Malthus sat unmoving in the saddle. “Does Satoris Banewreaker thus accuse? Then let him take the field and acquit himself. I see no Shaper present.”
“Nor do I,” Tanaros said softly. “Nor do I. And yet I know where my master is, and why. Can you say the same, Wise Counselor?”
“You seek to delay, Kingslayer!” Aracus Altorus’ voice rang out, taut with frustration. “You know why we are here. Fight or surrender.”
Tanaros gazed at him through the eyes of the Helm of Shadows, seeing a figure haloed in flickering fire; a fierce spirit, bold and exultant. Still, his face was averted. “I am here, Son of Altorus.” He opened his arms. “Will you stand against me? Will you, Ingolin of Meronil? No?” His gaze shifted to Malthus. “What of you, Counselor? Will you not match Haomane’s Spear against my sword?”
“I will do it.”
The voice came from behind them. Blaise Caveros rode forward, unbuckling his helm. He removed it to reveal his face, pale and resolute. With difficulty, he fixed his gaze upon the eyeholes of the Helm of Shadows and held it there. Beads of sweat shone on his brow. “On one condition. I have removed my helm, kinsman,” he said thickly. “Will you not do the same?”
Malthus the Counselor lifted his head as though listening for a strain of distant music. The tip of the Spear of Light rose, wreathed in white-gold fire, and the Soumanië on his breast sparkled.
Aracus Altorus drew a sharp breath. “Blaise, stand down! If this battle belongs to anyone, it is me.”
“No.” Blaise looked steadily at Tanaros. “What comes afterward is your battle, Aracus. I cannot wed the Lady Cerelinde. I cannot forge a kingdom out of chaos. But I can fight this … creature.”
Tanaros smiled bitterly. “Do you name me thus, kinsman?”
“I do.” Blaise matched his smile. “I have spent my life in the shadow of your infamy, Kingslayer. If you give me this chance … an honorable chance … to purge the world of its blight, I will take it.”
Tanaros pointed toward Malthus with his blade. “Do you speak of honor, kinsman? Let the Counselor relinquish yon Spear.”
“Tanaros,” a voice murmured. He turned his head to see Ushahin Dreamspinner, his mismatched eyes feverish and bright “There is madness in this offer.”
“Madness, aye,” Tanaros said quietly. “Madness to risk the Helm; madness, too, for Malthus to surrender a weapon of Haomane’s Shaping while Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn is afoot.”
The half-breed shivered. “I do not know. Vorax’s death—”
“—cries for vengeance. Let us provide it for him.” Tanaros reached up to unbuckle the Helm of Shadows. Even through his gauntlets, its touch made his hands ache. Behind him, the Tungskulder Fjel murmured deep in their throats. “What say you, Counselor?”
Malthus’ hand tightened on the Spear of Light. With a sudden move, he drove it downward into the earth. “Remove the Helm and lay it upon the ground, Kingslayer,” he said in his calm, deep voice. “And I will release the haft and honor this bargain, if it be your will to make it.”
A bargain was a fitting way to honor the death of Vorax of Staccia. Tanaros glanced around. Word had spread, and stillness in its wake. Across the plains, weary combatants paused, waiting. Some of Haomane’s Allies were using the respite to haul the wounded from the field; behind their lines, figures hurried to meet them. The sturdy Dwarfs aided, carrying wounded Men twice their size. The dead lay motionless, bleeding into the long grass. There were many of them on the left flank, clad in Staccian armor.
There were no wounded Fjel to be tended. Wounded Fjel fought until there was no more life in them. There were only the living and the dead.
“Marshal Hyrgolf.” Tanaros beckoned. “Order the Nåltannen to regroup, and move the second squadron of Gulnagel in position to harry the Vedasians. Tell them to hold on your orders. Give none until provoked.”
“Aye, Lord General, sir!” Hyrgolf saluted.
Tanaros smiled at him. “Once I remove this Helm, I want your Tungskulder lads to guard it as though their lives depended on it Does any one of Haomane’s Allies stir in its direction, strike them down without hesitation or mercy. Is that understood?”
Hyrgolf revealed his eyetusks in a broad grin. “Aye, Lord General, sir!”
“Good.” Tanaros offered a mocking bow to Blaise Caveros. “Shall we meet as Men, face-to-face and on our feet? Men did so once upon the training-fields of Altoria, before I razed it to the ground.”
Color rose to the Borderguardsman’s cheeks; with an oath, he dismounted and flung his head back. “Come, then, and meet me!”
Tanaros sheathed his sword and dismounted. Six Tungskulder stepped forward promptly to surround him. With careful hands, he lifted the Helm of Shadows from his head. He blinked against the sudden brightness, the disappearance of the phantom pain in his groin, the ache in his palms. Astride his foam-white horse, the Wise Counselor watched him, still gripping the planted shaft of the Spear of Light.
“What did you do to my horse, Malthus?” Tanaros called to him.
“All things are capable of change,” Malthus answered. “Even you, Kingslayer.”
“As are you, Counselor; for we are Lesser Shapers, are we not? Change is a choice we may make.” Stooping, Tanaros laid the Helm on the trampled grass. “And yet I do not think you gave such a choice to my horse.”
There was a moment of fear as he straightened; if Haomane’s Allies were to betray their bargain, it would be now. But, no; Malthus had kept his word and released the Spear of Light. There it stood, gleaming, untouched by any hand, upright and quivering in a semicircle of Haomane’s Allies. The eyeholes of the Helm of Shadows gazed upward from the ground, dark with pain and horror. Beyond the Tungskulder, Ushahin nodded briefly at him, his twisted face filled with sick resolve.
“So.” Tanaros stepped away. A cold breeze stirred his damp hair, making him feel light-headed and free. His world was narrowing to this moment, this hard-trodden circle of ground. This opponent, this younger self, glimpsed through the mirror of ages. He gave the old, old salute, the one he had given so often to Roscus; a fist to the heart, an open hand extended. Brother, let us spar. I trust my life unto your hands. “Shall we begin?”
Blaise Caveros drew his sword without returning the salute. “Do you suggest this is a mere exercise?” he asked grimly.
“No.” Tanaros regarded his gauntleted hand, closing it slowly into a fist. He glanced up to meet the eyes of Aracus Altorus; fierce and demanding, unhappy at being relegated to an onlooker’s role. Not Roscus, but someone else altogether. “No,” he said, “I suppose not.”
“Then ward yourself well,” Blaise said, and attacked.
NINETEEN
Darkhaven’s kitchens were filled with a fearsome clatter.
That was where Dani and Thulu found themselves herded once the long work of loading half-smoked sides of mutton onto the endless supply-wagons was done. It had been a long nightmare, filled with blood and smoke, the both of them staggering with laden arms along the stony trails. It seemed impossible that no one should notice them, but amid the horde of toiling madlings, they might as well have been invisible. Back and forth, back and forth, until the work was done and the army departed for the plains below.
And when it was, they were herded into the kitchens under the careless eye of a pair of Fjeltroll guards, who had larger matters on their minds. Darkhaven was buzzing like a hornets’ nest; no one paid heed to a pair of filthblackened Yarru huddled in a corner. The kitchens swarmed with such figures, swarthy with smoke and pitch and dried blood from the long night’s labors.