“War.” Speros’quivering legs folded, and he sat abruptly. “Isn’t that what they say? It is in the Midlands, anyway.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to scrub away the exhaustion. “The red star, reminder of Dergail’s defeat. It’s the Sunderer’s challenge, a declaration of war.”

“So they do,” the General mused. “And yet, Lord Satoris did not raise the star. He thought it a warning. A sister’s kindness.”

“Does it matter?” Speros fumbled for the waterskin lashed to his belt and managed to loosen the stopper. It sloshed, half-empty, as he raised it to his lips and took a sparing mouthful.

“Betimes, I wonder.” General Tanaros drew his whetstone down the length of his sword. “I fear we have not chosen our battlefield wisely, Speros.”

Speros glanced up at him. “Beshtanag, sir? Or Darkhaven?”

“No.” The General shook his head. “Neither. I mean the hearts and minds of Men, Speros.” He examined one edge of his ebony blade, testing it with his thumb. “Do you suppose it would have made a difference?”

“Sir?”

“The Bearer.” Sheathing his sword, General Tanaros turned his attention to the Midlander. “He made the only choice he was offered. Would it have made a difference, do you think, if we had offered another one?”

“I don’t know, Lord General.”

“I wonder.” Tanaros frowned. “But what would we have offered him, after all? Wealth? Power? Immortality? Those are merely bribes. In the end, it all comes down to the same choice.”

Speros shrugged. “A reason to say no, I suppose.”

“Yes.” General Tanaros glanced across the Stone Glade. The smaller mound that had been erected outside the circle of broken monoliths was barely visible in the deepening twilight. It had taken the Gulnagel less than an hour to dig a grave large enough to contain the corpses of the slaughtered Yarru elders. “I suppose so.”

“Sir.” Speros cleared his throat. “Will there be a lot of … that sort of thing?”

Tanaros smiled bleakly. “You told me you’d shed innocent blood before, Midlander.”