They rode, pounding through the oak wood, the ancient holdings of Altoria, and the mounts they rode were the horses of Darkhaven, swift-hooved and high-spirited, their glossy coats disguised with mud and burrs. They rode, and the trees passed in a blur, and behind them slid Fjeltroll with yellow eyes and sharp axes, laying a trap for those who would follow—and there four of their number paused, waiting. Here and there lay corpses, Ellylon and Men alike, sentries who grinned in death at the innocent spring leaves. They rode, and death ran before them, Oronin’s Children, grey and implacable.

A league, a league, less than a league.

Ahead, the trees thinned, bright sunlight shining on Lindanen Dale. Tanaros glanced left and right, wind-sprung tears blurring his vision. In the periphery of his gaze, he could see the Staccians following, falling into a wedge formation. The Were had vanished. Let them be there, he thought, a desperate prayer. Oh my Lord, let them be there! Drawing his sword, he loosed a wordless cry as they emerged into the Dale.

Greensward, and flowers hidden in the grass.

Silk tents, with pennants fluttering.

And the host, the nuptial host, milling on the lawn, chaos sown in their midst, with rent garments and blood flowing freely. A harpist, moaning and pale, cradled a torn forearm; others lay unmoving, and their blood spread on the grass, darkening. This, they had not expected. Not the grey hunters of the Were, not Oronin’s Children, who could penetrate any defense not raised behind walls. Ah, and even so! So many, so many of Haomane’s Allies, gathered in one place. Lindanen Dale seethed like a kicked anthill. Unready and unmounted they might be, but they had not come unarmed. Already, the soldiers were gathering their wits. There was one of the Were brethren, dying, his hairy belly slit, entrails dragging on the greensward. And there, the other, brought to bay by the Duke of Seahold’s men, closing in with spears.

Tanaros thundered past, ignoring them.

There … there.

Before the bower, wrought with Ellylon craftsmanship, enwrapped with flowers—there. A man, bare-headed, danced with death in a bridegroom’s finery, and the sunlight gleamed on his red-gold hair and the naked steel of his blade. A grey, shadowy figure lunged at his throat, teeth snapping in a hunger that had honed itself for centuries. Around and around they went in a deadly pavane. After a thousand years, the Grey Dam of the Were sought to avenge the deaths of her mate and cubs. And all around them, the Altorians stood in a ring, the Borderguard of Curonan, holding their blades for fear of striking awry, shouting fierce encouragement to their king-in-exile, so grievously assaulted on his wedding day.

Not there. No.