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 you 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 Malthus’ 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 come; 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 battlefrenzy. 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 carry 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.