Godslayer

EIGHTEEN

The army of Darkhaven assembled at dawn.

Tanaros scanned the scene before him with a seasoned eye. What he saw pleased him. Tens of thousands of Fjel were arrayed in orderly ranks, awaiting his command. They were eager, but contained. Vorax’s Staccians, five hundred strong, were mounted and ready.

There was chaos in the rearguard where the supply-wagons were still being loaded, but he trusted Vorax would see all was in order. Beside him sat Ushahin Dreamspinner astride his blood-bay stallion, the leather case containing the Helm of Shadows wrapped in his arms.

Together, they waited.

The orange rim of the sun rose above the easternmost peaks of the Gorgantus Mountains to meet the enshrouding cloud cover above the Vale of Gorgantum, and the sound of Ellylon horns rent the air, uttering their silvery summons. The ranks stirred. Tanaros raised one gauntleted hand.

They waited.

A distant Tordenstem roared, then another.

Haomane’s Allies were withdrawing.

Tanaros clenched his hand into a fist, and Hyrgolf bawled an order to the Fjel maintaining the Defile Gate. The bar was lifted. Two teams of Fjel put their backs into the task, and the massive doors, depicting the Battle of Neherinach, creaked slowly open.

“To war!” Tanaros shouted.

The long column began its descent into the Defile.

Speros of Haimhault, the architect of Darkhaven’s defense, was acutely aware that he was little more than baggage.

For all their unwieldy composition, the myriad companies of Haomane’s Allies executed their withdrawal with a disturbing precision. Dawn broke, the horns sounded, and they were on the move.

Much of it, loath though he was to admit it, was due to Aracus Altorus. Somehow, he managed to be everywhere on the field; conferring with the Lord of the Rivenlost, with the Pelmaran Regents, with Duke Bornin of Seahold, with whoever commanded the knights of Vedasia and the company of Dwarfs. He was tireless. Everywhere Speros looked, there he was; a red-gold needle, stitching the army together with the thread of his will.

It was an orderly withdrawal. Companies of infantry—Midlanders, Dwarfs, Free Fishermen, Arduan archers, Pelmarans—marched stolidly, trampling the plains grass. The mounted companies—the Borderguard of Curonan, the Vedasian knights, the Host of the Rivenlost—rode at a sedate jog.

Speros rode with them, watched by his minders, the Ellyl Peldras and the Arduan woman Fianna. He was glad to be astride Ghost, whose snapping teeth kept the others at bay. He thought more than once of turning her head and fieeing, giving her free rein across the plains. No mount here could catch her, unless it was Malthus’. But if he did, it would give Haomane’s Allies cause to break their bargain.

So he went with them, casting glances over his shoulder as he rode.

His heart rose when he first caught sight of Darkhaven’s army, worming its way down the Defile. It was vast. Rank upon rank of Fjel, marching in twos. High above them, Tordenstem sentries perched on the peaks, roaring out the signal for all clear.

The vanguard reached the plains and spread out, aligning themselves to reform in precise configurations and making ready to accommodate others, who kept coming and coming. Aye, and there were the Staccians; a crack troop of five hundred, all mounted on the horses of Darkhaven, taking the left flank. There was Lord Vorax coming from the supply-train at the rear to take his place at their head, gilded armor flaming in the morning light.

And there—there was General Tanaros, astride his black mount, still and dark and ominous. He did not need to ride herd on a divided force. He sat tall in the saddle, bareheaded, giving orders and watching them obeyed with alacrity.

Speros grinned.

“Something pleases you, Midlander?” Blaise Caveros swerved near him.

“How not?” Speros spread his arms. “It is a fine day for a battle!”

Blaise eyed him grimly. “Haomane willing, you shall have one.”

At a distance of some half a league, Haomane’s Allies turned and made their stand. Speros, mere baggage, was relegated to the rearguard. Ghost was taken from him and picketed once more by wary handlers. It frustrated him, for he could see little but an sea of armor-clad backsides as the troops moved into formation.

His minders were going into battle, leaving Speros under the undignified watch of the attendants and squires who composed the rearguard. It seemed they would not fight together; Blaise was to lead the Borderguard, while Peldras would join the Host of the Rivenlost, and Fianna the Arduan force. He watched as they made a solemn farewell, standing in a circle with their right hands joined in the center. There was a story there; he wondered what it was.

The Bearer lives … .

