When it was done, he donned the Helm of Shadows and gazed through the eye-slits of his own dark vision, gazing across the land and hoarding his dwindling energies to peer into the hearts and minds of all living beings blessed with his Elder Brother’s Gift of thought; for yes, oh yes, that had been his brother’s Gift, in all the mingled curse and blessing it entailed.

Somewhere, in the far reaches of the Sundered World, there must be others who shared the pain of betrayal, who understood what it was to rage against an unfair destiny. Mortals, it was true, with brief, flickering lives—but with Godslayer to hand, it need not be so.

Three emissaries his Elder Brother had sent to destroy him. He would summon three of his own; comrades, commanders, keepers of his citadel.

He would find them.

He would make them his.

He would make them immortal.

ONE

ONE

TANAROS WALKED DOWN THE HALLWAY, black marble echoing under his bootheels.

It was like an unlit mirror, that floor, polished to a high gleam. The archways were vast, not built to a human scale. All along the walls the marrow-fire burned, delicate veins of blue-white against all that shining blackness. In both, his reflection was blurred and distorted. There was Tanaros; there, and there and there.

A pale brow, furrowed. A lock of dark hair falling, so.

Capable hands.

And a stern mouth, its soft words of love long since betrayed.

It had been a long time, a very long time, since Tanaros had thought of such matters, of the sum total the pieced-together fragments of his being made; nor did he think of them now, for his Lord’s summons burned like a beacon in his mind. And beneath his attire, beneath the enameled armor that sheltered him, his branding burned like marrow-fire on his flesh, white-hot and cold as ice, throbbing as his heart beat, and piercing.

So it was, for the Three.

“Guardsman,” he said in greeting.

“General Tanaros, sir.” The Havenguard Fjeltroll on duty grinned, showing his eyetusks. His weapons hung about him like boulders on the verge of avalanche; he hoisted one, a sharp-pointed mace, in salute as he stood aside. Beyond him, the entrance to the tower stair yawned like an open mouth. “His Lordship awaits you in the observatory.”

“Krognar,” Tanaros said, remembering his name. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Lord General.” The Fjeltroll saluted again.