Tanaros raised his hand, halting them. “It is for his Lordship to decide.”

“It is in my heart that he has already decided,” Ushahin murmured to him. “The Soumanië is persuasive, and his Lordship was not unwilling to be persuaded in the matter. I hope you took their measure well, cousin.”

Tanaros glanced back toward the plains, longing to answer the horns’ call. “Well enough, cousin, if it comes to it.” He steeled himself. “We’d best make haste. The fortress is likely to be in an uproar. Can I trust you all to hold firm?”

There were grim nods all around. Bloodlust itched in all of them, but the initial madness of Malthus’ spell had been broken. What remained could be resisted.

It was well, for his prediction proved an understatement. They arrived at Darkhaven to find it boiling with battlefrenzy. Fjel poured from the barracks, abandoned their posts along the wall, streaming toward the Defile Gate. Only their sheer mass prevented them from passing through it and entering Defile’s Maw. So many Fjel were pressed up against the Gate it was impossible to open it. Enraged and slavering, partially armed or not at all, they flung themselves against the stone walls.

“Shapers!” Speros looked ill.

“Marshal Hyrgolf.” Tanaros kneed his mount forward, taking a position atop the high path where all could see him. He gazed down at the seething mass of bodies. “Get me one of the Tordenstem.” There was a slight commotion behind him, and then one of the Tordenstem, the Thunder Voice Fjel, was at his side, squat and grey as a boulder, offering a steady salute. Tanaros nodded at him. “Tell them their General commands their attention.”

The Tordenstem took a great breath, his barrel-shaped torso swelling visibly, and loosed his voice in a mighty roar. “All heed the Lord General Tanaros! Tan-a-ros! Tan-a-ros! All heed the Lord General!”

Stillness settled, slow and gradual. The long training of the Fjel had instilled the habit of obedience in them. They ceased flinging themselves at the impervious stone and gazed upward at Tanaros, a semblance of sanity returning to their features.

“Brethren!” Tanaros raised his voice; an ordinary Man’s voice, possessed of no special might, but pitched to carry over battlefields. “Who is it that has ordered this assault?” There was no answer. The Fjel shuffled and looked at their horny feet. “No?” Tanaros asked. “Then I will tell you: Malthus. It is Malthus the Counselor who orders it, and Malthus alone you obey if you heed this madness!”

They looked shame-faced and Tanaros felt guilty at it. He, too, had been caught up in the frenzy. If not for the Dreamspinner’s intervention, he would be down there among them. But it would avail nothing to confess it. Now was the time to provoke their pride, not assuage it.