This was not the battle he would have chosen; but it was his, here and now. Tanaros felt lighthearted and invulnerable. I will not pray for your death on the morrow. At twenty paces, he could see the faces of the enemy; Ellylon faces, proud and stern, limned with a doomed brightness in the Helm’s vision.

Her kin; his enemy. Not the one he wanted most to kill, no. The time of the Rivenlost was ending; so the Helm whispered to him. But beyond them were the Borderguard of Curonan in their dun-colored cloaks. He was in their midst; Roscus’ descendant, proud Aracus.

Malthus, with the Spear of Light.

At twenty paces, Tanaros gave a wordless shout and charged.

The Rivenlost gave way as he plunged into their ranks. They beheld the Helm of Shadows, and there was horror in their expressions. He broke through their line, dimly aware of them reforming behind him to meet the onslaught of the Fjel, that his charge had carried him into the thick of Haomane’s Allies.

White light blazed, obliterating his Helm-shadowed vision. Tanaros turned his mount in a tight circle, striking outward with his black sword, driving down unseen weapons. He clung grimly to the pain of his phantom wound, to the pain that filled the Helm; the hatred and anguish, futile defiance, the bitter pain of betrayal. The scorching torment of Haomane’s Wrath, the impotent fury, the malice fed by generation upon generation of hatred. He fed it with his own age-old rage until he heard the cries of mortal fear around him and felt Malthus’ will crumble.

Darkness slowly swallowed the light until he could see.

The battle had swirled past him, cutting him off from his forces. A ring of Pelmaran infantrymen surrounded him, holding him warily at bay. Malthus the Counselor had ceded the battle in favor of the war; there, a bright spark of white-gold light drove into the ranks of Fjel.

Somewhere, Hyrgolf was roaring orders. The right flank of Fjel was swinging around to engage Haomane’s Allies. Ignoring the Pelmarans, Tanaros stood in his stirrups to gaze across the field.

“Ah, no!” he whispered.

VORAX OF STACCIA PATTED HIS armor-clad belly. When all was said and done, there was nothing like the excitement of a battle to work up a man’s appetite. He was glad he could rest content in the knowledge that the army was wellsupplied. If nightfall came with neither side victorious, they’d all be glad of it.

At the moment, it bid fair to do just that. He watched Tanaros’ charge carry him into the midst of enemy ranks and shook his head. Better if his Lordship had given the Helm of Shadows to the Dreamspinner.