“Ride!” Tanaros shouted. “Men, ride!”
They rode, pounding through the oak wood, the ancient holdings of Altoria, and the mounts they rode were the horses of Darkhaven, swift-hooved and high-spirited, their glossy coats disguised with mud and burrs. They rode, and the trees passed in a blur, and behind them slid Fjeltroll with yellow eyes and sharp axes, laying a trap for those who would follow—and there four of their number paused, waiting. Here and there lay corpses, Ellylon and Men alike, sentries who grinned in death at the innocent spring leaves. They rode, and death ran before them, Oronin’s Children, grey and implacable.
A league, a league, less than a league.
Ahead, the trees thinned, bright sunlight shining on Lindanen Dale. Tanaros glanced left and right, wind-sprung tears blurring his vision. In the periphery of his gaze, he could see the Staccians following, falling into a wedge formation. The Were had vanished. Let them be there, he thought, a desperate prayer. Oh my Lord, let them be there! Drawing his sword, he loosed a wordless cry as they emerged into the Dale.
Greensward, and flowers hidden in the grass.
Silk tents, with pennants fluttering.
And the host, the nuptial host, milling on the lawn, chaos sown in their midst, with rent garments and blood flowing freely. A harpist, moaning and pale, cradled a torn forearm; others lay unmoving, and their blood spread on the grass, darkening. This, they had not expected. Not the grey hunters of the Were, not Oronin’s Children, who could penetrate any defense not raised behind walls. Ah, and even so! So many, so many of Haomane’s Allies, gathered in one place. Lindanen Dale seethed like a kicked anthill. Unready and unmounted they might be, but they had not come unarmed. Already, the soldiers were gathering their wits. There was one of the Were brethren, dying, his hairy belly slit, entrails dragging on the greensward. And there, the other, brought to bay by the Duke of Seahold’s men, closing in with spears.
Tanaros thundered past, ignoring them.
There … there.
Before the bower, wrought with Ellylon craftsmanship, enwrapped with flowers—there. A man, bare-headed, danced with death in a bridegroom’s finery, and the sunlight gleamed on his red-gold hair and the naked steel of his blade. A grey, shadowy figure lunged at his throat, teeth snapping in a hunger that had honed itself for centuries. Around and around they went in a deadly pavane. After a thousand years, the Grey Dam of the Were sought to avenge the deaths of her mate and cubs. And all around them, the Altorians stood in a ring, the Borderguard of Curonan, holding their blades for fear of striking awry, shouting fierce encouragement to their king-in-exile, so grievously assaulted on his wedding day.
Not there. No.
To the left, where an Ellyl woman stood, clad in bridal silks. There was fear in her face, and pride. Oh yes, Haomane knew, there was pride! She shone like a flame, lending courage to the women who attended her and cowered at her side, strengthening the hearts of her Rivenlost guards who bristled about her, swords and spears at the ready.
It took all his strength not to howl his Lord’s name, betraying the origin of their attack; though in truth, it would not have mattered if he did, for at that moment the Dreamspinner’s subtle influence began to manifest, warping sight and sound, and Men turned in confusion toward imagined attackers where there were none. Such was Ushahin’s illusion, augmented by the Helm of Shadows, that even the Ellylon believed with utter certitude that an involuntary Beshtanagi warcry was uttered in the mêlée.
“Now!” Tanaros shouted to his men. “Now!”
They followed as he led them in a charge against the personal guard of Cerelinde, granddaughter of Elterrion the Bold, Lord of the Rivenlost. Young men—boys, some of them—sworn to fat Vorax. Why? He didn’t dare ask, but must trust them to be there, fighting on horseback at his side as his sword rose and fell, rose and fell, dripping with Ellyl blood. The cries of the dying rang in his ears, his and theirs. Proud Ellyl faces, eyes bright with Haomane’s favor, swam in his vision; he cut them down, cleaving a path through them, again and again and again, until his sword-arm grew tired.
And then …
Only fear, in her beautiful face; fear and disbelief.
“Lady, come!” he gasped, discarding his buckler and hauling her across his pommel with one strong arm.
The weight of her—oh Lord, oh my Lord Satoris!
Tanaros gritted his teeth, feeling her struggle, her flesh against his; Ellyl flesh, a woman’s flesh, warm and living. Her hair spilled like gleaming silk over his left knee, tangling in his Pelmaran greaves, his stirrup. Pale, her hair, like cornsilk. The surviving Staccians closed around him, swords flashing as they fought, checking their mounts broadside into the bodies of her defenders. Across the Dale, cavalry units scrambled to assemble and an Ellyl horn blew, a sound of silvery defiance, summoning the Host
“Lady, forgive me,” Tanaros muttered and, raising his sword, brought the hilt down sharply on the base of her skull. Her weight went still and limp, quiescent.
A cry of rage and fury shattered the air.
“Cerelinde! CERELINDE!”
Tanaros turned his head and met Aracus Altorus’ gaze.
In that instant, the Grey Dam of the Were made her final lunge; one last, desperate attack, carrying the onus of the battle to her opponent, spending her life upon it. Altorus’ sword came up between them, spitting her, and he wept with futile anger as her weight bore him down, jaws seeking his throat even as her eyes filmed.
“Go!” Tanaros shouted, wheeling the black. “Go!”
Tanaros clung to his mount like grim death, one hand on the reins, one clutching the limp burden athwart his pommel, the Staccians surrounding him as they raced for the treeline. The greensward of Lindanen Dale was churned to mud beneath the pounding hooves of the horses of Darkhaven.
And behind them, Haomane’s allies were closing fast, astride and racing, and in the vanguard was the cavalry of Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost, moved to hot-blooded wrath for the first time in centuries; and close at their heels were the Borderguard of Curonan in their dun-colored cloaks. Thirty paces to the forest, twenty …
With Cerelinde to carry, he couldn’t outrun them.
“Now, Dreamspinner,” Tanaros whispered under his breath. “Now!”
Madness broke.
Like a wave, a vast black wave, it crashed down upon them, and the sound in his skull was an atonal howl of grief, as if the whole of Oronin’s Children mourned at once, as if every Were in Urulat opened throat in lament. And so it was, in a fashion, for Ushahin Dreamspinner unleashed the full force of his power and gave voice to the grief of them all, and the form of his grief was madness, given shape by the Helm of Shadows.
It halted the armies of Haomane; horses balking, throwing riders, Men clapping hands over ears and falling to writhe on the ground, while the Ellylon sought in vain to control mortal steeds that plunged and pitched in terror. Only the horses of Darkhaven, tended from their foaling by the hands of madlings, were untouched by it.
“Ride, damn you!” Carfax, the Staccian lieutenant, exhorted his troops, almost weeping. “Ride, you sons of whores!”
A flurry of ravens arose as they entered the forest
Branches, breaking at their passage. Tanaros bent low over the black stallion’s neck, clinging with his knees, concentrating on the limp form of the Ellyl woman. The horse’s mane stung his eyes. Oh, brave heart! Hooves pounded the loam, massive trunks rushed past them. How long, until Haomane’s Allies gathered themselves to follow?