The sky was a battlefield. East was fighting West and West was
losing. The remaining skirmishers, light, sinuous and nimble,
maneuvered above me, fleeing the heavy cavalry moving in from the
east. Dark and stocky, massed shoulder to shoulder. Fangs and
spear-tips flashed brightly, monstrous voices calling out booming
battle-cries overhead as they charged.

Warm blood fell from the sky.

I shivered and wrapped my blanket around me and watched, enrapt.

It was summer. The night was warm. The world was young and fierce and
wonderous. I was twelve years old and the clouds were dragons.