The tide of battle was shifting, surging against them. The horns, the damned Ellylon horns, were raised in their clarion call, echoing and insistent. Everywhere, figures were reeling; the very earth was in motion, the plains lifting in a vast, slow surge, rippling like a wave.

Ushahin tasted bile.

“Oh, my Lord!” he whispered. “You should have let me kill her!”

It was not too late, not yet. Lashing the blood-bay stallion with his reins, Ushahin raced toward Darkhaven.

TANAROS’ FINAL BLOW NEVER LANDED.

For the space of a few heartbeats, they simply stared at one another, wide-eyed and astonished, the Soumanië blazing between them. Then Aracus Altorus whispered a word and the world erupted in rubescent light.

The earth surged and Tanaros found himself flung backward, losing ground, half-blinded and lurching in the saddle as his mount squealed in rage and fought to remain on its hooves. In some part of him, Tanaros understood what must have happened. Somehow, somewhere, the Sorceress Lilias had died; the Soumanië’s power was passing to its wielder: Aracus Altorus, who had been mentored by Malthus the Counselor, whose reserves of inner strength the Soumanië required had never been tapped.

In that instant, everything changed.

Haomane’s Allies knew it. The horns of the Rivenlost rang out joyously, maddeningly. New vigor, new hope infused them, gave them strength. They had a new ally. The very plains themselves rose up in rebellion against the Army of Darkhaven; churning, fissuring.

And in the center of the battlefield, Aracus Altorus sat astride his mount, untouchable, both hands clasped around the hilt of his shattered sword. He had removed his helm to afford a clearer field of vision, and in the wash of ruby light pouring from the Soumanië, his face was at once agonized and transcendent. Malthus had reached his side in a flurry of white robes, was lending him strength and counsel.

And Ingolin, Lord of the Rivenlost, was rallying his troops.

All the hatred Tanaros had been unable to summon on the verge of dealing Aracus his death blow returned tenfold. With no thought in his mind but finishing the job, he spurred his mount back toward Aracus.

It was to no avail. His Lordship’s brand afforded protection against the Soumanië itself, but the earth rose against him in waves, softened beneath him. At twenty paces away, his mount floundered, sunk to its hocks.

Malthus the Counselor gazed at him, grave and implacable.

Tanaros could draw no closer.