"You look like you're sizing them up for battle, cousin." Ushahin's remark sounded casual. "Do you lack faith in our fortifications?"
"No." Tanaros wondered why Haomane's Allies had bothered to waste a precious hour or two of sleep to arrive at dawn. He exchanged a glance with Hyrgolf, who shrugged. There was no element of surprise to be gained. Did they imagine the sight would shock Darkhaven into surrendering? He frowned, studying the army. There, there was another figure he knew, riding to the forefront as the ranks parted to allow him passage. White-robed and white-maned, the tip of his spear shining like the last star of the morning, a spark of brightness nestled in his snowy beard. He rode astride a horse as white as foam, with an arched neck and hooves that fell with deft precision.
"Is that… him?" Speros asked in a low voice.
"Malthus the Counselor." Tanaros confirmed it absently, still frowning. "What did you
do
to my horse, damn you?"
As if in answer, the figure of Malthus spread his arms wide. The clear Soumanië on his breast burst into a blaze of light, bathing him in white radiance. On either side of him, Rivenlost heralds in bright armor raised horns to their lips and blew long blasts, high and clarion, shivering and silvery in the dawn.
On the plains of Curonan, Malthus the Wise Counselor lifted his voice, and whether it was through some vestigial magic of the Soumanië or the wizard's own arts, given to him by Haomane himself, his voice carried above the plains, as powerful and resonant as any Tordenstem Fjel; as his Lordship himself.
"Satoris Third-Born, whom Men and Ellylon have named Sunderer and Banewreaker, we have come in answer to your challenge! In the name of Haomane First-Born, Lord-of-Thought, I command yon to face us, or be forever branded a coward!"
His words broke like a thunderclap over the mountains, accompanied by a blinding wash of brilliant white light. Tanaros rocked back in the saddle as though he had been struck. It felt like it. Fury flooded his veins, drowning rational thought; for an instant, he nearly spurred his mount over the edge of the crag into thin air. He found he was laughing, his teeth bared in a grimace of defiance, one hand on the hilt of his black sword. The Fjel were roaring, Vorax was roaring, the Staccians and Speros were shouting promises of bloody death, Tanaros shook his head, trying to clear it. There was only one way down to the plains; back, back to Darkhaven and down through Defile's Maw. Yes that was the way.
"Tanaros!
Tanaros
!"
A hand was on his arm; Ellyl-fair, tangling his reins and detaining him as he sought to turn his mount. Impatient, he tried to shake it off, but there was unexpected strength in the grip.
"You were right." Ushahin's voice was taut. "There is as much danger in the power to Shape spirit as matter."
The words penetrated slowly. Tanaros took a shaking breath, aware of his heart threatening to burst from his branded chest, of hungering for the scent of blood. Ahead of him, Fjel and Men alike were scrambling along the path toward Darkhaven. "Malthus' Soumanië," he said thickly, understanding. "Why should
you
be immune?"
"To this?" Ushahin Dreamspinner gave his bitter smile. A vein throbbed in his dented temple and his dilated eye was black as a void, seeping meaningless tears at the painful onslaught of light. "It is only another form of madness." He nodded down the path. "You had better halt your troops."
Cursing, Tanaros lashed his mount's haunches with his reins. He rode them down, plunging amid them, shouting. "Turn back, turn back! Hyrgolf! Vorax! Speros! Turn back!"
Hyrgolf heeded him first, coming to himself with a mighty shudder. He waded through the milling troops to plant himself in their path, setting his shoulders and roaring orders until the headlong rush stalled into aimless chaos.
"What was that?" Speros sounded confused, half-awake.
"That," Tanaros said grimly, "was Malthus."
The Midlander blinked befuddled brown eyes at him. "What happens now?"
They were all gazing toward him for an answer. Tanaros shook his head, wordless. Behind and beyond them, above the looming edifice of Darkhaven's fortress, stormclouds were gathering; black and roiling. One atop another they piled, bruise-colored and furious, until the air was heavy with tension. Wind blew in every direction, cold and cutting as a knife.
A peal of thunder answered Malthas' challenge. It began deep and low, so low it was little more than a tremor felt in the pit of the belly, then built in burgeoning fury, built and built in rolling peals, culminating in a booming crack, the likes of which had not been heard since the foundation of the world was Sundered. Even the horses of Darkhaven staggered, and Men and Fjel lifted their hands to cover their ears.
A fork of lightning split the dirty clouds, blue-white as the marrow-fire, and its afterimage was as red as the beating heart of Godslayer.
