They made war until Satoris grew weary and bitter and angry, and raised an army of his own; of Fjeltroll, with their brute strength, and the grey Were, Oronin’s hunters. All those who felt abandoned by the Six Shapers heeded his words, and he Shaped their will to his and marched against his enemies. What Haomane had named him, he became. Banewreaker, Bringer-of-Doom.

For a time, they laid waste to Urulat, pressing toward the west.

But his Elder Brother was cunning.

Haomane First-Born took three ruby-red chips of the Souma, smoothing them into gems of power: the Soumanië. Three Counselors he Shaped to bear them: Ardrath, Dergail and Malthus. Three weapons he gave them to wield: the Helm of Shadows, the Spear of Light and the Arrow of Fire. And he sent them across the Sundering Sea to raise an army of Ellylon and Men loyal to the Six Shapers to do battle with Satoris.

It had been a near thing.

Not a defeat, no. Not a victory, either.

He was alive and Godslayer was his. Still, he had been wounded anew, twice over, and forced to flee the field. But his enemies, Haomane’s Allies, had taken grievous blows. Two Counselors slain, the Arrow of Fire lost, and the Helm of Shadows in Satoris’ possession. The war had not ended, but there would be a reprieve, while ages passed and Haomane conceived his next move.

All Satoris could do was make ready for it.

First, he healed the mortal wound. The Ellyl blade that struck him from behind had cut deep, severing the tendons behind his knee. It had surprised him, that; so much so that he had dropped the dagger. And without Godslayer, he was—what? A Shaper, but powerless.

Sundered.

There had been his Gift, once. He smiled with bitter irony as he healed himself, drawing on the power of Godslayer to splice his sinews and knit his flesh. Even if it had not been stripped from him, his Gift would have availed him nothing in this struggle. That time had come and gone in ages past, vanished in an eyeblink.

He had offered his Gift to Haomane’s Children.

Haomane had refused it.

The second wound was more difficult, for it had been dealt by a weapon Shaped by his brother. If the first had been a surprise, the second had been a shock. He could see it, still; the Spear of Light, its shaft gleaming under the sullen skies. It extended in a straight line from the place where agony flared, where the shining, leaf-pointed blade was buried in his side. And at the other end, both hands locked fast on the haft, was the last Counselor; Malthus, his brother’s final emissary.