Speros thought about the chase through the tunnels leading from the Vesdarlig Passage, the scent the Fjel had lost, the scent of sun-warmed strawberries he had all but forgotten. He glanced uneasily toward Darkhaven and wondered what manner of guard the General had left in place. Surely, one that would suffice; the General was no fool. Still, Speros wished he could speak to him.

There was no time. Across the plains a mighty din arose; a howl uttered by tens of thousands of Fjel throats, the clangor of tens of thousands of Fjel beating their weapons upon their shields. The horns of the Ellylon blew in answer, high and clear.

The battle was beginning.

“It is time.”

Tanaros nodded to Ushahin Dreamspinner, who opened the leather case he held. The Commander General of the Army of Darkhaven lifted forth the Helm of Shadows and donned it.

Darkness descended like a veil over his vision. The sun yet shone, but it was as though it had been wrapped in sackcloth. Everything around him stood out vividly on a shadowy background. A throbbing pain seared his groin; a ghostly pain, the Helm’s memory of Lord Satoris’ burden. Inside his armor, Tanaros could feel ichor trickling down his thigh. Such was the price of the Helm of Shadows.

The ranks of Fjel parted to allow him passage. They were silent now, watching him from the corners of their eyes. Hyrgolf, solid, blessed Hyrgolf, met his gaze, unafraid. He saluted. Tanaros returned the salute, touching the little pouch that hung at his belt, containing the rhios Hyrgolf had given him.

A small kindness.

Vorax’s Staccians averted their eyes. It was harder for Men. But they were astride the horses of Darkhaven, who watched him with fearless, gleaming eyes. There was Vorax at their head, saluting. The bulk of his work was done; the bargain struck, the supply-train in place. This was Tanaros Blacksword’s hour.

He jogged his mount to the forefront of the army. There could be no leading from the rear, not wearing the Helm of Shadows. The black moved smoothly beneath him, untroubled by the added burden of armor it bore; armor that echoed his own, lacquered black and polished until it shone like a midnight sun. Madlings had tended to it with love. Corselet and gorget, cuisses and greaves and gauntlets for the Man. Glossy plate at the horse’s chest, flanks, and neck, covering its crupper, a demi-chaffron for the head.

Black horse, black rider.

Black sword.

It glowed darkly in his vision as he drew it; a wound in the morning sky. A shard of shadow, the edge glittering like obsidian. It had been quenched in the blood of Lord Satoris himself and was strong enough to shatter mortal steel.

Tanaros drew a deep breath; past the ache in his branded heart, past the phantom pain of his Lordship’s wound. He had given speeches on the training-field, rousing his troops. Now that the hour had come, there was no need. They knew what they were about. When the air in his lungs burned, he loosed it in a shout.

“Forward, Darkhaven!”

With a second roar, his army began to advance. Across the plains, the Ellylon horns answered and Haomane’s Allies moved forward to meet them.

Tanaros kept the pace slow, gauging his enemy’s forces. Aracus Altorus had rearranged them, placing the Arduan archers in the vanguard ahead of the Rivenlost. The move was to be expected. Darkhaven had no archers; it was not a skill to which the Fjel were suited, and Staccians disdained the bow for aught but hunting. He signaled to Hyrgolf, who barked out an order. His bannermen echoed it with sweeping pennants. A company of fleet Gulnagel shifted into place on either side of him, the muscles in their thighs bunched and ready. They bore kite-shaped shields that covered their whole bodies, and they had trained for this possibility.

What else?

Aracus had put the Vedasian knights on his right, in direct opposition to Vorax’s Staccians. They formed a solid block, clad from head to toe in shining steel, their mounts heavily armored. Well-protected, but slow to maneuver. Tanaros nodded to Vorax, who nodded back, grinning into his beard. Let the Vedasians see what the horses of Darkhaven were capable of doing. No need to worry about them.

The Host of the Rivenlost was clustered behind the archers, in their midst a starry glitter that made his head ache. Malthus? Tanaros squinted. Yes, there he was among them; clad in white robes, disdainful of armor. He carried the Spear of Light upright, and the clear Soumanië shone painfully on his breast, piercing the darkness. Behind him was the Borderguard of Curonan, with Aracus Altorus and Blaise Caveros, and massed behind them, countless others; Seaholders, Midlanders, Pelmarans.

Behind the Helm of Shadows, Tanaros smiled.

Let him come, let them all come. He was ready for them. He had a legion of Fjel at his back. Ushahin Dreamspinner was among them; protected, he hoped, by Hyrgolf’s Tungskulder Fjel. He was not worried. The Dreamspinner would find a way to ward himself.