Then there was silence, until it was broken again by the silvery horns of the Rivenlost, casting their tremulous, valiant challenge aloft on a surge of light, sowing fresh unrest in their enemies' souls.
"What
now
!" Speros of Haimhault's voice broke. "Ah. Shapers! What now?"
"War." Ushahin Dreamspinner rode up the path with shoulders hunched against the biting winds. Under the lowering skies and their murky light, the mount that consented to bear him was the color of old blood, spilled and drying. Tanaros watched him tome; half-breed, half-healed, his gilt hair lank with disdain. Ushahin met his eyes, but it was Speros he answered, "It is what it has always been, Midlander. War."
"We will give them
war
!" Vorax growled, and the Staccians echoed assent. "Supplies be damned! We will fall upon them and make them wish they had never been born."
Tanaros raised his hand, halting them. "It is for his Lordship to decide."
"It is in my heart that he has already decided." Ushahin murmured to him. "The Soumanië is persuasive, and his Lordship was not unwilling to be persuaded in the matter. I hope you took their measure well, cousin."
Tanaros glanced back toward the plains, longing to answer the horns' call. "Well enough, cousin, if it comes to it." He steeled himself. "We'd best make haste. The fortress is likely to be in an uproar. Can I trust you all to hold firm?"
There were grim nods all around. Bloodlust itched in all of them, but the initial madness of Malthus' spell had been broken. What remained could be resisted.
It was well, for his prediction proved an understatement. They arrived at Darkhaven to find it boiling with battle-frenzy. Fjel poured from the barracks, abandoned their posts along the wall, streaming toward the Defile Gate. Only their sheer mass prevented them from passing through it and entering Defile's Maw. So many Fjel were pressed up against the Gate it was impossible to open it. Enraged and slavering, partially armed or not at all, they flung themselves against the stone walls.
"Shapers!" Speros looked ill.
"Marshal Hyrgolf." Tanaros kneed his mount forward, taking a position atop the high path where all could see him. He gazed down at the seething mass of bodies. "Get me one of the Tordenstem." There was a slight commotion behind him, and then one of the Tordenstem, the Thunder Voice Fjel, was at his side, squat and grey as a boulder, offering a steady salute. Tanaros nodded at him. "Tell them their General commands their attention."
The Tordenstem took a great breath, his barrel-shaped torso swelling visibly, and loosed his voice in a mighty roar. "
All heed the Lord General Tanaros! Tan-a-ros! Tan-a-ros! All heed the Lord General
!"
Stillness settled, slow and gradual. The long training of the Fjel had instilled the habit of obedience in them. They ceased flinging themselves at the impervious stone and gazed upward at Tanaros, a semblance of sanity returning to their features.
"Brethren!" Tanaros raised his voice; an ordinary Man's voice, possessed of no special might, but pitched to cany over battlefields. "Who is it that has ordered this assault?" There was no answer. The Fjel shuffled and looked at their horny feet. "No?" Tanaros asked. "Then I will tell you: Malthus. It is Malthus the Counselor who orders it, and Malthus alone you obey if you heed this madness!"
They looked shame-faced and Tanaros felt guilty at it. He, too, had been caught up in the frenzy. If not for the Dreamspinner's intervention, he would be down there among them. But it would avail nothing to confess it. Now was the time to provoke their pride, not assuage it.
"Listen to me," he said to the Fjel. "This"—he gestured—"this mayhem, this undisciplined ferocity,
this
is how Haomane's Allies see you. This is what they wish the Fjel to be; mindless, unthinking. Ravening beasts. Do you wish to prove them aright? Is that how Neheris Shaped her Children?"
A roar of denial rose in answer. Tanaros smiled and drew his black sword. Its hilt pulsed in his grip, attuned to the hatred that throbbed in his veins. It glowed with its own dark light under the shrouded skies.
"By this sword!" he called. "By the black sword, quenched in His Lordship's blood. I swear to you! We will obey his Lordship's orders and see his will is clone. And if his will he
war
. Haomane's Allies will know what it means to face the wrath, and the might, and the
discipline
of Darkhaven!"
Their cheers drowned out the distant call of Ellylon horns.
Tanaros sheathed the black sword and turned to Hyrgolf. "Summon your lieutenants and restore some semblance of order. Tell the lads to remain on alert."
"Aye, General." Hyrgolf paused. "You think his Lordship means to do it?"
