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  The Rukhari were fierce and unpredictable and owed allegiance to no nation, but their culture was based on trade, and they could be persuaded to battle for a price. Vorax had promised them, and Vorax always delivered. As to what was to be done with them—that was Tanaros’ concern.

  That was his genius. He had done it here.

  In their native terrain, the Fjelltroll were strong, cunning adversaries, relying on individual strength and their ability to navigate the steep mountainsides, luring their opponents into traps and snares, fighting in small bands knit with fierce, tribal loyalties. It had worked, once—in the Battle of Neherinach, in the First Age of the Sundered World, when Lord Satoris had fled to the isolated north and gone to earth to heal.

  There Elderran had fallen, and Elduril too, sons of Elterrion the Bold.

  And the dagger Godslayer, a shard of the Souma itself, had returned to Satoris.

  It was the only weapon that could kill him.

  And in the Fourth Age of the Sundered World, it had nearly been lost again, after Satoris had retaken the west and made his stronghold at Curonan, the Place-of-the-Heart, when Haomane First-Born sent his Wise Counselors across the sea, and Men and Ellylon alike had raised an army, a mighty army the likes of which had never been seen before or since. On the plains of Curonan, they had overrun the Fjeltroll—outfought them, outstrategized them.

  Well, there were other forces at play, then; Tanaros knew it, though it was long before he had lived. There was Ardrath the Counselor, mightiest of them all, and the Helm of Shadows had been his, then, until his Lordship slew him. And there was Malthus, who bore the Spear of Light, who stepped into the gap when Ardrath fell, and so very nearly prevailed. Well and so; what of it? If the Fjeltroll had held, Tanaros thought grimly, his Lordship would never had to take the field, never lost Curonan, never been forced to retreat here, to Darkhaven.

  And so he had trained the Fjel, whose numbers ever increased; trained them, dividing them into battalions, units and squadrons, each according to its own strength. He taught them to fight as Men, capable of holding their own on level ground, of working in consort with one another, of shifting and adapting at their commander’s order. Together, they had brought down Altoria and held their own on the plains of Curonan.

  That was what he could do.

  That was why Lord Satoris had summoned him.

  It had been his idea to outfit the Fjeltroll who held the center with round bucklers, little though they had liked it. The Fjel went into battle laden like carters’ horses, leather harnesses over their vast shoulders, hung about with every manner of weapon: two battle-axes crossed at the back, cudgel and mace at the waist, a spear in either hand. All of these they were quick to discard, fighting at the end with tusk and talon. Shields had gone against their nature—yet they endured longer with them, holding formations that would have broken down into milling chaos.

  Now, they took pride in their discipline.

  Other innovations were his, too, some of them newer than others. The Gulnagel squadron of the left flank, Fjel from the lowlands of Neherinach; they were his. Smaller and more agile than their highland brethren, adept at leaping from crag to crag, they could keep pace with a running horse on level ground. Tanaros had found a way to make use of their speed. In a real battle, they would sow chaos in an unready cavalry.

  Wood rang on steel, promising bruises and broken bones to the careless. Tanaros winced to hear the latter. When a Fjeltroll went down, howling in agony, one knew the damage was serious. Still, he kept them at it.

  Better sick-leave in Darkhaven than dying at the point of an Ellyl sword.

  The mock battle raged on, turning grim as the Fjeltroll in the center dug in and held their positions. Inside the square, Hyrgolf stomped, waving his arms and shouting orders, strengthening his troops. Tanaros allowed himself a brief smile. It was well that the center had held. When all was said and done, the strength of Satoris’ army was in its infantry.

  “Enough, cousin.” Vorax came alongside him, laid a heavy hand upon his forearm. Emeralds and other gems winked on the cuffs of his gilded gauntlets. In the shrouded daylight, his features were blunt-carved and unsubtle, only the shrewd eyes hinting at a mind that thought. “Reward them, and keep their loyalty.”

  Tanaros nodded. “Well done!” he called to them, to the tens of thousands assembled in the valley of Darkhaven, as they laid up their weapons and listened, gasping, to his approbation. “Oh, bravely done, my brothers! Your night’s rest is well earned.”

  “And a measure of svartblod to anyone on his feet to claim it!” Vorax bellowed.

