“It doesn’t matter.” Tanaros removed the Helm, blinking at the sudden brightness. The piercing throb in his groin subsided to a vestigial ache. “Can you summon her horse? I’ve not the skill for it.”

“Aye.” Donning the Helm of Shadows, Ushahin faced south, sending out a whip-crack of thought. In the distance, the small, fleeting figure of a horse balked. There was a struggle between horse and rider; a brief one. The horses of Darkhaven had strong wills and hard mouths. This one turned in a sweeping loop, heading back for the ruined city at a steady canter, bearing its rider with it.

Tanaros watched long enough to be certain Cerelinde would not throw herself from the saddle, then turned his attention to his company. To the west, the Staccians had regrouped, returning shame-faced at their flight. Singly and in pairs, the Kaldjager loped through the streets, irritable at the false hunt. But Hyrgolf’s Fjel … ah, no!

They came slowly, carrying one of their number with uncommon care.

“General Tanaros.” Hyrgolf’s salute was sombre. “I am sorry to report—”

“Jei morderran!” It was a young Tungskulder Fjel, one of the new recruits, who interrupted, hurling himself prone on the cracked marble, offering his bloodstained axe with both hands. “Gojdta mahk åxrekke—”

“Field marshal!” Tanaros cut the lad short. “Report.”

“Aye, General.” Hyrgolf met his gaze. “Bogvar is wounded. I do not think he will live. Thorun asks you to take his axe-hand in penance.”

“He asks what? No, never mind.” Tanaros turned his attention to the injured Fjeltroll, laid gently on the ground by the four comrades who carried him. “Bogvar, can you hear me?”

“Lord … General.” Bogvar’s leathery lips parted, flecked with blood. One of his eyetusks was chipped. A dreadful gash opened his massive chest, and air whistled in it as he struggled for breath, blood bubbling in the opening, gurgling as he spoke. “You … were … right.” The claws on his left hand flexed, and he forced his lips into a horrible smile. “Should have held … my shield higher.”

“Ah, curse it, Bogvar!” Kneeling beside him, Tanaros pressed both hands hard over the gash. “Someone bring a—ah, no!” A rush of blood welled in the Fjel’s open mouth, dribbled from one comer. Bogvar of the Tungskulder Fjel lay still, and bled no more. Tanaros sighed and ran a hand through his hair, forgetful of the blood. “You should have held your shield higher,” he muttered, clambering wearily to his feet. “The lad Thorun did this?”

“Aye.” Hyrgolf’s voice came from deep in his chest. “An accident. The dead came among us, and some broke ranks. Thorun was one. He thought he struck a blow at an Ellyl wraith. My fault, General. I reckoned him ready.”

“Gojdta mahk åxrekke …” The young Fjel struggled to his knees, holding his right arm extended and trembling, clawed fist clenched. “Take my axe-hand,” he said thickly in the common tongue. “I kill him. I pay.”