“This.” The Midlander waved one hand, indicating the empty road, the quiet fields. “Us, here. Tramping across the country like common beggars. I’d have thought … I don’t know, Lord General.” He shrugged. “I’d have thought there’d be more magic.”

“No.” Tanaros shook his head. “There’s precious little magic in war, Speros.”

“But you’re … one of the Three, sir!” Speros protested. “Tanaros Blacksword, Tanaros …” His voice trailed off.

“Kingslayer,” Tanaros said equably. “Aye. An ordinary man, rendered extraordinary only by the grace of Lord Satoris.” He touched the hilt of his sword. “This blade can- , not be broken by mortal means, Speros, but I wield no power but that which lies in reach of it. Are you disappointed?”

“No.” Speros studied his boots as he walked, scuffing the ruts in the road with cracked heels. “No,” he repeated more strongly, lifting his head. “I’m not.” He grinned, the glint of starlight revealing the gap amid his teeth. “It gives me hope. After all, Lord General, / could be you!”

As Tanaros opened his mouth to reply, one of the Gulnagel raised a hand and grunted. The others froze, listening. Motioning for silence, Tanaros strained his ears. Not the farmsteaders, he hoped. Surely, they had seen nothing. There had been only the warning of the dogs to disturb their sleep. Like as not, they had cast a weary gaze over the empty fields, scolded the dogs, and gone back to sleep. What, then? The Fjel had keener ears than Men, but all three wore perplexed expressions. Speros, by contrast, bore a look of glazed horror.

Tanaros concentrated.

At first he heard nothing; then, distantly, a drumming like thunder. Hoofbeats? It sounded like, and unlike. There were too many, too fast—and another sound, too, a rushing, pulsating wind, like the sound of a thousand wings beating at once. It sounded, he realized, like the Ravensmirror.

“Fetch?” Tanaros called.

“Kaugh!”

The fabric of the night itself seemed to split beneath the onslaught as they emerged from the dreaming pathways into the waking world; ravens, aye, a whole flock, sweeping down the road in a single, vast wing. There, at the head, was Fetch, eyes like obsidian pebbles. And behind them, forelegs churning, nostrils flaring …

Horses.

They emerged from darkness as if through a doorway, and starlight gleamed on their sleek hides. All around them, the ravens settled in the fields; save for Fetch, who took up his perch on Tanaros’ shoulder. Their iron-shod hooves rang on the road, solid and real, large bodies milling. There were three of them; one grey as a ghost, one black as pitch, and in the middle, a bay the color of recently spilled blood.

And on its back, a pale, crooked figure with moonspun hair and a face of ruined beauty smiled crookedly and lifted a hand in greeting.

“Well met, cousin,” said Ushahin Dreamspinner. “A little bird told me you were in need of a ride.”