The words penetrated slowly. Tanaros took a shaking breath, aware of his heart threatening to burst from his branded chest, of hungering for the scent of blood. Ahead of him, Fjel and Men alike were scrambling along the path toward Darkhaven. “Malthus’ Soumanië,” he said thickly, understanding. “Why should you be immune?”

“To this?” Ushahin Dreamspinner gave his bitter smile. A vein throbbed in his dented temple and his dilated eye was black as a void, seeping meaningless tears at the painful onslaught of light. “It is only another form of madness.” He nodded down the path. “You had better halt your troops.”

Cursing, Tanaros lashed his mount’s haunches with his reins. He rode them down, plunging amid them, shouting. “Turn back, turn back! Hyrgolf! Vorax! Speros! Turn back!”

Hyrgolf heeded him first, coming to himself with a mighty shudder. He waded through the milling troops to plant himself in their path, setting his shoulders and roaring orders until the headlong rush stalled into aimless chaos.

“What was that?” Speros sounded confused, half-awake.

“That,” Tanaros said grimly, “was Malthus.”

The Midlander blinked befuddled brown eyes at him. “What happens now?”

They were all gazing toward him for an answer. Tanaros shook his head, wordless. Behind and beyond them, above the looming edifice of Darkhaven’s fortress, stormclouds were gathering; black and roiling. One atop another they piled, bruise-colored and furious, until the air was heavy with tension. Wind blew in every direction, cold and cutting as a knife.

A peal of thunder answered Malthus’ challenge. It began deep and low, so low it was little more than a tremor felt in the pit of the belly, then built in burgeoning fury, built and built in rolling peals, culminating in a booming crack, the likes of which had not been heard since the foundation of the world was Sundered. Even the horses of Darkhaven staggered, and Men and Fjel lifted their hands to cover their ears.

A fork of lightning split the dirty clouds, blue-white as the marrow-fire, and its afterimage was as red as the beating heart of Godslayer.

Then there was silence, until it was broken again by the silvery horns of the Rivenlost, casting their tremulous, valiant challenge aloft on a surge of light, sowing fresh unrest in their enemies’ souls.

“What now?” Speros of Haimhault’s voice broke. “Ah, Shapers! What now?”

“War.” Ushahin Dreamspinner rode up the path with shoulders hunched against the biting winds. Under the lowering skies and their murky light, the mount that consented to bear him was the color of old blood, spilled and drying. Tanaros watched him come; half-breed, half-healed, his gilt hair lank with disdain. Ushahin met his eyes, but it was Speros he answered. “It is what it has always been, Midlander. War.”

“We will give them war!” Vorax growled, and the Staccians echoed assent. “Supplies be damned! We will fall upon them and make them wish they had never been born.”