“Go!” Tanaros shouted, wheeling the black. “Go!”

TANAROS CLUNG TO HIS MOUNT like grim death, one hand on the reins, one clutching the limp burden athwart his pommel, the Staccians surrounding him as they raced for the treeline. The greensward of Lindanen Dale was churned to mud beneath the pounding hooves of the horses of Darkhaven.

And behind them, Haomane’s allies were closing fast, astride and racing, and in the vanguard was the cavalry of Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost, moved to hot-blooded wrath for the first time in centuries; and close at their heels were the Borderguard of Curonan in their dun-colored cloaks. Thirty paces to the forest, twenty …

With Cerelinde to carry, he couldn’t outrun them.

“Now, Dreamspinner,” Tanaros whispered under his breath. “Now!”

Madness broke.

Like a wave, a vast black wave, it crashed down upon them, and the sound in his skull was an atonal howl of grief, as if the whole of Oronin’s Children mourned at once, as if every Were in Urulat opened throat in lament. And so it was, in a fashion, for Ushahin Dreamspinner unleashed the full force of his power and gave voice to the grief of them all, and the form of his grief was madness, given shape by the Helm of Shadows.

It halted the armies of Haomane; horses balking, throwing riders, Men clapping hands over ears and falling to writhe on the ground, while the Ellylon sought in vain to control mortal steeds that plunged and pitched in terror. Only the horses of Darkhaven, tended from their foaling by the hands of madlings, were untouched by it.

“Ride, damn you!” Carfax, the Staccian lieutenant, exhorted his troops, almost weeping. “Ride, you sons of whores!”

A flurry of ravens arose as they entered the forest

Branches, breaking at their passage. Tanaros bent low over the black stallion’s neck, clinging with his knees, concentrating on the limp form of the Ellyl woman. The horse’s mane stung his eyes. Oh, brave heart! Hooves pounded the loam, massive trunks rushed past them. How long, until Haomane’s Allies gathered themselves to follow?

A league, less than a league to the meeting place.

In a dappled glade surrounded by dense thickets and tall oaks, he drew rein, sawing at the black’s lathered neck. Turin the decoy was there waiting, and three others, helping as he dismounted, easing the Ellyl noblewoman to the ground. She moaned faintly, stirring against the loam. Tanaros reached down, unclasping her outer garment; a cloak of white silk, embroidered in gold thread and rubies with an interlacing pattern of crown and Souma. It came loose with surprising ease, and he straightened with it

“That would be for me, Lord General.” The young Staccian settled the cloak over his shoulders and fastened the clasp, tossing his yellow locks back. He nodded at a round Pelmaran buckler propped against a rock. “In thanks, I give you my shield.”