They fought so beautifully! The sight of them filled Tanaros with fierce pride. They kept their shields high, they held their formations, pressing forward, slow and inexorable. What a thing it would be, what a glorious thing, if Haomane’s Prophecy were yet to be averted—by this, by strength of arms, by dint of long training. Lord Satoris had not sought this war. Haomane’s Allies had pressed it upon him the moment Cerelinde agreed to wed Aracus Altorus. But he had prepared for it for many long years.
As had Tanaros. And though there was little room in his heart for hope, he meant to try nonetheless. He owed Lord Satoris no less.
If Aracus Altorus died, there could be no victory for Haomane’s Allies. Not now, nor ever. There would be no Son of Altorus left living to wed a Daughter of Elterrion. No more royal Altorian bloodline tainted with the betrayal of Tanaros Caveros’ faithless wife.
The sun was high overhead, moving toward the west. How long had the battle lasted? Hours, already. And yet, Tanaros felt no weariness. His mind was clear and keen, as though all his anger, all his grief, had been distilled into a single point of brightness. All he needed was an opening, a single opening.
Tanaros watched his enemies tire as the euphoria of their brief victory faded. The Rivenlost showed no sign of slowing, but the battle was taking its toll on the Men. Their faces were white with exhaustion, their horses lathered. The battlefield stank of blood and ordure.
When the Borderguard began to falter, Tanaros signaled to Hyrgolf.
His field marshal roared orders in the Fjel tongue, and his lieutenants and bannermen conveyed them. On the right flank, a banner rose and dipped in acknowledgment. Two squadrons of Nåltannen abandoned their careful discipline and plunged into the ranks of Haomane’s Allies, cutting a swath through the infantry to mount a rear attack on the combined forces of the Borderguard and the Rivenlost.
Tanaros saw Aracus Altorus turn to meet this new threat and signaled again. With a mighty roar, the Tungskulder forged forward, and Tanaros with them.
In this new surge of chaos, it was all hand-to-hand fighting. The battle lines had crumbled. The black sword sang as Tanaros cut his way through the Rivenlost vanguard. An Ellyl warrior was in his path, his shining armor smeared with mud and gore. Tanaros swung his blade, felt it bite deep, and continued without pausing, letting the black horse carry him past, deeper into the fray.
Pennants were all around him; not signal-banners, but the standards of the Rivenlost, carried high above the mayhem, still proud, still glittering. Tanaros ignored them, keeping his gaze fixed on one that lay beyond: no Ellyl badge, but a gilt sword on a field of sable, the arms of the ancient Kings of Altoria.
“Aracus!” he shouted. “Aracus!”
The pennant turned in his direction.
More Ellylon, seeking to assail him on either side. Tanaros slashed impatiently at the one on his right, took a sharp blow to the shoulder from the other, denting his spauldron; and then one of the Tungskulder was there, dragging the Ellyl from the saddle by sheer force. The Tungskulder grinned at his General, then grunted as the unhorsed Ellyl lunged upward, his blade piercing a gap in his armor.
No time for sorrow. Tanaros plunged onward; toward the Altorian banner, toward the dun-grey cloaks of the Borderguard of Curonan.
“Aracus Altorus!”
And he was there, waiting, his standard-bearer beside him. His Men had turned back the Nåltannen attack. It had been a costly diversion, but worthwhile. Tanaros reined his mount, saluting with his sword. “Aracus.”
“Kingslayer.” The word was filled with unutterable contempt. Behind the eyeslits of his helm, Aracus Altorus stared at him. The sword in his hand echoed the one on his standard; his ancestor’s sword. Once upon a time, Tanaros had known it well. The only difference was the lifeless Soumanië in its pommel. “You come at last.”
“As I promised, Son of Altorus,” Tanaros said softly.
Aracus nodded, taking a fresh grip on his sword-hilt. Beneath the contempt, he looked tired and resolute. It seemed like a very long time since they had first laid eyes on one another in the shattered nuptial ceremony in Lindanen Dale. “Shall we put an end to it?”
Tanaros inclined his head. “Nothing would please me more, Son of Altorus.”
There should have been more to say, but there wasn’t.
Settling their shields, they rode at one another.
They struck at the same instant, both catching the blows on their bucklers. Tanaros felt the impact jar his arm to the shoulder. He felt, too, Aracus’ buckler riven beneath the force of his blow, metal plate giving way, wood splitting. Tanaros laughed aloud as the would-be King of the West was forced to discard his useless shield.
“Shall it be now?” Tanaros asked, and without waiting for a reply, struck another blow.
Aracus Altorus parried with his ancestral sword, the sword Altorus Farseer had caused to be forged, the sword Roscus Altorus had borne before him long ago. A symbol, nothing more. It shattered in his grip, leaving him clutching the useless hilt with its curved tangs and dull Soumanië, a few jagged inches of steel protruding from it.
He lifted his bewildered gaze. He had believed, somehow, it would not happen.
Tanaros had thought to taunt him, this Man who sought to wed the Lady of the Ellylon, who sought to destroy Lord Satoris. He had thought to find satisfaction in this moment; and yet, having reached it, he found none. Aracus’ gaze reminded him too much of Roscus’ at the end; dimly surprised, uncomprehending.
He hadn’t found it in killing Roscus, either.
“I’m sorry,” he said, raising the black sword for the final blow. There was no choice here, only duty. “But you brought this upon yourself.”
At that moment, the Soumanië in the pommel of Aracus Altorus’ shattered sword blazed wildly into life.
Halfway up the Defile path, Ushahin felt it happen.
The world gave a sickening lurch and his mount staggered beneath him. An unaltered Soumanië, with the power to Shape matter, had passed to a new owner.Ushahin’s vision veered crazily, and he saw the Defile loom beneath him, pebbles skittering beneath his blood-bay stallion’s scrabbling hooves, bouncing down the crags toward the riverbed below.
He righted himself with an effort that made every ill-set bone in his body ache, twisting in the saddle to glance behind him.
It was bad.
The tide of battle was shifting, surging against them. The horns, the damned Ellylon horns, were raised in their clarion call, echoing and insistent. Everywhere, figures were reeling; the very earth was in motion, the plains lifting in a vast, slow surge, rippling like a wave.
Ushahin tasted bile.
“Oh, my Lord!” he whispered. “You should have let me kill her!”
It was not too late, not yet. Lashing the blood-bay stallion with his reins, Ushahin raced toward Darkhaven.
Tanaros’ final blow never landed.
For the space of a few heartbeats, they simply stared at one another, wide-eyed and astonished, the Soumanië blazing between them. Then Aracus Altorus whispered a word and the world erupted in rubescent light.
The earth surged and Tanaros found himself flung backward, losing ground, half-blinded and lurching in the saddle as his mount squealed in rage and fought to remain on its hooves. In some part of him, Tanaros understood what must have happened. Somehow, somewhere, the Sorceress Lilias had died; the Soumanië’s power was passing to its wielder: Aracus Altorus, who had been mentored by Malthus the Counselor, whose reserves of inner strength the Soumanië required had never been tapped.