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Chapters (32)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. DRAMATIS PERSONAE
  4. ONE
  5. TWO
  6. THREE
  7. FOUR
  8. FIVE
  9. SIX
  10. SEVEN
  11. EIGHT
  12. NINE
  13. TEN
  14. ELEVEN
  15. TWELVE
  16. THIRTEEN
  17. FOURTEEN
  18. FIFTEEN
  19. SIXTEEN
  20. SEVENTEEN
  21. EIGHTEEN
  22. NINETEEN
  23. TWENTY
  24. TWENTY-ONE
  25. TWENTY-TWO
  26. TWENTY-THREE
  27. TWENTY-FOUR
  28. TWENTY-FIVE
  29. EPILOGUE
  30. TOR BOOKS BY JACQUELINE CAREY
  31. PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF JACQUELINE CAREY
  32. Copyright Page

Uncle Thulu had sacrificed himself for this.

Still praying, eyes clenched tight, Dani began to descend.

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-TWO

THE BATTLE WAS JOINED ONCE more.

For all his fury, Tanaros kept his wits about him. The Helm of Shadows was broken. His army was one of the last things standing between Haomane’s Allies and fulfillment of the Prophecy, and he would take no careless risks. With deliberate forbearance, he let the Fjel charge precede him and sow chaos in the ranks of Haomane’s Allies. The Tungskulder waded among them, roaring, laying about with axe and mace.

Men and Ellylon alike fell beneath their onslaught; unhorsed, wounded, trampled. Tanaros smiled grimly. On the left flank, his Gulnagel essayed sorties against the Vedasian knights, striking and wheeling as he had taught them. On the right flank, the Nåltannen were wreaking havoc amid the motley infantry.

But Aracus Altorus was no fool. Wheeling his mount, he shouted orders. His troops rallied, changing tactics. On the front line, fleet riders of the Rivenlost and the Borderguard dodged and swerved, striking at the slow Tungskulder with quick, slashing blows until Hyrgolf was forced to order his Fjel to regroup in a tighter defensive formation. The Dwarfs had retired from the field, but a handful of archers remained in the fray, and these Aracus moved to his right, slightly behind the front lines, setting them to picking off stray Gulnagel. Malthus the Counselor was everywhere, his white Soumanië a beacon of hope.

Still, Tanaros thought, the edge was his.

Darkhaven’s army was too strong, too well trained. The Borderguard and the Host of the Rivenlost might stand against them, but the others—the Seaholders, the Midlanders, the Free Fishermen—were slowly being slaughtered. Even the Pelmarans, flush from victory in Beshtanag, and the Vedasian knights in their heavy armor, had not reckoned with the awesome might of the Fjel.

They fought so beautifully! The sight of them filled Tanaros with fierce pride. They kept their shields high, they held their formations, pressing forward, slow and inexorable. What a thing it would be, what a glorious thing, if Haomane’s Prophecy were yet to be averted—by this, by strength of arms, by dint of long training. Lord Satoris had not sought this war. Haomane’s Allies had pressed it upon him the moment Cerelinde agreed to wed Aracus Altorus. But he had prepared for it for many long years.

As had Tanaros. And though there was little room in his heart for hope, he meant to try nonetheless. He owed Lord Satoris no less.

If Aracus Altorus died, there could be no victory for Haomane’s Allies. Not now, nor ever. There would be no Son of Altorus left living to wed a Daughter of Elterrion. No more royal Altorian bloodline tainted with the betrayal of Tanaros Caveros’ faithless wife.