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.