And strangely, the words were true. Even more strangely, the three women were weeping. She did not know for whom they wept, Satoris Banewreaker or Vorax the Glutton. She had not imagined anyone could weep for either.

The oldest of the three dried her eyes on the hem of her mantle. “What is to become of us?”

There was a throne in the center of the room, a massive ironwood seat carved in the shape of a roaring bear. Cerelinde sank wearily into it. “Haomane’s Allies will find us,” she said. “Be not afraid. They will show mercy. Whatever you have done here, Arahila the Fair will forgive it.”

Her words seemed to hearten them. It should have gladdened her, for it meant that there was hope, that not all who dwelled within the Sunderer’s shadow were beyond redemption. And yet it did not.

What will you do?

What do you think? I will die, Cerelinde.

A great victory would be won here today. She would take no joy in it.

HAVENGUARD WERE AWAITING WHEN TANAROS emerged from the passageway, crowding Darkhaven’s entry. The inner doors were shuddering, battered by a mighty ram. The enemy was past the Gate, had entered the courtyard. They were mounting an offense, coming to rescue the Lady of the Ellylon, coming to fulfill Haomane’s Prophecy.

They would succeed.

And they would fail.

Tanaros grinned at his Fjel, watching them respond to it like a deep draft of svartblod, relishing their answering grins, broad and leathery, showing their eyetusks.

“Well, lads?” he asked them. “Shall we give our visitors the welcome they deserve? I’ll give the greeting myself!”

They roared in acclaim.

“Be certain of it, lads, for it means your deaths!” He touched his branded chest, clad only in his padded undertunic. His armor was lost, vanished in the darkness of the crumbling passageways where the chasm gaped. “In his Lordship’s name, I go forth to claim mine. I ask no one to accompany me who does not seek the same!”

The Havenguard Fjel laughed. One of them shouldered past the others, hoisting a battle-axe in one hand and a shield in the other. “I stand at your Side, General,” he rumbled. “I keep my shield high.”

“And I!”

“And I!”

“So be it.” The words brought to mind an echo of Cerelinde’s farewell. Standing before the great doors, Tanaros paused. He felt keenly the lack of his armor. He wondered about Cerelinde, bound for Vorax’s chambers, and how she would live with her deeds afterward. He wondered about the Bearer, if he lived or died. He wondered about the Bearer’s comrade, who hung in chains in Darkhaven’s dungeons, unable to lift his head. Somewhere, Ushahin was making his way through the hidden passages, Godslayer in his possession.

An Age had ended; a new Age had begun. The Shapers’ War would continue.

The thought made Tanaros smile.

In the end, it didn’t matter.