There was a flare of scarlet lightning, an impact like a meteor’s blow, and the Way … changed. Another sought to travel them, one with sufficient power to compel the Marasoumië itself. Sundered from its anchors, the Way was strained beyond bearing as the incoming presence sought to occupy the same space as Darkhaven’s army. Reality buckled, the very stone warping around them. Amid disembodied cries of dismay, Tanaros fought for control of his now-terrified mount. With a sound like a taut wire snapping, Ushahin Dreamspinner’s presence vanished and the Way ahead was severed and gone. There was only here, and another inhabited it.

There, stark in the wash of ruddy light, was Malthus the Counselor, with two figures cast in shadow behind him.

Tanaros gaped at him, uncomprehending.

For an instant, the wizard’s astonishment was equal to his own.

And then an awful knowledge dawned in Malthus’ eyes, quicker to grasp what was happening. He was Haomane’s weapon, Shaped for the purpose of defeating Satoris himself, and the might he veiled from mortal sight was formidable indeed. In the dark of underearth, there was a brightness upon him it hurt to behold. The wizard’s lips began working, speaking a spell. His beard trailed into his scholar’s robes, and on his breast the Soumanië, drawing on Haomane’s power, the power of the Souma. Even Sundered, it was enough to command the Ways.

“Turn back!” Tanaros wrenched at the reins left-handed, shouting over his shoulder. “Turn back!”

It was too late. Even as his black mount squealed in fear and ducked its head, sunfishing violently, the Way was collapsing. Terror erupted on every side. Tanaros swore, lurching in the saddle and fighting the black. Behind him there was only chaos as the Fjel broke ranks, milling in an awful press. Speros of Haimhault was caught in the crush, his mount borne along by terrified Fjel.

“General!” Hyrgolf’s roar rose above the fray. “Your orders!”

Somewhere, in Darkhaven, Vorax kept a thin, desperate thread of the Way open to retreat, pitting the Helm of Shadows against the awful might of Malthus. Tanaros could feel it, taste it. The Ways shuddered and strained beneath their struggle, threatening to splinter into an infinity of passages, but there was still a chance, an alley. “Retreat!” he shouted, willing the Fjel to hear him. “Field marshal, retreat!”

And then the black horse convulsed beneath him, and Tanaros was flung from the saddle. The stony ground rushed up to meet him, striking hard. He covered his head, fearful of stamping hooves. Knowing that the Ways could not destroy him, Tanaros curled around his aching, Soumabranded heart and held himself here, knowing there was naught else he could do. Somewhere, Hyrgolf was roaring, trying to organize his troops, trying to follow the thin thread of hope back to Darkhaven and safety even as the Ways collapsed, flinging them backward in time, sundering their company.

A good general protects his troops.