The golden meadows of Shamballa shimmered beneath a warm, unreal sun, but Arthur Carey felt no peace. He stood on the high ridge overlooking the valley, and far in the distance, he saw the black tide of the Dutchman’s army spreading across the fields.
They came like a disease. Hundreds of soldiers—disciplined, armed, methodical. Their boots flattened the grass, their cannons were being rolled into position, their rifles glinted coldly in the light. Even from this distance, he could smell the oil, the iron, the gunpowder.
Arthur clenched his fists. His heartbeat was loud in his ears.
“How…” he whispered. “How am I supposed to fight that?”
The valley wind carried no answer.
He had power. That much he knew. The strange strength in his limbs, the sharpened senses, the way the land seemed
