Tanaros smiled at him. “Once I remove this Helm, I want your Tungskulder lads to guard it as though their lives depended on it Does any one of Haomane’s Allies stir in its direction, strike them down without hesitation or mercy. Is that understood?”

Hyrgolf revealed his eyetusks in a broad grin. “Aye, Lord General, sir!”

“Good.” Tanaros offered a mocking bow to Blaise Caveros. “Shall we meet as Men, face-to-face and on our feet? Men did so once upon the training-fields of Altoria, before I razed it to the ground.”

Color rose to the Borderguardsman’s cheeks; with an oath, he dismounted and flung his head back. “Come, then, and meet me!”

Tanaros sheathed his sword and dismounted. Six Tungskulder stepped forward promptly to surround him. With careful hands, he lifted the Helm of Shadows from his head. He blinked against the sudden brightness, the disappearance of the phantom pain in his groin, the ache in his palms. Astride his foam-white horse, the Wise Counselor watched him, still gripping the planted shaft of the Spear of Light.

“What did you do to my horse, Malthus?” Tanaros called to him.

“All things are capable of change,” Malthus answered. “Even you, Kingslayer.”

“As are you, Counselor; for we are Lesser Shapers, are we not? Change is a choice we may make.” Stooping, Tanaros laid the Helm on the trampled grass. “And yet I do not think you gave such a choice to my horse.”

There was a moment of fear as he straightened; if Haomane’s Allies were to betray their bargain, it would be now. But, no; Malthus had kept his word and released the Spear of Light. There it stood, gleaming, untouched by any hand, upright and quivering in a semicircle of Haomane’s Allies. The eyeholes of the Helm of Shadows gazed upward from the ground, dark with pain and horror. Beyond the Tungskulder, Ushahin nodded briefly at him, his twisted face filled with sick resolve.

“So.” Tanaros stepped away. A cold breeze stirred his damp hair, making him feel light-headed and free. His world was narrowing to this moment, this hard-trodden circle of ground. This opponent, this younger self, glimpsed through the mirror of ages. He gave the old, old salute, the one he had given so often to Roscus; a fist to the heart, an open hand extended. Brother, let us spar. I trust my life unto your hands. “Shall we begin?”

Blaise Caveros drew his sword without returning the salute. “Do you suggest this is a mere exercise?” he asked grimly.

“No.” Tanaros regarded his gauntleted hand, closing it slowly into a fist. He glanced up to meet the eyes of Aracus Altorus; fierce and demanding, unhappy at being relegated to an onlooker’s role. Not Roscus, but someone else altogether. “No,” he said, “I suppose not.”

“Then ward yourself well,” Blaise said, and attacked.

NINETEEN

NINETEEN

DARKHAVEN’S KITCHENS WERE FILLED WITH a fearsome clatter.