“And keep your shields up.”

“Aye, Lord General, sir!” There was a rattle along the ranks of the Gulnagel as their shields were adjusted. Some hundred and fifty yards away, the enemy had mounted, forming a dense wedge, bristling with spears. There were nearly two hundred of them, outnumbering Vorax’s company four to one. Even counting the forty Gulnagel, the treasonous Staccians held the advantage in numbers. Still, it was a mistake, Tanaros thought Numbers did not tell the whole tale. He had gauged this task’s needs with care. Better for them if they had formed a circle and made ready to fight back-to-back.

Then again, what did the Staccians know? They may have skirmished against unarmed Fjel in the wilds. They had never fought a unit of Fjel trained by him.

“Blacksword!” Vorax’s voice was impatient. He had his men in a wedge formation, too. Behind their visors they were grim-faced, ready to avenge the affront to their own loyalty. They, too, had lost comrades since the red star had risen. “Will you take all day, cousin?”

Hatred. Hatred was clean. It swept aside doubt. Tanaros thought about Osric of Staccia, dying in the Earl of Gerflod’s banquet hall, an unsuspecting guest. He thought about the Gulnagel Freg, carrying Speros’ weight and staggering to his death in the desert. Malthus the Counselor had caused these things. If these Staccians wished to follow him, let them die for him. They were Arahila’s Children, and Haomane First-Born had given them the Gift of thought. Whether they used it or not, they had chosen.

His sword rang clear of its sheath as he gave the signal. “Go!”

Vorax roared, clapping his heels to his mount’s flanks. He was a formidable figure; sunlight glittered on his gilded armor. He, too, had long been kept idle. His men streamed after him, hair fluttering beneath steel helms. At a hundred yards, the Staccian leader gave the command. The plains of Curonan shuddered beneath pounding hooves as the two wedges surged toward one another.

“Traitors!” Lord Vorax’s bellow rose above the fray as the two forces collided. “Traitors!”

Tanaros watched as Vorax’s company plunged into the Staccian wedge, sowing chaos and turning the neatly ordered formation into a disordered melee. These were not men who had trained together on the drilling field, day after day. Riders milled across the plains, trying in vain to regroup and bring their short spears to bear on the enemy that had split their ranks. Vorax’s men thundered through them and past, swinging wide, their wedge still intact. The horses of Darkhaven held their heads high and contemptuous as Vorax brought his company around for a second assault.

“Let’s go, lads,” Tanaros said to his Fjel. “Go!”