Once upon a time, he had been the Commander of the Guard in Altoria. Once upon a time, he had taught Men to master their instinctive fear at the sight of the hideous, bestial visages of the Fjeltroll, taught them to strike at their unprotected places. Now, he taught the Fjeltroll to carry shields, and those hideous visages were the faces of his friends and brethren.

Hyrgolf’s small eyes were shrewd beneath the thick shelf of his brow-bone. “Shall I report to debrief, General?”

“No.” Tanaros shook his head. “The lads fought boldly, Hyrgolf. I saw it myself. Go, then, and claim Lord Vorax’s reward. We’ll return to regular drills on the morrow, and work on such weaknesses as I perceived.”

“Aye, General!” Hyrgolf saluted smartly and set off for the barracks.

Tanaros sat his horse and watched him go. A rolling gait, better suited for the steep crags of the highlands than the floor of this stony hollow. The Fjeltroll’s broad shoulders rocked from side to side as he marched, bearing lightly the burden of his battle-harness, the badges of his rank. Such loyalty, such courage!

It shamed him, sometimes.

Above his heart, the mark of his branding burned.

Bloody rays from the setting sun sank low under the overhanging clouds, striking a ruddy wash of light across the Vale of Gorgantum. Following in the wake of his troops, Tanaros shuddered out of habit. Haomane’s Fingers, they called it here, probing for Lord Satoris’ pulse. Somewhere, in the depths of the mighty edifice of Darkhaven, Satoris cowered, fearing his Elder Brother’s wrath that had once made a desert of his refuge.

It angered Tanaros. Flinging back his helmeted head, he watched the dim orb of the setting sun in the west; watched it, issuing his own private challenge. He was a Man, and should not fear the sun. Come, then, Haomane First-Born! Send your troops, your Children, your Ellylon with their bright eyes and sharp blades, your allies among Men! We are not afraid! We are ready for you!

The sun sank behind the low mountains, the challenge unanswered.

A red star flickered faint warning on the western horizon.

Tanaros sighed, and turned his horse toward home.

LINDANEN DALE HELD THEM LIKE a cupped hand, green and inviting. It was ringed with stalwart oaks that stood like sentries, their leaves not yet fully fledged. In the distance, Cerelinde could hear the Aven River, a sound evocative of Meronil and home. Overhead, the sky was clear and blue, Haomane’s sun shining upon them like a blessing.

“What think you, my lady?” Aracus smiled at her. He sat at ease on his mount, one of the Borderguard, his second-in-command, a half pace behind him. Sunlight made his hair blaze, copper threaded with gold. “Your kinsmen and mine once met to take counsel in this place, when Altoria ruled the west.”