“Listen to me,” he said to the Fjel. “This”—he gestured—“this mayhem, this undisciplined ferocity, this is how Haomane’s Allies see you. This is what they wish the Fjel to be; mindless, unthinking. Ravening beasts. Do you wish to prove them aright? Is that how Neheris Shaped her Children?”

A roar of denial rose in answer. Tanaros smiled and drew his black sword. Its hilt pulsed in his grip, attuned to the hatred that throbbed in his veins. It glowed with its own dark light under the shrouded skies.

“By this sword!” he called. “By the black sword, quenched in his Lordship’s blood, I swear to you! We will obey his Lordship’s orders and see his will is done. And if his will be war, Haomane’s Allies will know what it means to face the wrath, and the might, and the discipline of Darkhaven!”

Their cheers drowned out the distant call of Ellylon horns.

Tanaros sheathed the black sword and turned to Hyrgolf. “Summon your lieutenants and restore some semblance of order. Tell the lads to remain on alert.”

“Aye, General.” Hyrgolf paused. “You think his Lordship means to do it?”

“I don’t know.” Tanaros leaned over in the saddle, clasping the Tungskulder’s shoulder. “We shall see, Field Marshal.”

LILIAS STARTLED AWAKE FROM A dream of Beshtanag.

She had been dreaming of the siege, the endless siege, watching her people grow starved and resentful, waiting for an army that would never come, hearing once more the silvery horns of the Rivenlost blow and the herald repeating his endless challenge. Sorceress! Surrender the Lady Cerelinde, and your people will be spared!

Waking, she found herself in her pleasant prison-chamber, sunlight streaming through the high windows. Beshtanag was far, far away. And still she heard horns, a faint and distant call echoing through Meronil’s white bridges and towers.

For a terrified moment, she thought it was Oronin’s Horn summoning her to death. In Pelmar it was said those of noble birth could hear it; of a surety, the Were could. But, no, those were Ellylon horns.

“Eamaire.” Swallowing her pride, Lilias pleaded with the attendant when she arrived. “What passes in the world? Is Meronil besieged?”

“While Haomane’s Children draw breath on Urulat’s soil, Meronil stands, Lady.” A cool disdain was in the Ellyl’s leaf-green eyes, as though she had borne witness to Lilias’ darkest fantasies of destruction. “The Lord of the Rivenlost travels with the Host. You do but hear their horns sounding in the distance.”

Lilias took a sharp breath. “Darkhaven?”

The Ellyl hesitated, then shook her head. “It may be. We cannot know.”

She departed, leaving Lilias alone with the memory of her dream and the awful knowledge that it was true, all true, that Beshtanag was lost, everything was lost, and she was to blame. The horns sounded again, reminding her.

Perhaps Oronin’s Horn would not have been so terrible after all.