In the acclaimed Codex Alera novels, #1 New York Times bestselling author Jim Butcher has created a fascinating world in which the people of Alera use their unique bond with the elemental forces of nature for protection. But even nature may not be enough to stave off the coming storm…   Tavi of Calderon, now recognized as Princeps Gaius Octavian and heir to the crown, has achieved a fragile alliance with Alera’s oldest foes, the savage Canim. But when Tavi and his legions guide the Canim to their lands, his worst fears are realized. The dreaded Vord—the enemy of Aleran and Canim alike—have laid waste to the Canim homeland. And the Alerans find themselves trapped alongside their former enemies.   Meanwhile, war-torn Alera rebuilds while politicians and nobles vie for power. But from the south comes the news: the Vord have come to Alera. For a thousand years, Alera and her furies have withstood every enemy, and survived every foe. But the thousand years are over... “As is the case with Dresden, Mr. Butcher has the uncanny ability to make his Codex Alera realm seem real; as he understands it is in the subtle details...An exciting fantasy thriller.”—Midwest Book Review   “Rousing...No less powerful than his intense battle scenes [are] Butcher’s vivid characterizations.”— Publishers Weekly (starred review)   “A treat for action fans and series followers.”— Booklist   “When it comes to versatility and rousing storytelling, Butcher is in a class by himself.”— RT Book Reviews Jim Butcher is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Dresden Files, the Codex Alera, and the Cinder Spires novels. He lives in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. Prologue "This way, my lord!" screamed the young Knight Aeris, beckoning as he altered the direction of his windstream and dived through the twilight sky. He was bleeding from a wound in the neck, where one of the razor-sharp shards of ice the creatures hurled like javelins had slipped beneath the rim of his helmet. The young fool was fortunate to be alive, and neck wounds were notoriously treacherous. If he didn't stop flailing about and have it attended to, it might tear wider and cost the Legion an irreplaceable asset. High Lord Antillus Raucus adjusted his own windstream to match the young Knight's dive and followed him down toward the embattled Third Antillan Legion upon the Shieldwall. "You!" he snarled, passing the young Knight without particular effort by his own, far-stronger furies. What was the idiot's name? Marius? Karius? Carlus, that was it. "Sir Carlus, get to the healers. Now." Carlus's eyes went wide with shock as Raucus shot ahead, leaving the younger man behind as if he had been hovering in place instead of power diving for the earth at his most reckless speed. Raucus heard him say, "Yes, my l— But the rest of the word vanished into the gale roar of the High Lord's windcrafted wake. Raucus bid his furies to enhance his sight, and the scene below him sprang into magnified vision. He assessed the Legion's situation as he swept down upon them. Raucus spat out an oath. His captain had been right to send for aid. The Third Antillan's situation was desperate. Raucus had cut his teeth in battle at fourteen years of age. In the forty years since, scarcely a month had passed in which he had not seen action of one scale or another, defending the Shieldwall against the constant menace of the primitive Icemen of the north. In all that time, he had never, not once, seen so many of them. A sea of the savages spread out from the Shieldwall, tens of thousands strong, and as Raucus dived closer, he was suddenly enveloped by a chill far deeper than the mere bite of winter. Within seconds, crystalline laceworks of frost had formed across the surface of his armor, and he had to begin the familiar effort of low-grade firecrafting to ward away the cold. The enemy had built mounds of snow and corpses against the Shieldwall, piling them into ramps. It was a tactic he had seen before, in the most determined assaults. The Legion had responded with their usual doctrine—burning oil and blasts of fire from their Knights Ignus. The wall itself was very nearly a feature of the land, a massive edifice of granite furycrafted from the bones of the earth, fifty feet tall and twice as thick. It must have cost the Icemen thousands of lives to mount those ramps, to see them melted down, and to mount them again, and again, and again—but they had done it. The cold had lasted long enough to sap the legionares of their strength, and the battle had raged long enough to wear the Third's Knights down, until they could no longer sustain the effort needed to keep the foe at bay. The Icemen had gained the wall itself. Raucus felt his teeth clench in frustration and rage as the apelike creatures swarmed over the breach in the defenses. The largest of the brutes was as tall as an Aleran legionare , but far broader across the shoulders, far thicker through the chest. Their arms were lon