Ushahin gave him a grim smile. “We are all smallfolk to the Fjel, and yet they can be defeated. Do you know what I have not seen? An entire company of Fjel sent to hunt a pair of smallfolk. Not today, nor yesterday, nor for many days now. So, yes, Midlander, I defied his Lordship. I am uneasy at the signs converging upon us. I do not have a Shaper’s pride; no, nor even a Man’s, to scruple at a dishonorable course. If there was another chance to avert Haomane’s Prophecy at a single stroke, I would take it.”

For a long moment, Speros was silent. “I understand,” he said at length.

“Good.” Ushahin turned his mount. “Then take me to the armory.”

They rode in single file along the path, and the Tordenstem Fjel on sentry duty saluted them as they passed. Speros glanced at the fortifications he had built at the edge of the Defile; the wooden ricks laden with boulders, levers primed and ready. “Darkhaven is well-guarded, Lord Dreamspinner,” he said. “I do not discount your fears, but we are prepared for any army, whether it be Men, Ellylon, or Dwarfs.”

“What of Shapers?” Ushahin inquired.

Speros shot him an alarmed look. “Shapers?”

“To be sure.” Ushahin laughed mirthlessly. “Who do you think we are fighting, Speros of Haimhault? Aracus Altorus? Malthus the Counselor? The Lord of the Rivenlost?” He shook his head. “Our enemy is Haomane First-Born.”

“I thought the Six Shapers would not leave Torath!”

“Nor will they,” Ushahin said. “Not while his Lordship holds Godslayer. But make no mistake, this war is of Haomane’s making. It is the wise man who can name his enemy.”

The Midlander was quiet and thoughtful as they made their way back to within Darkhaven’s walls and rode toward the armory. Alongside the Gorgantus River, the waterwheel built at Speros’ suggestion creaked in a steady circle, powering the bellows. Grey-black smoke was churning from the smelting furnaces, and nearby, the forges were going at full blast, sending up a fearful din and clatter. Teams of Fjel handled the work of heating and reheating cast-iron rods and plates, beating and folding them back onto themselves until the iron hardened. Elsewhere, red-hot metal was plunged into troughs of water, sending up clouds of acrid steam, and grinding wheels shrieked, scattering showers of sparks. The Fjel worked heedless amid it all, their thick hides impervious. A Staccian smith clad in a heavy leather apron strolled through the chaos, supervising their efforts.

In the presence of so much martial clamor, Speros’ spirits rose visibly. “Come, my lord,” he shouted. “We’ll find you a weapon that suits!”