  They gave a ragged cheer, then.

  They knew, the Fjeltroll did, that it was Lord Vorax who filled their trenchers and tankards, who gave them to eat and to drink, understanding the simple hungers that drove their kind. And yet they knew, too, what General Tanaros brought to the battlefield, and what he had made of them. Neheris had Shaped them, and Neheris had given them such Gifts as were in her keeping—a love of mountains and high places, and the hidden places within them, knowledge of stone and how it was formed, how it might be shaped, how a swift river might cut through solid rock.

  Tanaros made them a disciplined fighting force.

  “A fine skirmish!” Vorax clapped a powerful hand on his back. Tanaros coughed at the force of it, his highstrung mount tossing its head. The Staccian only grinned, revealing strong, white teeth. Some said there was Fjeltroll blood in the oldest Staccian lines; Vorax had never denied it. “I’m off to the cellars to count kegs against unkept promises. You’ll keep them hard at it in days to come, cousin?”

  General Tanaros, half-breathless, fought not to wheeze. “I will,” he said as the Staccian saluted him, wheeling his deep-barreled charger toward the cellars of Darkhaven. What they contained, only Vorax knew; as with the larders, as with the treasury. More, was the Staccian’s motto; more and more and more, a hunger as vast as all Urulat. And only his Lord Satoris had granted him indulgence for it.

  As he had given Tanaros an army to command.

  Thus the desires of two of the Three.

  He stayed on the field, watching and waiting as the troops filed past him and saluted, here and there greeting a Fjel by name, commending his performance. Vorax’s Staccian unit passed, too, laughing and saluting with fists on hearts, eager for their reward; svartblod and gold, Vorax would have promised. He knew them, too. It mattered. He was their general, their commander. He had commanded soldiers before, and he knew their hearts.

  And they had hearts; oh, yes. Arahila Second-Born, Arahila the Fair, had given them that Gift. She had given her Gift to all the Shapers’ Children, and she had not stinted in the giving.

  Thus do we love, Tanaros thought, watching the Fjeltroll parade past him, bantering and jesting in their own guttural tongue, canny veterans dressing down the embarrassed recruits, mocking their bruises and pointing out their journeyman errors. And thus do we hate, for one begets the other.

  Once, he had loved his wife and his liege-lord, and despised the Fjeltroll with all the rancor in his passionate heart. And yet it was the betrayal of that very love that had led him to this place, and made the Fjel his boon companions.

  A pair of veterans passed, Nåltannen Fjel of the Needle Teeth tribe, bearing along an injured youngster, his meaty arms slung over their shoulders as he hobbled between them. They were laughing, showing their pointed teeth, the lad between them wincing every time his left foot made contact with the ground. “What think you, General?” one called in the common tongue, saluting. “Can we make a soldier of this one?”

  “Mangren,” Tanaros said, putting a name to the young Fjel’s battered face, remembering where he had stood in the battle-lines. This one had worked hard in the drills. Dark bristles covered his hide and rose like hackles along the ridge of his spine; one of the Mørkhar Fjel, injured and glowering and proud. “You held your ground when the Gulnagel overran your position. Yes, lads, I think he’ll do. Get a measure of Lord Vorax’s svar
tblod in him, and you’ll see.”

  The veterans laughed, hurrying toward their reward.

  Between them, the lad’s face relaxed into a grin, stillwhite tusks showing against his leathery lips as he hobbled toward the barracks, aided by his comrades. He had done well, then; his general was pleased.

  And on it went, and on and on, until it was done.

  “They did well, eh, General?” Hyrgolf rumbled, planting himself before him.

  The Fjeltroll was dusty with battle, dirt engrained in the creases of his thick hide. Scratches and dents marred the dull surfaces of his practice-weapons, the blunt iron. Tanaros shifted in his saddle, his mount sidling beneath him.

  “They did well,” he agreed.

  Once upon a time, he had been the Commander of the Guard in Altoria. Once upon a time, he had taught Men to master their instinctive fear at the sight of the hideous, bestial visages of the Fjeltroll, taught them to strike at their unprotected places. Now, he taught the Fjeltroll to carry shields, and those hideous visages were the faces of his friends and brethren.