The gap between them was closing. On the far side of the plains, an order was shouted. The Arduan archers went to one knee.

“Shields up!” Tanaros cried, raising his own buckler.

The air sang with the sound of a hundred bowstrings being loosed at once, and amid them was surely the sound of Oronin’s Bow, a deep, belling note of sorrow. A cloud of arrows filled the sky, raining down upon their raised shields. The clatter was horrible, but the armor of Darkhaven was well-wrought and the arrows did little harm.

“Left flank, hold! Right flank, defensive formation!” Tanaros shouted. “Center, advance at my pace! All shields up!”

He could hear Hyrgolf roaring orders, knew his lieutenants and bannermen were echoing them. Tanaros nudged the black into a walk. On either side of him, the Gulnagel tramped forward behind their shields.

Slowly and steadily, the center began to advance.

This was the true test of his army’s mettle; indeed, of his own. At close range, the arrows of the Arduan archers could pierce armor, foul their shields. If they kept their heads, they would hold until the last possible moment. Tanaros watched the Arduan line through the eye-slits of the Helm of Shadows. They could see it now, he could see their fingers trembling on their bowstrings. Still, any closer and he would be forced to halt.

The archers’ nerve broke. A second volley of arrows sang out, ragged and discordant. Tanaros heard a few howls of pain, felt an arrow glance off his buckler. “Gulnagel, go!” he shouted. “Strike and wheel!”

On either side the Gulnagel surged forward, bounding on powerful haunches. They came together in a wedge; a difficult target, tight-knit and armored, driving toward the line of kneeling archers, closing the distance too swiftly for them to loose a third volley. There was shouting among Haomane’s Allies as they scrambled to part ranks and allow the Arduans to fall back.

Too late. They had not anticipated so swift an attack. The wedge of Gulnagel split, wheeling along both sides of the Arduan line. They struck hard and fast, lashing out with mace and axe at the unprotected archers. Flesh and bone crunched, bows splintered. As quickly as they struck, they turned, racing back toward the formation.

A lone archer stood, loosing arrow after arrow at the retreating Fjel. The sound of Oronin’s Bow rang out like a baying hound; one of the Gulnagel fell, pierced from behind. Tanaros gritted his teeth. “Left flank, on your call! Right flank, ward! Center, advance and strike!”

The horns of the Ellylon answered with silvery defiance.

Haomane’s Allies had begun to regroup by the time Darkhaven’s forces fell upon them; the advance of the Tungskulder and the Nåltannen was plodding, not swift. But it was steady and inevitable, and it was led by Tanaros Blacksword, who wore the Helm of Shadows.

This was not the battle he would have chosen; but it was his, here and now. Tanaros felt lighthearted and invulnerable. I will not pray for your death on the morrow. At twenty paces, he could see the faces of the enemy; Ellylon faces, proud and stern, limned with a doomed brightness in the Helm’s vision.

Her kin; his enemy. Not the one he wanted most to kill, no. The time of the Rivenlost was ending; so the Helm whispered to him. But beyond them were the Borderguard of Curonan in their dun-colored cloaks. He was in their midst; Roscus’ descendant, proud Aracus.

Malthus, with the Spear of Light.

At twenty paces, Tanaros gave a wordless shout and charged.

The Rivenlost gave way as he plunged into their ranks. They beheld the Helm of Shadows, and there was horror in their expressions. He broke through their line, dimly aware of them reforming behind him to meet the onslaught of the Fjel, that his charge had carried him into the thick of Haomane’s Allies.

White light blazed, obliterating his Helm-shadowed vision. Tanaros turned his mount in a tight circle, striking outward with his black sword, driving down unseen weapons. He clung grimly to the pain of his phantom wound, to the pain that filled the Helm; the hatred and anguish, futile defiance, the bitter pain of betrayal. The scorching torment of Haomane’s Wrath, the impotent fury, the malice fed by generation upon generation of hatred. He fed it with his own age-old rage until he heard the cries of mortal fear around him and felt Malthus’ will crumble.

Darkness slowly swallowed the light until he could see.

The battle had swirled past him, cutting him off from his forces. A ring of Pelmaran infantrymen surrounded him, holding him warily at bay. Malthus the Counselor had ceded the battle in favor of the war; there, a bright spark of white-gold light drove into the ranks of Fjel.

Somewhere, Hyrgolf was roaring orders. The right flank of Fjel was swinging around to engage Haomane’s Allies. Ignoring the Pelmarans, Tanaros stood in his stirrups to gaze across the field.

