He stayed on the field, watching and waiting as the troops filed past him and saluted, here and there greeting a Fjel by name, commending his performance. Vorax’s Staccian unit passed, too, laughing and saluting with fists on hearts, eager for their reward; svartblod and gold, Vorax would have promised. He knew them, too. It mattered. He was their general, their commander. He had commanded soldiers before, and he knew their hearts.

And they had hearts; oh, yes. Arahila Second-Born, Arahila the Fair, had given them that Gift. She had given her Gift to all the Shapers’ Children, and she had not stinted in the giving.

Thus do we love, Tanaros thought, watching the Fjeltroll parade past him, bantering and jesting in their own guttural tongue, canny veterans dressing down the embarrassed recruits, mocking their bruises and pointing out their journeyman errors. And thus do we hate, for one begets the other.

Once, he had loved his wife and his liege-lord, and despised the Fjeltroll with all the rancor in his passionate heart. And yet it was the betrayal of that very love that had led him to this place, and made the Fjel his boon companions.

A pair of veterans passed, Nåltannen Fjel of the Needle Teeth tribe, bearing along an injured youngster, his meaty arms slung over their shoulders as he hobbled between them. They were laughing, showing their pointed teeth, the lad between them wincing every time his left foot made contact with the ground. “What think you, General?” one called in the common tongue, saluting. “Can we make a soldier of this one?”

“Mangren,” Tanaros said, putting a name to the young Fjel’s battered face, remembering where he had stood in the battle-lines. This one had worked hard in the drills. Dark bristles covered his hide and rose like hackles along the ridge of his spine; one of the Mørkhar Fjel, injured and glowering and proud. “You held your ground when the Gulnagel overran your position. Yes, lads, I think he’ll do. Get a measure of Lord Vorax’s svartblod in him, and you’ll see.”

The veterans laughed, hurrying toward their reward.

Between them, the lad’s face relaxed into a grin, stillwhite tusks showing against his leathery lips as he hobbled toward the barracks, aided by his comrades. He had done well, then; his general was pleased.

And on it went, and on and on, until it was done.

“They did well, eh, General?” Hyrgolf rumbled, planting himself before him.

The Fjeltroll was dusty with battle, dirt engrained in the creases of his thick hide. Scratches and dents marred the dull surfaces of his practice-weapons, the blunt iron. Tanaros shifted in his saddle, his mount sidling beneath him.

“They did well,” he agreed.