“Naught of import.” Tanaros shook his head. “I’m just … thinking. What difference is there, truly, between us and Haomane’s Allies, Krolgun? We breathe, we eat, we sleep. Would you have known one of Lord Vorax’s Staccians from the traitors if your eyes were sealed?”

“Sure, Lord General!” Krolgun flashed his eyetusks and tapped his snout with one wicked yellow talon. “So would you, if you were Fjel. Or Were. The Were can hunt blind, they say. I wouldn’t mind seeing that.”

Tanaros smiled ruefully. The Were would not be aiding them; not soon, maybe never. They had paid too dearly for it. “That’s not what I meant, lad.”

“Sorry, boss.” The Gulnagel shrugged. “I’m not one for thinking. Haomane’s Gift, you know. Ask Marshal Hyrgolf, he’s got the knack of it.” He laughed. “Making decisions and the like, all you made him into.”

“Made him?” Tanaros was startled.

“Aye, boss.” Krolgun glanced cheerfully at him. “Did you not mean to?”

“No,” Tanaros said slowly. “Or, yes, I suppose.” He frowned at his hands, going about their own capable business, maintaining a steady grip on the reins. They were still sun-dark from his sojourn in the desert, scars pale on his knuckles. “It’s just that I never thought of it thusly.”

“Ah, well.” Krolgun gave another shrug. “All the same in the end, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps.” Tanaros nodded. “Perhaps it is.”

Krolgun grinned. “There you are, then!”

HAOMANE’S ALLIES WERE ENCAMPED IN the Midlands.

Their campfires spread wide and far, a hundred twinkling lights echoing the multitude of stars that spangled the canopy of night. It was not the whole of their company; not yet. Pelmaran troops and the knights of Vedasia were still en route. But Seahold’s forces had gathered, and those from the small holdings of the Midlands were there, or flocking to gather. Many of them came with wagon trains of supplies, all that could be spared from the fall harvest.

The Free Fishers were there, laconic and weatherbeaten. A company of Arduan archers had arrived fired with pride at the deed of their countrywoman, who had slain the Dragon of Beshtanag. If neither company was willing to fully accept Aracus Altorus’ sovereignty over their respective republics, still they were eager to fight at his side, prizing freedom above all things. As King of the West, Aracus would respect their independence; the Sunderer, they were certain, would not. Had he not shown as much in laying his trap in Beshtanag?

But the heart of the army was those who had ridden forth from Meronil; the Host of the Rivenlost and the Borderguard of Curonan. And it was their commanders who assembled in a hushed meeting in the tent of Ingolin the Wise; their commanders, and those who remained from the Company that had ridden forth with Malthus.