“Ah, no!” he whispered.

Vorax of Staccia patted his armor-clad belly. When all was said and done, there was nothing like the excitement of a battle to work up a man’s appetite. He was glad he could rest content in the knowledge that the army was wellsupplied. If nightfall came with neither side victorious, they’d all be glad of it.

At the moment, it bid fair to do just that. He watched Tanaros’ charge carry him into the midst of enemy ranks and shook his head. Better if his Lordship had given the Helm of Shadows to the Dreamspinner.

The battlefield was getting muddled. In the center, Rivenlost and Borderguard were fighting side by side, pressing Marshal Hyrgolf’s line in a concerted effort. The right flank was a mess, with two companies of Nåltannen Fjel wreaking havoc among hapless Midlanders.

And in front of him, the damned Vedasian knights were holding their ground. They were arrayed in a square, smirking behind their damned bucket-size helmets as though their armor made them invincible. On your call, Tanaros had ordered. Vorax sighed. If he waited any longer, he’d be faint with hunger.

“All right, lads!” he called in Staccian. “On my order. Nothing fancy; fan out, circle ’em, strike fast and regroup. Speed’s our ally. Once they break formation, we’ll pick off the bucket-heads one at a time.” Raising his sword, he pointed at the Vedasians. “Let’s go!”

Vorax set his heels to his horse’s flanks. A Staccian battle-paean came to his lips as he led the charge. Five hundred voices picked it up, hurling words in challenge. Vorax felt a grin split his face. If Haomane’s Allies thought their wizard had pulled Staccia’s teeth, they were about to find they were sore mistaken.

Behind him, his lads were fanning out; each one astride a horse swifter, more foul-tempered, more glorious than the next. Vorax picked himself a likely target, a tall Vedasian knight with the device of an apple-tree on his surcoat.

Even as he was thinking it was considerate of the Vedasians to provide such an immobile target, the front line of their square folded inward to reveal a second company concealed within their ranks.

The Dwarfs, Yrinna’s Children.

They ran forward to meet Vorax’s Staccians, long spears clutched in their sturdy hands. Not spears, no; scythes, pruning hooks.

Some of the Staccians swerved unthinking. Others attempted to plow onward. Neither tactic worked. Everywhere, it seemed, there were Dwarfs; small and stalwart, too low to be easy targets, dodging the churning legs of the horses of Darkhaven and swinging their homespun weapons to terrible effect.

Horses foundered and went down, squealing in awful agony. Men who could stand struggled to gain their feet and combat the unforeseen menace. Others moved weakly, unable to rise. The Vedasian knights began to move toward the field, ponderous and inexorable.

In the midst of the impossible carnage, Vorax roared with fury, leaning sideways in the saddle, trying to strike low, low enough to reach his nearest assailant. He could see the Dwarf’s face, grim and resolute, silent tears gleaming on the furrowed cheeks. Yrinna’s Child, aware of the awful price of breaking her Peace in such a manner.

Too far, out of reach.

And then he was falling; overbalanced, he thought. Too fat, too damned fat. But, no, it was his mount collapsing beneath him. Hamstrung, one knee half-severed.

They went down hard, the impact driving the breath from Vorax’s body. He was trapped beneath the horse’s flailing weight, unable to feel his legs. On the field, the Dwarfs were laying down their arms, bowing their heads. Here and there, overwhelmed Staccians fought in knots. A handful of Vedasian knights were dismounting to dispatch the wounded.

Vorax felt his helmet removed. He squinted upward at the faceless figure above him. It was brightness, all brightness; sunlight shining mirror-bright on steel armor. The figure moved its arms. He felt the point of a sword at his throat and tried to speak, but there was no air in his lungs.

No more bargains.

No more meals.

The sword’s point thrust home.

No more.

On the plains of Curonan, Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn was present and not present.

His Lordship’s will had placed him here for the sin of his defiance; his Lordship’s will had placed a blade in Ushahin’s right arm. And so he rode onto the battlefield for the first time in his long immortal life and beheld the pathways between living and dying, casting his thoughts adrift and traveling them.

Present and not present

A squadron of Tungskulder Fjel formed a cordon around him. Twice, Rivenlost warriors broke through their line. Ushahin smiled and swung a sword that was present and not present, cutting the threads that bound their lives to the ageless bodies. What a fine magic it was! He watched them ride dazed away to meet their deaths at Fjel hands. One day, Oronin’s Horn would sound for him, as it had sounded long ago when he lay bleeding in the forests of Pelmar. Today he whispered what the Grey Dam had whispered to him, Not yet.

