Black sword.

It glowed darkly in his vision as he drew it; a wound in the morning sky. A shard of shadow, the edge glittering like obsidian. It had been quenched in the blood of Lord Satoris himself and was strong enough to shatter mortal steel.

Tanaros drew a deep breath; past the ache in his branded heart, past the phantom pain of his Lordship’s wound. He had given speeches on the training-field, rousing his troops. Now that the hour had come, there was no need. They knew what they were about. When the air in his lungs burned, he loosed it in a shout.

“Forward, Darkhaven!”

With a second roar, his army began to advance. Across the plains, the Ellylon horns answered and Haomane’s Allies moved forward to meet them.

Tanaros kept the pace slow, gauging his enemy’s forces. Aracus Altorus had rearranged them, placing the Arduan archers in the vanguard ahead of the Rivenlost. The move was to be expected. Darkhaven had no archers; it was not a skill to which the Fjel were suited, and Staccians disdained the bow for aught but hunting. He signaled to Hyrgolf, who barked out an order. His bannermen echoed it with sweeping pennants. A company of fleet Gulnagel shifted into place on either side of him, the muscles in their thighs bunched and ready. They bore kite-shaped shields that covered their whole bodies, and they had trained for this possibility.

What else?

Aracus had put the Vedasian knights on his right, in direct opposition to Vorax’s Staccians. They formed a solid block, clad from head to toe in shining steel, their mounts heavily armored. Well-protected, but slow to maneuver. Tanaros nodded to Vorax, who nodded back, grinning into his beard. Let the Vedasians see what the horses of Darkhaven were capable of doing. No need to worry about them.

The Host of the Rivenlost was clustered behind the archers, in their midst a starry glitter that made his head ache. Malthus? Tanaros squinted. Yes, there he was among them; clad in white robes, disdainful of armor. He carried the Spear of Light upright, and the clear Soumanië shone painfully on his breast, piercing the darkness. Behind him was the Borderguard of Curonan, with Aracus Altorus and Blaise Caveros, and massed behind them, countless others; Seaholders, Midlanders, Pelmarans.

Behind the Helm of Shadows, Tanaros smiled.

Let him come, let them all come. He was ready for them. He had a legion of Fjel at his back. Ushahin Dreamspinner was among them; protected, he hoped, by Hyrgolf’s Tungskulder Fjel. He was not worried. The Dreamspinner would find a way to ward himself.

The gap between them was closing. On the far side of the plains, an order was shouted. The Arduan archers went to one knee.

“Shields up!” Tanaros cried, raising his own buckler.