Wounded and terrified, they fell back, clearing a circle around him. What sort of enemy was it that would not engage? He wanted Aracus Altorus, wanted Malthus the Counselor. But, no, Haomane’s Allies retreated, melting away from his onslaught.

“General! General!”

Hyrgolf’s voice penetrated his rage. Tanaros leaned on the pommel of his saddle, breathing hard, gazing at his field marshal’s familiar face, the small eyes beneath the heavy brow, steady and unafraid. He had regained his army.

Across the plains, combatants struggled, continuing to fight and die, but here in the center of the field a pocket of silence surrounded him. The battle had come to a standstill. Hyrgolf pointed past him without a word, and Tanaros turned his mount slowly.

They were there, arrayed against him, a combined force of Rivenlost and Borderguard at their backs. Ingolin, shining in the bright armor of the Rivenlost. Aracus Altorus, bearing his ancestor’s sword with the lifeless Soumanië in the pommel. Malthus the Counselor, grave of face. Among them, only Malthus was able to look upon the Helm of Shadows without flinching away. The Spear of Light was in his grasp, lowered and level, its point aimed at Tanaros’ heart.

“Brave Malthus,” Tanaros said. “Do you seek to run me through from behind?”

The Counselor’s voice was somber. “We are not without honor, Tanaros Kingslayer. Even here, even now.”

Tanaros laughed. “So you say, wizard. And yet much praise was given to Elendor, son of Elterrion, who crept behind Lord Satoris to strike a blow against him on these very plains, ages past. Do you deny it?”

Malthus sat unmoving in the saddle. “Does Satoris Banewreaker thus accuse? Then let him take the field and acquit himself. I see no Shaper present.”

“Nor do I,” Tanaros said softly. “Nor do I. And yet I know where my master is, and why. Can you say the same, Wise Counselor?”

“You seek to delay, Kingslayer!” Aracus Altorus’ voice rang out, taut with frustration. “You know why we are here. Fight or surrender.”

Tanaros gazed at him through the eyes of the Helm of Shadows, seeing a figure haloed in flickering fire; a fierce spirit, bold and exultant. Still, his face was averted. “I am here, Son of Altorus.” He opened his arms. “Will you stand against me? Will you, Ingolin of Meronil? No?” His gaze shifted to Malthus. “What of you, Counselor? Will you not match Haomane’s Spear against my sword?”

“I will do it.”

The voice came from behind them. Blaise Caveros rode forward, unbuckling his helm. He removed it to reveal his face, pale and resolute. With difficulty, he fixed his gaze upon the eyeholes of the Helm of Shadows and held it there. Beads of sweat shone on his brow. “On one condition. I have removed my helm, kinsman,” he said thickly. “Will you not do the same?”