There were things to be learned, it seemed, upon the battlefield.

And then death came for Vorax of Staccia, Vorax the Glutton, and the shock of it drove Ushahin into the confines of his own crippled body. One of the Three was no more.

The horns of the Rivenlost sounded a triumphant note.

Over the Vale of Gorgantum, an anguished peal of thunder broke.

Tanaros flung back his head and shouted, “Vorax!”

There were no words to describe his fury. It was his, all his, and it made what had gone before seem as nothing. There was no need to hold it, to feed it. It was a perfect thing, as perfect in its way as beauty and love. It filled him until he felt weightless in the saddle. The Helm of Shadows, his armor, the black sword; weightless. Even his mount seemed to float over the field of battle as he broke past the Pelmarans and plunged into the ranks of Haomane’s Allies.

His arm swung tirelessly, a weightless limb wielding a blade as light as a feather. Left and right, Tanaros laid about him.

Wounded and terrified, they fell back, clearing a circle around him. What sort of enemy was it that would not engage? He wanted Aracus Altorus, wanted Malthus the Counselor. But, no, Haomane’s Allies retreated, melting away from his onslaught.

“General! General!”

Hyrgolf’s voice penetrated his rage. Tanaros leaned on the pommel of his saddle, breathing hard, gazing at his field marshal’s familiar face, the small eyes beneath the heavy brow, steady and unafraid. He had regained his army.

Across the plains, combatants struggled, continuing to fight and die, but here in the center of the field a pocket of silence surrounded him. The battle had come to a standstill. Hyrgolf pointed past him without a word, and Tanaros turned his mount slowly.

They were there, arrayed against him, a combined force of Rivenlost and Borderguard at their backs. Ingolin, shining in the bright armor of the Rivenlost. Aracus Altorus, bearing his ancestor’s sword with the lifeless Soumanië in the pommel. Malthus the Counselor, grave of face. Among them, only Malthus was able to look upon the Helm of Shadows without flinching away. The Spear of Light was in his grasp, lowered and level, its point aimed at Tanaros’ heart.

“Brave Malthus,” Tanaros said. “Do you seek to run me through from behind?”

The Counselor’s voice was somber. “We are not without honor, Tanaros Kingslayer. Even here, even now.”

Tanaros laughed. “So you say, wizard. And yet much praise was given to Elendor, son of Elterrion, who crept behind Lord Satoris to strike a blow against him on these very plains, ages past. Do you deny it?”

Malthus sat unmoving in the saddle. “Does Satoris Banewreaker thus accuse? Then let him take the field and acquit himself. I see no Shaper present.”

“Nor do I,” Tanaros said softly. “Nor do I. And yet I know where my master is, and why. Can you say the same, Wise Counselor?”

“You seek to delay, Kingslayer!” Aracus Altorus’ voice rang out, taut with frustration. “You know why we are here. Fight or surrender.”

Tanaros gazed at him through the eyes of the Helm of Shadows, seeing a figure haloed in flickering fire; a fierce spirit, bold and exultant. Still, his face was averted. “I am here, Son of Altorus.” He opened his arms. “Will you stand against me? Will you, Ingolin of Meronil? No?” His gaze shifted to Malthus. “What of you, Counselor? Will you not match Haomane’s Spear against my sword?”

“I will do it.”

The voice came from behind them. Blaise Caveros rode forward, unbuckling his helm. He removed it to reveal his face, pale and resolute. With difficulty, he fixed his gaze upon the eyeholes of the Helm of Shadows and held it there. Beads of sweat shone on his brow. “On one condition. I have removed my helm, kinsman,” he said thickly. “Will you not do the same?”

Malthus the Counselor lifted his head as though listening for a strain of distant music. The tip of the Spear of Light rose, wreathed in white-gold fire, and the Soumanië on his breast sparkled.

Aracus Altorus drew a sharp breath. “Blaise, stand down! If this battle belongs to anyone, it is me.”

“No.” Blaise looked steadily at Tanaros. “What comes afterward is your battle, Aracus. I cannot wed the Lady Cerelinde. I cannot forge a kingdom out of chaos. But I can fight this … creature.”

Tanaros smiled bitterly. “Do you name me thus, kinsman?”

“I do.” Blaise matched his smile. “I have spent my life in the shadow of your infamy, Kingslayer. If you give me this chance … an honorable chance … to purge the world of its blight, I will take it.”

