Malthus the Counselor lifted his head as though listening for a strain of distant music. The tip of the Spear of Light rose, wreathed in white-gold fire, and the Soumanië on his breast sparkled.

Aracus Altorus drew a sharp breath. “Blaise, stand down! If this battle belongs to anyone, it is me.”

“No.” Blaise looked steadily at Tanaros. “What comes afterward is your battle, Aracus. I cannot wed the Lady Cerelinde. I cannot forge a kingdom out of chaos. But I can fight this … creature.”

Tanaros smiled bitterly. “Do you name me thus, kinsman?”

“I do.” Blaise matched his smile. “I have spent my life in the shadow of your infamy, Kingslayer. If you give me this chance … an honorable chance … to purge the world of its blight, I will take it.”

Tanaros pointed toward Malthus with his blade. “Do you speak of honor, kinsman? Let the Counselor relinquish yon Spear.”

“Tanaros,” a voice murmured. He turned his head to see Ushahin Dreamspinner, his mismatched eyes feverish and bright “There is madness in this offer.”

“Madness, aye,” Tanaros said quietly. “Madness to risk the Helm; madness, too, for Malthus to surrender a weapon of Haomane’s Shaping while Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn is afoot.”

The half-breed shivered. “I do not know. Vorax’s death—”

“—cries for vengeance. Let us provide it for him.” Tanaros reached up to unbuckle the Helm of Shadows. Even through his gauntlets, its touch made his hands ache. Behind him, the Tungskulder Fjel murmured deep in their throats. “What say you, Counselor?”

Malthus’ hand tightened on the Spear of Light. With a sudden move, he drove it downward into the earth. “Remove the Helm and lay it upon the ground, Kingslayer,” he said in his calm, deep voice. “And I will release the haft and honor this bargain, if it be your will to make it.”

A bargain was a fitting way to honor the death of Vorax of Staccia. Tanaros glanced around. Word had spread, and stillness in its wake. Across the plains, weary combatants paused, waiting. Some of Haomane’s Allies were using the respite to haul the wounded from the field; behind their lines, figures hurried to meet them. The sturdy Dwarfs aided, carrying wounded Men twice their size. The dead lay motionless, bleeding into the long grass. There were many of them on the left flank, clad in Staccian armor.

There were no wounded Fjel to be tended. Wounded Fjel fought until there was no more life in them. There were only the living and the dead.

“Marshal Hyrgolf.” Tanaros beckoned. “Order the Nåltannen to regroup, and move the second squadron of Gulnagel in position to harry the Vedasians. Tell them to hold on your orders. Give none until provoked.”

“Aye, Lord General, sir!” Hyrgolf saluted.