  Hyrgolf’s small eyes were shrewd beneath the thick shelf of his brow-bone. “Shall I report to debrief, General?”

  “No.” Tanaros shook his head. “The lads fought boldly, Hyrgolf. I saw it myself. Go, then, and claim Lord Vorax’s reward. We’ll return to regular drills on the morrow, and work on such weaknesses as I perceived.”

  “Aye, General!” Hyrgolf saluted smartly and set off for the barracks.

  Tanaros sat his horse and watched him go. A rolling gait, better suited for the steep crags of the highlands than the floor of this stony hollow. The Fjeltroll’s broad shoulders rocked from side to side as he marched, bearing lightly the burden of his battle-harness, the badges of his rank. Such loyalty, such courage!

  It shamed him, sometimes.

  Above his heart, the mark of his branding burned.

  Bloody rays from the setting sun sank low under the overhanging clouds, striking a ruddy wash of light across the Vale of Gorgantum. Following in the wake of his troops, Tanaros shuddered out of habit. Haomane’s Fingers, they called it here, probing for Lord Satoris’ pulse. Somewhere, in the depths of the mighty edifice of Darkhaven, Satoris cowered, fearing his Elder Brother’s wrath that had once made a desert of his refuge.

  It angered Tanaros. Flinging back his helmeted head, he watched the dim orb of the setting sun in the west; watched it, issuing his own private challenge. He was a Man, and should not fear the sun. Come, then, Haomane First-Born! Send your troops, your Children, your Ellylon with their bright eyes and sharp blades, your allies among Men! We are not afraid! We are ready for you!

  The sun sank behind the low mountains, the challenge unanswered.

  A red star flickered faint warning on the western horizon.

  Tanaros sighed, and turned his horse toward home.

  LINDANEN DALE HELD THEM LIKE a cupped hand, green and inviting. It was ringed with stalwart oaks that stood like sentries, their leaves not yet fully fledged. In the distance, Cerelinde could hear the Aven River, a sound evocative of Meronil and home. Overhead, the sky was clear and blue, Haomane’s sun shining upon them like a blessing.

  “What think you, my lady?” Aracus smiled at her. He sat at ease on his mount, one of the Borderguard, his second-in-command, a half pace behind him. Sunlight made his hair blaze, copper threaded with gold. “Your kinsmen and mine once met to take counsel in this place, when Altoria ruled the west.”

  “Then it is fitting.” Cerelinde smiled back at him. “I would fain wed in a place of such beauty.”

  “Duke Bornin of Seahold has pledged a company,” he said. “It will be witnessed by Men and Ellylon, that all may know what we do.”

  A shadow passed over the greensward. Aracus shaded his eyes with one hand, gazing at the sky. It was limpid and blue, empty. Amid the oaks, a raven’s hoarse call sounded once, then was silent.

  “This is not without risk,” Cerelinde said quietly.

  “No.” He glanced at her. “But it must be witnessed, Cerelinde. It must be done openly. Haomane’s Prophecy will never be fulfilled unless we fire the hearts and minds of Men. Is Lord Ingolin willing to admit hundreds upon hundreds of us to Meronil?”

  She shook her head. “You know he is not. Our magic has grown weak in this Sundered World. The wards would not hold. We must be able to defend our last stronghold.”

  “Here, then.” His smile returned. “We will put our faith in mortal steel.”

  Cerelinde inclined her head, turning in the saddle to address Aracus’ companion. “I do not doubt my lord Blaise is capable,” she said.

  The two Men exchanged an uneasy glance.

  Cerelinde raised her brows. “Will you not be in attendance?”

  Blaise Caveros bowed briefly in the saddle. “Lady, forgive me, but I will not.”

  She studied his face. He returned her regard steadily, his dark gaze haunted by the shadow of his lineage. Once upon a time, his distant kinsman Tanaros Caveros had served as second-in-command to a scion of the House of Altorus; served and betrayed, becoming one of the Three. The enormity of his betrayal had tainted the name of all who bore it, and all their descendants thereafter. Aracus had been the first in a thousand years to set aside the ancient mistrust the Caveros name engendered, and Blaise was willing to spend his lifetime in atonement for his ancestor’s sin. His loyalty was fierce, defiant and beyond question, and Aracus would never spare him unless grave doings were afoot.

