Without daring open his eyes, Tanaros dismounted, letting the reins fall slack. Crawling, he groped his way across the cracked marble and tufted heart-grass toward the sound of Ushahin’s agonized keening. There, a few paces from the half-breed, his hands found what he sought—the leather case that held the Helm of Shadows.

“Cousin.” He reached out blindly to touch Ushahin. “I’m taking the Helm.”

“Tanaros!” A breath hissed through clenched teeth. “Get them out of my head!”

“I will try.” With fingers stiff from clutching his hilt, Tanaros undid the clasps and withdrew the Helm. It throbbed with pain at his touch and he winced at the ache in his bones. His hands trembled as he removed the Pelmaran helmet and placed the Helm of Shadows on his head, opening his eyes.

Darkness.

Pain.

Darkness like a veil over his vision, casting the plains and the ruined city in shadow; pain, a constant companion. The ghost of a wound throbbed in his groin, deep and searing, pumping a steady trickle of ichor down the inside of his leg. Such was the pain of Satoris, stabbed by Oronin Last-Born before the world was Sundered, and the darkness of the Helm was the darkness in his heart.

Once it had been Haomane’s weapon. No longer.

Tanaros rose. Before him, the wraiths of the House of Numireth arrayed themselves in a line, silent warriors on silent horses. In the Helm’s shadowed vision they had taken on solidity, and he saw bitter sorrow in their eyes instead of flames, and the marks of their death-wounds upon their ageless flesh.

Across the plains and throughout the city, other battles raged. Westward, the surviving Staccian riders fled in full-blown terror, not even the horses of Darkhaven able to outrun the wraiths. In a deserted plaza where once a fountain had played, Hyrgolf’s Fjel fought shadows, their guttural cries hoarse with exhaustion and fear. Here and there in the streets, the stalking Kaldjager waged battle with the dead.

And to the south, a lone rider streaked in flight, unpursued.

“Numireth.” Tanaros gazed steadily through the eyeslits of the Helm of Shadows. “I claim this city in the name of Satoris the Shaper. This quarrel is older than your loss, and your shades have no power in Urulat. Begone.”

The Lord of Cuilos Tuillenrad, the City of Long Grass, grimaced in the face of the Helm’s dark visage; held up one hand, turned away, his figure fading as he rode. One by one, the wraith-host followed, growing insubstantial and vanishing.

“Well done.” Breathing hard, Ushahin struggled to his feet. His mouth was twisted in self-deprecation. “My apologies, Blacksword. I’ve walked in the dreams of the living. I’ve never had the dead enter mine. It was … painful.”