“Blaise!” Fianna spurred her mount unthinking, guiding it with her legs, her Archer’s hands reaching as she sped across the battlefield, dodging around unmounted Beshtanagi wardsmen. Oronin’s Bow was in her hand, her hand reaching over her shoulder. Light spilled from her quiver as she grasped an arrow, an ordinary arrow, fitting it to the string. The black horn bow sang a single, deadly note as she loosed it, and a wardsman fell, clutching his chest where an arrow sprouted. “Blaise!”

“Fianna!” Starting after her, Carfax felt the Ellyl’s grip tighten on his forearm. “Peldras, let me go,” he said, trying to pull away. “She’s like to get slaughtered out there without armor or a guard!”

“Peace, Arahila’s Child. I seek only the truth.” The Ellyl’s grip was gentle, but surprisingly firm. His deep gaze searched Carfax’s face. “Will you withhold it while people die in vain?”

Above the battlefield, the Dragon of Beshtanag circled low, harrying fleeing soldiers and driving them back onto the battlefield as it came in for another pass. Fire roared, and cries of agony rose; a din of chaos and anguish. Somewhere, Oronin’s Bow was sounding its single note, over and over. On the outskirts of it all, Carfax met Peldras’ gaze. “Can you stop the fighting if I tell you?”

“I don’t know, Carfax of Staccia.” The Ellyl did not flinch. “I fear it may be too late to sue for a truce. But if the Lady Cerelinde is not here, I will do my best to carry word. Perhaps some lives may be saved, and Fianna the Archer’s among them.”

It was too late, after all. Too late for everything.

“She’s in Darkhaven,” Carfax said simply. With those few words, he surrendered the long burden of his loyalty and knew, in doing so, he accepted his death. When all was said and done, it was a relief, an unspeakable relief. He should have died with his men. He wished that he had. There was no honor in a life foresworn. It would be good to have it done. “Your Lady Cerelinde is in Darkhaven. She was never here. It was a trick, all a trick. General Tanaros was supposed to lead the army through the Ways and fall upon you from behind. Something went wrong. I don’t know what.”

Peldras nodded. “Thank you.”

“May I go now?”

The Ellyl removed his hand from the Staccian’s arm and drew his sword. Grasping it by the blade, he presented the hilt. “Take my blade, and my blessing. May Arahila the Fair have mercy upon you, Carfax of Staccia.”

He grasped the hilt. It felt good in his palm. Firm. He hoisted it. The blade was light in his grip, its edge keen and silver-bright, its balance immaculate. Ellylon craftsmanship. “Thank you, Peldras.”

Once more, the Ellyl nodded. “Farewell, my friend.”

ON THE BATTLEFIELD, ALL WAS madness.