In the gap, the Staccians held, panting, Tanaros at their head. One was dead, two direly wounded. Tanaros pressed his wound and watched as Aracus Altorus made his way through the ranks. Pride, he thought, as Aracus drew nearer. Always pride. His armor had been donned in haste, flung over his bridegroom’s finery. He held his helmet under one arm, and his wide-set eyes were filled with fury.

“Now,” Tanaros whispered.

His blow caught the Núrilin lord unaware, the sword finding a gap in the Ellyl’s armor. With cries of wrath, the Ellylon surged to the attack. Everywhere, silvered armor, fair Ellyl faces, eyes bright and fierce behind visors, horseflesh churning as they pressed through the gap, forcing the Staccians backward. Aracus Altorus and the Borderguard of Curonan were lost in the center of the mêlée.

One more step, Tanaros thought, wielding his Pelmaran sword with desperate energy, guarding their retreat and trying to save as many of Vorax’s men as he might. The Ellylon were fearful in their wrath, and he could feel the Staccians’ courage ebbing, turning to terror. It was why he had needed to lead the raid himself. Battle-trained, the black horse retreated, obedient to his commands, turning this way and that to allow him room to swing his blade.

One more step, one … more … step …

With a sound like cracking thunder, trees began to fall; ancient trees, mighty oaks, the sentinels of Lindanen Wood. And the first to fall toppled like a giant across the gap, smashing the enemy vanguard, shattering bone and crushing flesh, the earth shuddering at its impact. The way was blocked, for now, and above the moans of the enemy rose the screaming of injured horses.

The Kaldjager Fjeltroll had done their job.

Weary and sore, Tanaros turned his mount and ordered his Men back to the tunnels. There should have been joy in the victory, and yet there was none. Once, he would have been on the other side of this battle, defending his liege-lord. Those days were long gone, and yet … . Destroying the happiness of one Son of Altorus did not bring back the love Tanaros had lost, the life that had once been his. Nothing would, ever. With his own hands, he had destroyed it, and chosen Lord Satoris’ dark truth over the bright lie of love that he had once cherished.

If it had been true before, it was true twice over this day. He had sealed that path as surely as the Kaldjager Fjel had blocked their retreat. There was no merit in regretting what was done, and no choice but to continue onward.

Darkhaven was all that was left to him.

SEVEN

SEVEN

CERELINDE OPENED HER EYES ONTO a nightmare.

Fjeltroll.