“Ah, no!” he whispered.
Vorax of Staccia patted his armor-clad belly. When all was said and done, there was nothing like the excitement of a battle to work up a man’s appetite. He was glad he could rest content in the knowledge that the army was wellsupplied. If nightfall came with neither side victorious, they’d all be glad of it.
At the moment, it bid fair to do just that. He watched Tanaros’ charge carry him into the midst of enemy ranks and shook his head. Better if his Lordship had given the Helm of Shadows to the Dreamspinner.
The battlefield was getting muddled. In the center, Rivenlost and Borderguard were fighting side by side, pressing Marshal Hyrgolf’s line in a concerted effort. The right flank was a mess, with two companies of Nåltannen Fjel wreaking havoc among hapless Midlanders.
And in front of him, the damned Vedasian knights were holding their ground. They were arrayed in a square, smirking behind their damned bucket-size helmets as though their armor made them invincible. On your call, Tanaros had ordered. Vorax sighed. If he waited any longer, he’d be faint with hunger.
“All right, lads!” he called in Staccian. “On my order. Nothing fancy; fan out, circle ’em, strike fast and regroup. Speed’s our ally. Once they break formation, we’ll pick off the bucket-heads one at a time.” Raising his sword, he pointed at the Vedasians. “Let’s go!”
Vorax set his heels to his horse’s flanks. A Staccian battle-paean came to his lips as he led the charge. Five hundred voices picked it up, hurling words in challenge. Vorax felt a grin split his face. If Haomane’s Allies thought their wizard had pulled Staccia’s teeth, they were about to find they were sore mistaken.
Behind him, his lads were fanning out; each one astride a horse swifter, more foul-tempered, more glorious than the next. Vorax picked himself a likely target, a tall Vedasian knight with the device of an apple-tree on his surcoat.
Even as he was thinking it was considerate of the Vedasians to provide such an immobile target, the front line of their square folded inward to reveal a second company concealed within their ranks.
The Dwarfs, Yrinna’s Children.
They ran forward to meet Vorax’s Staccians, long spears clutched in their sturdy hands. Not spears, no; scythes, pruning hooks.
Some of the Staccians swerved unthinking. Others attempted to plow onward. Neither tactic worked. Everywhere, it seemed, there were Dwarfs; small and stalwart, too low to be easy targets, dodging the churning legs of the horses of Darkhaven and swinging their homespun weapons to terrible effect.
Horses foundered and went down, squealing in awful agony. Men who could stand struggled to gain their feet and combat the unforeseen menace. Others moved weakly, unable to rise. The Vedasian knights began to move toward the field, ponderous and inexorable.
In the midst of the impossible carnage, Vorax roared with fury, leaning sideways in the saddle, trying to strike low, low enough to reach his nearest assailant. He could see the Dwarf’s face, grim and resolute, silent tears gleaming on the furrowed cheeks. Yrinna’s Child, aware of the awful price of breaking her Peace in such a manner.
Too far, out of reach.
And then he was falling; overbalanced, he thought. Too fat, too damned fat. But, no, it was his mount collapsing beneath him. Hamstrung, one knee half-severed.
They went down hard, the impact driving the breath from Vorax’s body. He was trapped beneath the horse’s flailing weight, unable to feel his legs. On the field, the Dwarfs were laying down their arms, bowing their heads. Here and there, overwhelmed Staccians fought in knots. A handful of Vedasian knights were dismounting to dispatch the wounded.
Vorax felt his helmet removed. He squinted upward at the faceless figure above him. It was brightness, all brightness; sunlight shining mirror-bright on steel armor. The figure moved its arms. He felt the point of a sword at his throat and tried to speak, but there was no air in his lungs.
No more bargains.
No more meals.
The sword’s point thrust home.
No more.
On the plains of Curonan, Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn was present and not present.
His Lordship’s will had placed him here for the sin of his defiance; his Lordship’s will had placed a blade in Ushahin’s right arm. And so he rode onto the battlefield for the first time in his long immortal life and beheld the pathways between living and dying, casting his thoughts adrift and traveling them.
Present and not present
A squadron of Tungskulder Fjel formed a cordon around him. Twice, Rivenlost warriors broke through their line. Ushahin smiled and swung a sword that was present and not present, cutting the threads that bound their lives to the ageless bodies. What a fine magic it was! He watched them ride dazed away to meet their deaths at Fjel hands. One day, Oronin’s Horn would sound for him, as it had sounded long ago when he lay bleeding in the forests of Pelmar. Today he whispered what the Grey Dam had whispered to him, Not yet.
There were things to be learned, it seemed, upon the battlefield.
And then death came for Vorax of Staccia, Vorax the Glutton, and the shock of it drove Ushahin into the confines of his own crippled body. One of the Three was no more.
The horns of the Rivenlost sounded a triumphant note.
Over the Vale of Gorgantum, an anguished peal of thunder broke.
Tanaros flung back his head and shouted, “Vorax!”
There were no words to describe his fury. It was his, all his, and it made what had gone before seem as nothing. There was no need to hold it, to feed it. It was a perfect thing, as perfect in its way as beauty and love. It filled him until he felt weightless in the saddle. The Helm of Shadows, his armor, the black sword; weightless. Even his mount seemed to float over the field of battle as he broke past the Pelmarans and plunged into the ranks of Haomane’s Allies.
His arm swung tirelessly, a weightless limb wielding a blade as light as a feather. Left and right, Tanaros laid about him.
Wounded and terrified, they fell back, clearing a circle around him. What sort of enemy was it that would not engage? He wanted Aracus Altorus, wanted Malthus the Counselor. But, no, Haomane’s Allies retreated, melting away from his onslaught.
“General! General!”
Hyrgolf’s voice penetrated his rage. Tanaros leaned on the pommel of his saddle, breathing hard, gazing at his field marshal’s familiar face, the small eyes beneath the heavy brow, steady and unafraid. He had regained his army.
Across the plains, combatants struggled, continuing to fight and die, but here in the center of the field a pocket of silence surrounded him. The battle had come to a standstill. Hyrgolf pointed past him without a word, and Tanaros turned his mount slowly.
They were there, arrayed against him, a combined force of Rivenlost and Borderguard at their backs. Ingolin, shining in the bright armor of the Rivenlost. Aracus Altorus, bearing his ancestor’s sword with the lifeless Soumanië in the pommel. Malthus the Counselor, grave of face. Among them, only Malthus was able to look upon the Helm of Shadows without flinching away. The Spear of Light was in his grasp, lowered and level, its point aimed at Tanaros’ heart.
“Brave Malthus,” Tanaros said. “Do you seek to run me through from behind?”
The Counselor’s voice was somber. “We are not without honor, Tanaros Kingslayer. Even here, even now.”
Tanaros laughed. “So you say, wizard. And yet much praise was given to Elendor, son of Elterrion, who crept behind Lord Satoris to strike a blow against him on these very plains, ages past. Do you deny it?”