Tanaros pointed toward Malthus with his blade. “Do you speak of honor, kinsman? Let the Counselor relinquish yon Spear.”

“Tanaros,” a voice murmured. He turned his head to see Ushahin Dreamspinner, his mismatched eyes feverish and bright “There is madness in this offer.”

“Madness, aye,” Tanaros said quietly. “Madness to risk the Helm; madness, too, for Malthus to surrender a weapon of Haomane’s Shaping while Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn is afoot.”

The half-breed shivered. “I do not know. Vorax’s death—”

“—cries for vengeance. Let us provide it for him.” Tanaros reached up to unbuckle the Helm of Shadows. Even through his gauntlets, its touch made his hands ache. Behind him, the Tungskulder Fjel murmured deep in their throats. “What say you, Counselor?”

Malthus’ hand tightened on the Spear of Light. With a sudden move, he drove it downward into the earth. “Remove the Helm and lay it upon the ground, Kingslayer,” he said in his calm, deep voice. “And I will release the haft and honor this bargain, if it be your will to make it.”

A bargain was a fitting way to honor the death of Vorax of Staccia. Tanaros glanced around. Word had spread, and stillness in its wake. Across the plains, weary combatants paused, waiting. Some of Haomane’s Allies were using the respite to haul the wounded from the field; behind their lines, figures hurried to meet them. The sturdy Dwarfs aided, carrying wounded Men twice their size. The dead lay motionless, bleeding into the long grass. There were many of them on the left flank, clad in Staccian armor.

There were no wounded Fjel to be tended. Wounded Fjel fought until there was no more life in them. There were only the living and the dead.

“Marshal Hyrgolf.” Tanaros beckoned. “Order the Nåltannen to regroup, and move the second squadron of Gulnagel in position to harry the Vedasians. Tell them to hold on your orders. Give none until provoked.”

“Aye, Lord General, sir!” Hyrgolf saluted.

Tanaros smiled at him. “Once I remove this Helm, I want your Tungskulder lads to guard it as though their lives depended on it Does any one of Haomane’s Allies stir in its direction, strike them down without hesitation or mercy. Is that understood?”

Hyrgolf revealed his eyetusks in a broad grin. “Aye, Lord General, sir!”

“Good.” Tanaros offered a mocking bow to Blaise Caveros. “Shall we meet as Men, face-to-face and on our feet? Men did so once upon the training-fields of Altoria, before I razed it to the ground.”

Color rose to the Borderguardsman’s cheeks; with an oath, he dismounted and flung his head back. “Come, then, and meet me!”

Tanaros sheathed his sword and dismounted. Six Tungskulder stepped forward promptly to surround him. With careful hands, he lifted the Helm of Shadows from his head. He blinked against the sudden brightness, the disappearance of the phantom pain in his groin, the ache in his palms. Astride his foam-white horse, the Wise Counselor watched him, still gripping the planted shaft of the Spear of Light.

“What did you do to my horse, Malthus?” Tanaros called to him.

“All things are capable of change,” Malthus answered. “Even you, Kingslayer.”

“As are you, Counselor; for we are Lesser Shapers, are we not? Change is a choice we may make.” Stooping, Tanaros laid the Helm on the trampled grass. “And yet I do not think you gave such a choice to my horse.”

There was a moment of fear as he straightened; if Haomane’s Allies were to betray their bargain, it would be now. But, no; Malthus had kept his word and released the Spear of Light. There it stood, gleaming, untouched by any hand, upright and quivering in a semicircle of Haomane’s Allies. The eyeholes of the Helm of Shadows gazed upward from the ground, dark with pain and horror. Beyond the Tungskulder, Ushahin nodded briefly at him, his twisted face filled with sick resolve.

“So.” Tanaros stepped away. A cold breeze stirred his damp hair, making him feel light-headed and free. His world was narrowing to this moment, this hard-trodden circle of ground. This opponent, this younger self, glimpsed through the mirror of ages. He gave the old, old salute, the one he had given so often to Roscus; a fist to the heart, an open hand extended. Brother, let us spar. I trust my life unto your hands. “Shall we begin?”

Blaise Caveros drew his sword without returning the salute. “Do you suggest this is a mere exercise?” he asked grimly.

“No.” Tanaros regarded his gauntleted hand, closing it slowly into a fist. He glanced up to meet the eyes of Aracus Altorus; fierce and demanding, unhappy at being relegated to an onlooker’s role. Not Roscus, but someone else altogether. “No,” he said, “I suppose not.”

“Then ward yourself well,” Blaise said, and attacked.