“No.” The Dwarf lifted his chin and met his gaze. “But we kept it well, Wise Counselor. It has never been used, for unlike other of Haomane’s weapons, it may be used only once, and the Counselor Dergail held his hand. I pray you use it well.”

A bright spark wove its way through the ranks of Dwarfs, who shrank at its passage. One more came, wizened and old, eyes closed against the brightness he bore. Even in daylight, it trailed flame. Fianna the Archer stepped forward, her mouth forming a soundless O, hands reaching unthinking.

“Behold,” Haldol said. “Oronin’s Bow, and the Arrow of Fire.”

“They are yours,” Malthus said to the Archer.

Her hand closed on the haft of the bow; black horn, with an immense draw. Kneeling, she set the bottom tip, fingers curling, seeking the string unthinking and drawing it to her cheek. A shaft of white fire tinged with gold, the Arrow flamed, illuminating her cheek, the tendrils of hair curling at her temple. “Oh,” she said, her tone amazed. “Oh!”

Carfax, watching, shivered to the bone.

When the unknown is made known, when the lost weapon is found …

The Prophecy was being fulfilled.

BESIDE THE SWELTERING FURNACE, THE flow of the Gorgantus River, diverted by Lord Satoris himself, powered a wooden waterwheel. From it led a welter of rods and cranks, turning and clanking. Levered weights rose and fell, pressing down on the spring-boards that powered the bellows, which opened and closed on their leather hinges, blowing strong drafts. Teams of Fjeltroll worked steadily, feeding coal and ore into the endless maw of the furnace.

It was hotter than before, so hot Tanaros could feel the skin of his face tightening. And the metal that emerged was glowing and molten, pure iron, collected in molds to cool. No longer did the Fjel need to beat the impurities from it before it was fit for the forge.

“You see?” Speros, soot-darkened, was grinning. He shouted above the clamor of the smelting furnace. “We use the force of the river to drive the bellows, providing more heat than even the Fjel can muster!”

“I see.” Tanaros had to raise his own voice to be heard. “A commendable innovation! Is it done thus in the Midlands now?”

“No.” Speros shrugged, his restless gaze surveying his efforts. “Only to grind grain, but I thought it might serve. No one ever gave me the means to try it, before. I reckon it will help. No small task, to equip such an army.” He settled his gaze on Tanaros. “We are going to war, are we not, Lord General?”

“Yes.” Tanaros beckoned, leading him a distance from the furnace. Outside, the grass was parched and a reeking cloud of smoke and sulfurous gases hung heavy under the lowering sky, but at least the air did not sear his lungs. “Some of us are, Midlander.”