  “What,” she asked, “is Malthus plotting?”

  “Cerelinde.” Aracus leaned over to touch her arm. “Nothing is certain and much is yet unknown. I pray you, ask me no questions I cannot answer. Malthus has bidden me keep his counsel, at least until we are wed.”

  “Even from me?” Anger stirred in her. “Am I not the Lady of the Ellylon? Does the Wise Counselor find even me unworthy of his trust?”

  “No.” It was Blaise who answered, shaking his head. “Lady, I know not where I am bound, nor does Aracus. It is Malthus who asks that we trust him.”

  “Malthus.” Cerelinde sighed. “Haomane’s Weapon keeps his counsel close; too close, perhaps. Haomane’s Children do not like being kept in ignorance.”

  “It is for a short time only, my lady. Malthus knows what he is about.” Aracus gazed at her. His eyes were a stormy blue, open and earnest, filled with all the passion of his belief. “Will you not abide?”

  Cerelinde thought about all they risked, and the pain both of them would suffer. Time would claim him, leaving her untouched. There would be pain enough to spare, and no need to inflict more upon them, here and now, at the beginning. For the sake of what brief happiness was theirs to claim, she was willing to set aside her pride.

  “So be it,” she said. “I will abide.”

  THE EDIFICE OF DARKHAVEN EMBRACED the whole of the Vale of Gorgantum.

  The fortress itself loomed at the center, black and gleaming, veined throughout with the marrow-fire. Its steep walls and immaculate lines had a stark beauty, tempered here and there with an unexpected turret, a hidden garden, an elaborate gable. To the west rose the Tower of the Observatory, where Satoris had met with the Three. In the east, there arose the Tower of Ravens, seldom used, though to good effect.

  Between and below lay the Chamber of the Font, and Godslayer, where Lord Satoris dwelt.

  Deeper still lay the Source.

  Of that, one did not speak.

  Tanaros had been there, in the Chamber of the Font. He had beheld Godslayer, pulsing like a heart in the blue-white flames. And he had knelt, gasping his allegiance, while the Lord Satoris had reached into the marrow-fire and taken Godslayer for his own, reversing the dagger, the Shard of the Souma, and planting its hilt above Tanaros’ heart, searing his mortal flesh.

  What lay beneath the Font?

  The Source.

  One did not speak of that which might be extinguished.

  And from the Source at its center, Darkhaven spiraled outward to encompass the Vale en
tire, a double spiral with the two Towers as opposite poles. At its outermost perimeter, black walls coiled up the mountainsides, here and there punctuated by sentry posts, lit with watch-fires emerging visible in the dusk. There, to the east, a gap where the watchtowers flanked the Defile, their signal fires burning low and steady. Tanaros noted them as he rode, numbering them like a merchant counting coin. All was as it should be in the realm of Lord Satoris.

  Inside the inner walls of the sanctuary, Tanaros made his way to the stables, dismounting with a groan. He had grown stiff in the saddle, stiff in the service of his Lord. A young stablehand came for the stallion, shadowy and deft, eyes gleaming behind the thatch of his forelock. One of Ushahin’s madlings. The lad bobbed a crooked bow, then crooned to the stallion. It arched its neck, flaring its nostrils and huffing in gentle response.

  “You needn’t walk him long,” Tanaros said in the common tongue, laying a hand on the stallion’s glossy hide and finding it cool. “He’s had his ease since the skirmish.”

  The madling sketched him a second bow, eyes bright with knowing.

  What did he hear, Tanaros wondered; what did he understand? One never knew, with the Dreamspinner’s foundlings. This one understood the common tongue, of that he was sure. Most of them did. A few did not. The madling led his mount away, still crooning; the stallion bent his head as if to listen, sleek black hide rippling under the light of the emerging stars. This one, Tanaros thought, loved horses. So much he knew, and no more. Only Ushahin, who walked in their dreams, knew them all.

  With stiff fingers, Tanaros unbuckled his helm and approached the postern gate.

  “General Tanaros!” The pair of Fjeltroll on duty saluted smartly, slapping the butts of their spears on the marble stair. “We heard the exercise went well,” one added cunningly. “Too bad the Havenguard weren’t there, eh?”