“No,” Hyrgolf said simply. “I do not have the wisdom to meddle in the affairs of Shapers. The Fjel made their choice long ago, General. Haomane’s Prophecy binds us to it.” He smiled with hideous gentleness. “How did you tell me it went? The Fjeltroll shall fall.”

“Yet you do not fear,” Tanaros murmured.

“Death in battle?” Hyrgolf shook his massive head. “No, not that. Lord Satoris …” He paused, raising the skin to drink. “He made us a promise, once. He said one day Men would covet our gifts.” Lowering the skin, he handed it back to Tanaros. “He said Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters Shaped us well.”

“She did.” Tanaros took another scalding swig. “She did at that, Marshal.” He wiped his lips and sighed. “Do you think we are so different in the end, Hyrgolf? You and I, Haomane’s Allies?”

“No.” The Fjel shrugged his heavy shoulders, gazing past Tanaros at the crudely carved rhios in a niche behind one of the dwindling candles. His boy’s first effort. Not bad for a mere pup, eh? “Not in the end, General.” He smiled ruefully, a shadow beneath the dense ridge of his brow. “Problem is, we seem to be somewhere in the middle, don’t we?”

“Aye.” Tanaros got unsteadily to his feet, returning the skin to Hyrgolf. He clapped one hand on the Fjel’s shoulder, reassured by the solid warmth of it, the unwavering loyalty. “His Lordship has the right of it, Hyrgolf. Even now, I envy you.”

“General.” Hyrgolf heaved his massive body upright. His taloned hands were surprisingly delicate as they closed around Tanaros’ arm. “Go, and sleep. You have need of it. His Lordship has need of you.”

“He entrusted me with his honor,” Tanaros whispered.

“Aye.” Hyrgolf nodded. “He is wise that way. And you entrust us with yours.”

Tanaros shivered. “At what price, Hyrgolf?”

The Fjel smiled one last time, sad and slow. “I do not think that is ever given to us to know, General. We rejoice in it, for it is all we have, all we have chosen.” He gave Tanaros a gentle shove, and the advice given to the rawest of recruits. “Go now, and sleep. You will feel better once the battle is joined.”

Tanaros went, stumbling slightly. Outside, the cold air struck like a blow, diminishing the intoxicating effects of the svartblod he had drunk. He gazed at the horizon, where Arahila’s moon swam low, a tarnished silver coin, and remembered the night his Lordship had first called them to the tower to see the red star that had arisen. His soft words, the pain in his voice.

Oh, Arahila!

“Why didn’t you stay at his side?” Tanaros, wavering on his feet, addressed the moon. “You, any of you! Neheris, whom the Fjel still worship! Were you frightened? Is that it? Was Haomane Lord-of-Thought that powerful? What did you know that his Lordship did not?”