The thought made Speros smile. He was still smiling when one of Haomane’s Allies, kneeling beside a wounded Arduan archer, rose to her feet and unslung her bow, nocking an arrow. Speros’ smile broadened to a grin. He reckoned he was too far away and moving too fast to be within range.
Of a surety, he was too far away to see that the archer was Fianna and the bow in her hands was wrought of black horn, gleaming like onyx. It was no mortal weapon, and its range could not be gauged by mortal standards.
Oronin’s Bow rang out across the plains; once, twice, three times.
Speros did not feel the arrows’ impact, did not feel the reins slip from his nerveless fingers. The earth struck him hard, but he didn’t feel that, either. He blinked at the sky overhead, filled with circling ravens. He wondered if Fetch, who had saved them in the desert, was among them. He tried to rise and found his body failed to obey him. At last, he understood, and a great sorrow filled him.
“Tell him I tried,” he whispered to the distant ravens, then closed his eyes. He did not reopen them, nor ever would.
Whickering in dismay, a grey horse raced riderless across the plains.
The fight filled Tanaros with a stark, pitiless joy.
There was a purity in it, one that no one who was not born and raised to the battlefield could understand. Two men pitted against one another; weapon to weapon, skill against skill. The world, with all its burdens and paradoxes, was narrowed to this circle of trampled grass, this single opponent.
He would win, of course. The outcome was not in question, had never been in question. Haomane’s Allies were fools. They were so blinded by the terror the Helm of Shadows invoked that they had overlooked the other weapon he bore: the black sword, tempered in the marrow-fire and quenched in his Lordship’s blood. It could shear through metal as easily as flesh, and it would do so when Tanaros chose.
Blaise Caveros was good, though. Better than his liege-lord, yes; better than Roscus had been, too. It was in his blood. He circled carefully, trying to get the sun in Tanaros’ eyes; it worked, too, until a flock of ravens careened overhead, blotting out the sun like a vast black cloud. He kept his shield high, prepared to ward off blows at his unprotected head. He stalked Tanaros with patience, striking with deft precision. Tanaros was hard-pressed to strike and parry without using the edge of his blade and make a believable job of it.
The fight could not end too soon. If Ushahin had any chance of claiming the Spear of Light, it would have to last awhile. From the corner of his eye, Tanaros could see that the Dreamspinner was not where he had been; where he was, he could not say. Only that it was necessary to delay.
It helped that his skills were rusty. Tanaros had a thousand years of practice behind him, but it had been centuries since he had engaged in single combat in the old Altorian fashion. Only a single sparring match with Speros, shortly after the Midlander’s arrival. He hoped the lad was well. It was a foul trick Vorax had played him, though Tanaros could not find it in his heart to fault the Staccian. Not now, while his grief was raw. After all, there had been merit in the bargain, and Haomane’s Allies would not harm the lad. Their sense of honor would not permit it. Other things, oh, yes! They saw the world as they wished to believe it and thereby justified all manner of ill deeds. But they would not kill a hostage out of hand.
There was a dour irony in it, Tanaros thought, studying his opponent. There was nothing but hatred and determination in Blaise Caveros’ face; and yet they looked alike, alike enough to be near kin. His son, if his son had been his, might have resembled this Man who sought his life. Quiet and determined, dark and capable.
But, no, his son, his wife’s child, had been born with red-gold hair and the stamp of the House of Altorus on his face. Speros of Haimhault, with his irrepressible gap-toothed grin and his stubborn desire to make Tanaros proud, was more a son than that babe had ever been to him.
Blaise feinted right, and Tanaros, distracted, was almost fooled. He stepped backward quickly, catching a glancing blow to the ribs. Even through his armor and the layers of padding beneath it, the impact made him grimace. Behind him, the Fjel rumbled.
“You grow slow, Kingslayer,” Blaise said. “Does the Sunderer’s power begin to fail you?”
Tanaros retreated another pace, regaining his breath and his concentration. Beneath the armor, his branded heart continued to beat, steady and remorseless, bound to Godslayer’s pulse. “Were you speaking to me?” he asked. “Forgive me, I was thinking of other matters.”
The Borderguardsman’s dark, familiar eyes narrowed; still, he was too patient to be baited. He pressed his attack cautiously Tanaros retreated before it, parrying with sword and buckler, trying to catch a glimpse of the Spear of Light. Was there a rippling disturbance in the air around it? Yes, he thought, perhaps.
Somewhere, toward the rear of Haomane’s Allies, there was shouting. Their ranks shifted; a single Ellyl horn sounded. The sound made him frown and parry too hastily. Blaise Caveros swore as his blade was notched, an awful suspicion beginning to dawn on his face.
Overhead, the ravens of Darkhaven wheeled and veered.
Three times over, Oronin’s Bow sang its single note of death and anguish.
For a fractured instant, Tanaros’ sight left him, taking wing. In an urgent burst, Fetch’s vision overwhelmed his thoughts. Tanaros saw the plains from on high; saw the tall grass rippling in endless waves, the small figures below. Saw the lone horse, grey as smoke, her brown-haired rider toppling, pierced by three feathered shafts. Saw his lips move, his eyes close, a final stillness settle.
First Vorax, now Speros.
“Damn you!” Blinded by grief and visions, Tanaros lowered his guard. The injustice of the Midlander’s death filled him with fury. “He wasn’t even armed!”
Haomane’s Allies—Haomane’s Three—were looking to the south, seeking to determine what had transpired. Unwatched, unguarded, Blaise Caveros moved like a flash, dropping his sword and snatching the Spear of Light from the earth with one gauntleted hand. With a faint cry, Ushahin Dreamspinner emerged from nothingness; on his knees, his face twisted with pain, his crippled left hand clutched to his chest. He had been reaching for the Spear with it.
Too late, too slow.
Tanaros flung up his buckler, heard Hyrgolf roar, saw the Fjel surge forward. On the frozen ground, the Helm of Shadows stared with empty eyeholes. Blaise Caveros never hesitated. Hoisting the Spear like a javelin, he hurled it not at Tanaros, but at the empty Helm, hard and sure.
Light pierced Darkness.
The world exploded. Tanaros found himself on his hands and knees, deafened. He shook his head, willing his vision to clear.
It did, showing him the Helm of Shadows, cracked clean asunder, its dark enchantment broken. As for the Spear of Light, it was gone, vanished and consumed in the conflagration.
Tanaros climbed to his feet, still clutching his sword-hilt. “For that, you die,” he whispered thickly, “kinsman.” He nodded at the ground. “Pick up your sword.”
Blaise obeyed.
There was a peaceful clarity in the Borderguardsman’s dark eyes as he took up a defensive pose. He held it as Tanaros struck; a long, level blow, swinging from the hips and shoulders, the black sword shearing through metal and flesh. Cleaving his blade, slicing through his armor. Blaise sank to his knees, holding his shattered weapon. His face was tranquil, almost glad. Blood, bright blood, poured over his corselet.
He was smiling as he folded and quietly died.
Word was spreading; through the ranks of Haomane’s Allies, through the Army of Darkhaven. Holding his dripping sword before him, Tanaros backed away. He stood guard over Ushahin Dreamspinner, who rose to retrieve the two halves of the broken Helm. Aracus Altorus stared at him as though made of stone, tears running down his expressionless face. Malthus the Counselor had bowed his head.