The air sang with the sound of a hundred bowstrings being loosed at once, and amid them was surely the sound of Oronin’s Bow, a deep, belling note of sorrow. A cloud of arrows filled the sky, raining down upon their raised shields. The clatter was horrible, but the armor of Darkhaven was well-wrought and the arrows did little harm.

“Left flank, hold! Right flank, defensive formation!” Tanaros shouted. “Center, advance at my pace! All shields up!”

He could hear Hyrgolf roaring orders, knew his lieutenants and bannermen were echoing them. Tanaros nudged the black into a walk. On either side of him, the Gulnagel tramped forward behind their shields.

Slowly and steadily, the center began to advance.

This was the true test of his army’s mettle; indeed, of his own. At close range, the arrows of the Arduan archers could pierce armor, foul their shields. If they kept their heads, they would hold until the last possible moment. Tanaros watched the Arduan line through the eye-slits of the Helm of Shadows. They could see it now, he could see their fingers trembling on their bowstrings. Still, any closer and he would be forced to halt.

The archers’ nerve broke. A second volley of arrows sang out, ragged and discordant. Tanaros heard a few howls of pain, felt an arrow glance off his buckler. “Gulnagel, go!” he shouted. “Strike and wheel!”

On either side the Gulnagel surged forward, bounding on powerful haunches. They came together in a wedge; a difficult target, tight-knit and armored, driving toward the line of kneeling archers, closing the distance too swiftly for them to loose a third volley. There was shouting among Haomane’s Allies as they scrambled to part ranks and allow the Arduans to fall back.

Too late. They had not anticipated so swift an attack. The wedge of Gulnagel split, wheeling along both sides of the Arduan line. They struck hard and fast, lashing out with mace and axe at the unprotected archers. Flesh and bone crunched, bows splintered. As quickly as they struck, they turned, racing back toward the formation.

A lone archer stood, loosing arrow after arrow at the retreating Fjel. The sound of Oronin’s Bow rang out like a baying hound; one of the Gulnagel fell, pierced from behind. Tanaros gritted his teeth. “Left flank, on your call! Right flank, ward! Center, advance and strike!”

The horns of the Ellylon answered with silvery defiance.

Haomane’s Allies had begun to regroup by the time Darkhaven’s forces fell upon them; the advance of the Tungskulder and the Nåltannen was plodding, not swift. But it was steady and inevitable, and it was led by Tanaros Blacksword, who wore the Helm of Shadows.