It was too small to contain Haomane’s Allies in their entirety. The bulk of their warriors were trapped behind the walls flanking the broken Defile Gate. The rest had fallen back before their onslaught, unprepared for fierce resistance.

Tanaros plunged into the thick of battle, laying about him on all sides.

There was no strategy in it, no plan. Men and Ellylon swarmed him and he swung his black sword, killing them. The Havenguard Fjel struggled to protect him, their shields high. Still the enemy came with sword and spear, piercing his guard, his unarmored flesh. For every one he killed, another took his place. He bled from a half a dozen wounds; from a dozen, from a score.

Still he fought, light-headed and tireless.

The flagstones grew slippery with blood. Horses slipped; mounted warriors dismounted, only to stumble over the bodies of fallen comrades. There was no magic here, only battle at its ugliest. Oronin’s Bow was silent, for there was no way for the Archer to take aim in the milling fray.

Aracus Altorus had expended his strength.

But he was a born leader. He gathered his Men instead; the Borderguard of Curonan. Set them to fighting their way around the outskirts of battle, making for the open inner doors. Set them on a course to rescue Cerelinde, to penetrate the secrets of Darkhaven.

“Havenguard!” Tanaros shouted. “Ward the doors!”

They tried. They fought valiantly. He watched them go down, struggling under numbers even a Fjeltroll could not withstand. He watched a handful of Borderguardsmen slip past them, vanishing into the depths of the fortress. He would have led them, once.

It was a long time ago.

In the courtyard, his ranks were thinning. Here and there, bowstrings sang. More of Haomane’s Allies streamed past the Defile Gate. Tanaros took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, meeting them.

Someone’s blade grazed his brow. A young Midlander, his expression terrified. Tanaros shook his head, blinking the blood from his eyes, and killed him. He stood for a moment, wavering on his feet, thinking of Speros.

Another bow sang out; Oronin’s Bow. Its fading echoes called his name. Tanaros felt a sharp punch to his midriff. When he lowered his hand, he found the arrow’s shaft, piercing the padded, blood-soaked tunic over his ribs.

He looked for the Archer.

She was staring at him, her face fixed with hatred and grief. Another arrow was nocked in her bow, Oronin’s Bow. Her arms trembled. Malthus the Counselor had dismounted to stand beside her, an Ellyl sword in his hand, the clear Soumanië on his breast, his aged face grave.

Tanaros blinked again.