THE STACCIAN TRAITORS HAD ESTABLISHED a tidy campsite on the southern outskirts of the plains of Curonan. One of the wide-ranging Gulnagel spotted it first in the late afternoon of their second day. Tanaros gave the order for the halt, lifting the visor of his helm and staring across the waving sea of grass. Shouts of alarm were borne on the wind, high and faint, as the Staccians caught sight of the attackers.

“Why do you delay?” Vorax drew alongside him. Through the slits in his visor, his face was flushed with betrayal and battle-rage. “Did you not hear what happened in Gerflod? I say we strike now, Blacksword, before they are ready!”

“No.” Tanaros thought of the news out of Gerflod; of Osric and his men slain out of hand. He weighed it against the memory of Ngurra, the Yarru Elder, unarmed beneath the shadow of his sword. “They are warriors. We will give them a warrior’s death.”

Vorax made a sound of disgust. “They are dogs and deserve to die like dogs.”

Tanaros looked hard at him. “Do you contest my command, cousin?”

“Not yet.” Vorax wheeled his mount, taking his place at the head of his Staccians. “Your word you’ll give me first strike!” he called.

“My word.” Tanaros nodded.

Here and there, figures ran among the hide tents, racing to don armor. The Staccians had staked their horses some distance from their campsite, strung in a long line that each might have ample room to graze. Tanaros frowned and wondered what they had been thinking. Had they supposed they would be safe here on the plains? Had they expected Malthus to be here waiting, offering his protection? Did they believe Darkhaven would not take the risk of striking against them?

If so, they had made a grave error in judgment.

Perhaps, he thought, they had had no choice at all. Malthus the Counselor had ridden past them like the wind, cutting a swath through Staccía; the Galäinridder, risen from the ruined depths of the Marasoumië, the Bright Rider with a gem on his breast that shone like a star. It no longer held the power to Shape matter; only spirit. Which was more terrible? Had they chosen to betray Lord Satoris and their old bargain? Or had they merely been caught in the net of Malthus’ power, compelled to follow Haomane’s Weapon as the tides followed Arahila’s moon?

“Boss?” One of the Gulnagel interrupted his thoughts. “They’re in formation, Lord General, sir.”

Tanaros blinked. “Krolgun,” he said, remembering. Hyrgolf had assigned to this task all three of the Gulnagel who had accompanied him during their awful trek through the Unknown Desert. He laid a gauntleted hand on the Fjel’s bulky shoulder. “We’ll do this for Freg, eh?”

“Aye, boss!” Krolgun gave a hideous, delighted grin. “He’d like that, he would!”

“First strike to Lord Vorax and his lads,” Tanaros reminded him.

“Aye, Lord General!”