"I don't know." Tanaros leaned over in the saddle, clasping the Tungskulder's shoulder. "We shall see, Field Marshal."
Lilias startled awake from a dream of Beshtanag.
She had been dreaming of the siege, the endless siege, watching her people grow starved and resentful, waiting for an army that would never come, hearing once more the silvery horns of the Rivenlost blow and the herald repeating his endless challenge.
Sorceress! Surrender the Lady Cerelinde, and your people will be spared
!
Waking, she found herself in her pleasant prison-chamber, sunlight streaming through the high windows. Beshtanag was far, far away. And still she heard horns, a faint and distant call echoing through Meronil's white bridges and towers.
For a terrified moment, she thought it was Oronin's Horn summoning her to death. In Pelmar it was said those of noble birth could hear it; of a surety, the Were could. But, no, those were Ellylon horns.
"Eamaire." Swallowing her pride. Lilias pleaded with the attendant when she arrived. "What passes in the world? Is Meronil besieged?"
"While Haomane's Children draw breath on Urulat's soil. Meronil stands. Lady." A cool disdain was in the Ellyl's leaf-green eyes, as though she had borne witness to Lilias' darkest fantasies of destruction. "The Lord of the Rivenlost travels with the Host. You do but hear their horns sounding in the distance."
Lilias took a sharp breath. "Darkhaven?"
The Ellyl hesitated, then shook her head. "It may be. We cannot know."
She departed, leaving Lilias alone with the memory of her dream and the awful knowledge that it was true, all true, that Beshtanag was lost, everything was lost, and she was to blame. The horns sounded again, reminding her.
Perhaps Oronin's Horn would not have been so terrible after all.
Lilias sat at her window seat and watched the broad silver ribbon of the Aven River unfurl far, far below, thinking about her dream. Perhaps, she thought, she would sleep and dream it again. As awful as it was, it was no worse than the reality to which she had awakened, the reality she was forced to endure. At least in the dream, Beshtanag had not yet fallen. Calandor still lived, and Lilias was immortal.
There were worse things than death and dreams.
The throne hall was ablaze with marrow-fire. It surged upward from the torches to sear the mighty rafters and laced the walls in stark blue-white veins; earth's lightning, answering to Lord Satoris' rage. The Shaper was pacing the dais in front of his carnelian throne, a vast and ominous figure, unknown words spilling from his lips.
The Three glanced at one another and approached.
"My Lord." Tanaros went to one knee, bowing his head. From the corner of his eye, he saw Vorax do the same. Ushahin, unaccountably, remained standing. "We come to learn your will."
"My
will
." Lord Satoris ground out the words. He ceased his pacing and his eyes flashed red as coal-embers. "Did you not hear the challenge Malthus raises? My
will
, my Three, is to take up Godslayer and split open the very earth beneath his feet until he is swallowed whole by Urulat itself, and my Elder Brother's allies with him!"
His words echoed throughout the Throne Hall, echoed and continued to echo. Tanaros kept his head bowed, feeling the Shaper's wrath beating in waves against his skin. The air was filled with the acrid odor of blood and thunder, so dense he could taste it in his mouth.
"Can you, my Lord?" It was Ushahin, still standing and gazing up at Satoris, who asked the question. There was a strange tenderness in his voice. "Can we yet delay this hour?"
The Shaper sighed. His shoulders slumped and his head lowered. A beast brought to bay; and yet no beast had ever stood so motionless, so still. The last echo of his words faded, until there was only the sound of the Three breathing, the crackle and hiss of the torches, and the slow, steady drip of ichor pooling on the dais.
"I cannot." Satoris whispered the words, turning out his empty hands. "Oh, my Three! I am not what I was. It is a terrible burden to bear. I have borne it too long and spent too much." A shudder ran through him. "Was I unwise? I cannot say."
"Not unwise." Ushahin wiped at his dilated eye, watering in the marrow-fire's painful glare. "Never that, my Lord."
"No?" Satoris laughed, harsh and hollow. "And yet, and yet. Ah. Dreamspinner! What did you
see
in the Delta? Too much. I think too much. I destroyed the Marasoumië and I reckoned it worth the cost, for it would destroy Haomane's Weapon within it. And yet he lives, he places himself within my grasp, no longer able to Shape matter, and I…" He glanced at his empty hand. "I cannot seize him. I bleed, I diminish. Clouds I may summon; smoke and fire, signifying nothing. Godslayer beckons, but I cannot rise to its challenge, i cannot Shape the earth. I spent myself too soon."