With a curse, he wrenched his mount’s head around; and cursed again to see what transpired on the battlefield. The surging earth favored Haomane’s Allies, bore them up. The infantry massed against his Nåltannen, whose numbers had been decimated by the charge Tanaros had ordered. Somewhere, Oronin’s Bow was singing; mired Gulnagel twisted futilely, raising their shields as the archers circled. Riding the crest of its waves, the Rivenlost fell upon the Tungskulder. Still floundering, Tanaros was forced to watch as the Host of the Ellylon rode down his beloved Fjel.

“Hyrgolf!”

The word escaped him in a raw gasp. Hyrgolf knew what had happened, what was happening. He had chosen to meet the charge and buy time for his lads. He stood bravely, knee-deep in a sudden mire, baring his eyetusks in a fierce grin. It took four Ellylon to bring him down, and one was Lord Ingolin himself, who struck the final blow. With a peaceful sigh, Hyrgolf died, measuring his length on the trampled grass of the plains, the last ounces of his life bubbling from his slashed throat.

Tanaros swore, laying about him on either side with his black sword at the warriors who came for him. He gouged his mount’s flanks with his heels, driving it mercilessly onto solid land. He rode unthinking, swerving to follow the shifting crests, killing as he went.

“Retreat!” he bellowed, seizing the nearest Fjel, shoving him toward home. “Retreat to Darkhaven!”

Overhead, the ravens screamed and wheeled.

Someone took up the call, then another and another. “Retreat! Retreat! Retreat!”

It was not in the nature of the Fjel to retreat. Some obeyed, the ragged ends of Tanaros’ discipline holding true. Elsewhere, it frayed at last and Fjel stood, fighting until the end, dying with bitter, bloody grins. And then there were many, too many, trapped by the treacherous earth, who had no choice but to fight and die.

Tanaros wept, unaware of the tears trickling beneath the faceplate of his helm, mingling with his sweat. On the far outskirts of the battlefield, he took a stand, watching the staggering columns of Fjel file past. The earth was stable here; even with Malthus’ aid, Aracus’ strength extended only so far.

It had been far enough.

The horns of the Rivenlost sounded and a company detached to ride in pursuit of the fleeing remnants of Darkhaven’s army. They came swiftly, carrying their standards high, armor glittering beneath the mire, dotted here and there with the dun-grey cloaks of the Borderguard. And at the forefront of them all was the argent scroll of the House of Ingolin the Wise, Lord of the Rivenlost.

“Go!” Tanaros shouted at the retreating Fjel. “Go, go, go!”