Their lieutenant met his eye; Carfax, a steady fellow. They exchanged nods. And there, in the vanguard, Turin, the yellow-haired decoy, swallowing hard. Choose one who is fair, his Lordship had said, fair as morning’s first star. He was a youth, still beardless, his skin undyed and pale, clad in bridal silks. The troops had laughed, to see him thus. Now, none laughed.

“We strike a blow this day, brothers,” Tanaros said in a soft, carrying voice, jostling his mount to face them. “A mighty blow! Are you ready?”

They gave a whispered cheer.

“Field marshal.” His gaze roamed past the Staccians, falling upon Hyrgolf, who stood with the massed Fjeltroll at the rear. “Are you ready?”

Hyrgolf of the Tungskulder Fjel stood like a boulder, stolid and dependable. “We are ready, General,” he rumbled. “Bring us the Ellyl lady, and we will conduct her in all speed to Darkhaven”

“Dreamspinner.” Tanaros bent his gaze upon the half-breed, who crouched at the entrance to the tunnels, holding the Helm of Shadows in his trembling hands. “Are you ready, cousin?”

“I am ready.” Ushahin bared his teeth, the enlarged pupil in one eye glittering. In the green light, his face looked ghastly. The thing in his hands throbbed with a darkness that ached like a wound, unbearable to behold. “Upon your command!”

As if summoned by his words, one of the Were brethren dashed through the hanging vines that curtained the entrance, eyes glowing amber, bloodstains upon his muzzle. “The way is clear,” he said, the words thick and guttural in his throat. Sharp white teeth showed as he licked blood from his chops. “Why do you wait? In the Dale, they wed. Go now, now!”

Sorash the Grey Dam lifted her muzzle and keened a lament for her long-slain cubs.

The moment had come.

Tanaros. drew his sword, and though it was not his, still it sang as it cleared the scabbard, a high, piercing sound that echoed inside his head. “Go!” he shouted, digging his heels into his mount’s sides, feeling the surge of muscle as the black horse lunged up the sloping tunnel for the entrance. “Go, go, go!”

Lashed by green vines, Tanaros burst through the tunnel entrance, bounding into a forest in the full foliage of spring. A grey form hurtled past him, bound at speed for Lindanen Dale.

Altorus!

The word was a battle-paean in his head, igniting the ancient hurt, the ancient hatred. Altorus! He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with it. Rage, cleansing rage. Tanaros wheeled the black horse, his mind clear and sharp. There, the Staccians, emerging in formation. There, the dim figures of the Kaldjager Fjel, slipping through the trees. There, by the opening, Ushahin Dreamspinner, lowering the Helm of Shadows onto his head.

“Ride!” Tanaros shouted. “Men, ride!”