They went at a stumbling jog, slow and wounded, passing the supply-trains that Vorax of Staccia had so diligently mustered. Useless, now. Tanaros pushed the memory aside and glanced at the sky. “One last kindness,” he whispered, trying to catch Fetch’s winged thoughts. “One last time, my friend.”

Turning his mount, he charged the oncoming company. The black horse of Darkhaven was not the mount he had trained for many years, but it had born him willingly into battle and it ran now with all the fearlessness of its proud, vicious heart.

A dark cloud swept down from the sky.

Wings, all around him, black and glossy. It was like being in the center of the Ravensmirror, save that the path before him was clear. In front of him, Tanaros saw alarm dawning on the faces of his enemies. And then the ravens were among them, clamoring, obscuring their vision, wings battering, claws scrabbling.

In the chaos, Tanaros struck once, hard and true. Blue sparks flew and metal screeched as his black sword pierced bright Ellylon armor, sinking deep, deep into the flesh below.

“For Hyrgolf,” he whispered, wrenching his blade free.

He did not linger to watch the Lord of the Rivenlost die, though the image stayed with him as he wheeled and raced toward the Defile; Ingolin’s eyes, fathomless and grey, widening in pain and sorrow, the light of Haomane’s regard fading in them. Behind him, the horns went silent and a great cry arose from the Host, echoed mockingly by the rising ravens.

From Darkhaven, nothing.

Fear, true fear, gripped Tanaros, then. Beneath his armor, the brand on his chest felt icy. Worse blows even than this could be dealt against Darkhaven. He remembered his Lordship’s voice, low and strange. He is coming, Tanaros Blacksword. They are all coming, all my Elder Brother’s little puppets … .

At the base of Defile’s Maw, he caught up with the Fjel and shouted, “Follow as swiftly as you can! I go to his Lordship’s aid!”

They nodded wearily.

Tanaros glanced behind him. A handful of Ellylon warriors remained with their fallen Lord. The rest were coming, swift and deadly, with hearts full of vengeance. The Defile could be sealed against them; but it would take time for the slower Fjel to get clear, more time than their pursuers allowed. He looked back at his lads, stolid and loyal, even in defeat. “Defile’s Maw must be held. Who among you will do it?”

Twelve Tungskulder stepped forward without hesitation, saluting him. “For as long as it takes, Lord General, sir!” one said.

“Good lads.” Tanaros’ eyes burned. “I’m proud of you.”

Spurring his black horse, he plunged into the Defile.

THE HAVENGUARD WERE slow To open the Defile Gate.