Somewhere, toward the rear of Haomane’s Allies, there was shouting. Their ranks shifted; a single Ellyl horn sounded. The sound made him frown and parry too hastily. Blaise Caveros swore as his blade was notched, an awful suspicion beginning to dawn on his face.

Overhead, the ravens of Darkhaven wheeled and veered.

Three times over, Oronin’s Bow sang its single note of death and anguish.

For a fractured instant, Tanaros’ sight left him, taking wing. In an urgent burst, Fetch’s vision overwhelmed his thoughts. Tanaros saw the plains from on high; saw the tall grass rippling in endless waves, the small figures below. Saw the lone horse, grey as smoke, her brown-haired rider toppling, pierced by three feathered shafts. Saw his lips move, his eyes close, a final stillness settle.

First Vorax, now Speros.

“Damn you!” Blinded by grief and visions, Tanaros lowered his guard. The injustice of the Midlander’s death filled him with fury. “He wasn’t even armed!”

Haomane’s Allies—Haomane’s Three—were looking to the south, seeking to determine what had transpired. Unwatched, unguarded, Blaise Caveros moved like a flash, dropping his sword and snatching the Spear of Light from the earth with one gauntleted hand. With a faint cry, Ushahin Dreamspinner emerged from nothingness; on his knees, his face twisted with pain, his crippled left hand clutched to his chest. He had been reaching for the Spear with it.

Too late, too slow.

Tanaros flung up his buckler, heard Hyrgolf roar, saw the Fjel surge forward. On the frozen ground, the Helm of Shadows stared with empty eyeholes. Blaise Caveros never hesitated. Hoisting the Spear like a javelin, he hurled it not at Tanaros, but at the empty Helm, hard and sure.

Light pierced Darkness.

The world exploded. Tanaros found himself on his hands and knees, deafened. He shook his head, willing his vision to clear.

It did, showing him the Helm of Shadows, cracked clean asunder, its dark enchantment broken. As for the Spear of Light, it was gone, vanished and consumed in the conflagration.

Tanaros climbed to his feet, still clutching his sword-hilt. “For that, you die,” he whispered thickly, “kinsman.” He nodded at the ground. “Pick up your sword.”

Blaise obeyed.

There was a peaceful clarity in the Borderguardsman’s dark eyes as he took up a defensive pose. He held it as Tanaros struck; a long, level blow, swinging from the hips and shoulders, the black sword shearing through metal and flesh. Cleaving his blade, slicing through his armor. Blaise sank to his knees, holding his shattered weapon. His face was tranquil, almost glad. Blood, bright blood, poured over his corselet.

He was smiling as he folded and quietly died.