surrounding area was geologically stable: It was unimaginable that an earthquake could occur here. Which meant the only logical conclusion was that …

“The damned Dark Irons are attackin’ the dam again!” he snarled, bounding out of bed and grabbing his discarded uniform off the floor. “Lock the door behind me; if them bastards want war, Ah’ll give it to them!”

“Mmmmm, that’s nice,” Beli mumbled, and then she started to snore.