It seemed that, against all odds, Martinek, the Southeastern Regent of Pelmar, had taken to Aracus Altorus, the would-be King of the West. The last scion of House Altorus had accorded him the utmost of respect, convincing even the Host of the Ellylon to bend their stiff necks to Pelmaran authority. Deep in their cups, they had established a rapport; so much so that Martinek had allowed himself to be swayed by tales of the Borderguard of Curonan, its small, efficient units able to mobilize and maneuver more swiftly than a full-sized army.
Regent Martinek had taken Altorus’ advice, and his fellow Regents had followed suit. Instead of advancing in a united front, they had restructured their troops into winding columns. No need, then, to forge a broad path through the forest Unchallenged, Haomane’s Allies made good time through the dense terrain. The troops of Aracus Altorus were the first to arrive, sizing up the granite wall that surrounded Beshtanag with cool, measuring glances, retreating out of bowshot to set up an encampment that sprawled through the unguarded forest.
Within the space of a day, the others had arrived.
Pelmaran forces from three of the five sitting Regents, a contingent of Vedasian knights, capable Midlanders—and, oh, worst of all was the Host of the Ellylon, the Rivenlost with their piercing beauty and their keen swords. Back and forth they rode, pacing the circumference of the granite wall, needing neither sleep nor nourishment to sustain them in their quest.
Only one thing did they require: The Lady Cerelinde.
“I don’t like this, Gergon.” On her balcony, Lilias regarded the enemy encampment and shivered in the summer’s warmth. “There are so many of them.”
“We can hold.” Her Ward Commander’s face was grim. “As long as you hold the wall, my lady. Our stores will last another seven days, if need be.”
“Seven days,” she echoed. What a paltry amount!
Gergon glanced at her. “The Banewreaker’s army should be here in less. They are coming, my lady, are they not?”
“Yes.” She made her voice firmer. “Yes. They will be here.”
At the base of the mountain, a distant figure stepped forth, clad in shining armor. He was the herald of the Rivenlost and he bore a staff from which flew the standards of both Ingolin the Wise and Elterrion the Bold—the argent scroll and the Crown-and-Souma. As he did three times a day, he lifted an Ellylon horn to his lips and blew, the silvery tone echoing from the sides of Beshtanag Mountain. His voice rang forth, clear and carrying. “Sorceress! Surrender the Lady Cerelinde, and your people will be spared!”
“Ellyl arsehole,” Gergon muttered, adding, “your pardon, my lady.”
Midway down the mountain, a line of kneeling archers loosed their bows, sending a shower of arrows aloft. Sharp shouts came from sentries posted in the trees, and those of Haomane’s Allies in reach crouched low, raising their shields above their heads. Arrows arced above the granite wall and fell, clattered uselessly onto warding shields and the loose scree. The Ellyl herald stood contemptuous, watching them fall, before turning to retreat untouched.
“Too far, too high.” Gergon shook his head. “Sorry, my lady.”
Lilias sighed. “Tell them not to waste their arrows.”
“As you wish.” He paused. “If it came to it, my lady, there is one weapon they could not withstand.”
“No!” Her reply was sharp. “Not Calandor.”
“It seems a folly—”
“Hear me, Ward Commander.” Lilias fixed him with a steely stare. “This is Shapers’ business, and dragonkind is all but vanished because of it. Calandor will not give battle. Put it out of your thoughts.”
“My lady.” Gergon bowed, unhappy with her answer. “As you order. I will report again at sundown.”
It was a relief to have him gone. Lilias watched a pair of ravens circling in the drafts, hoping they made ready to bear word to Darkhaven on urgent wings. While the wall stood, Beshtanag was safe; but there were so many arrayed against them. She touched the Soumanië at her brow, feeling the Shaping force of it pulsing faintly in her veins, in the stone beneath her feet. Faint, so faint! She was spread too thin. It had taken a great effort to raise the wall, and more to sustain it. Always, it took more effort to create than to destroy. The old linkages were stretched and weak—those incorporating the collars of her pretty ones, binding them to her service; those that bound Beshtanag itself, binding the blood and flesh of her people to loyalty. Even the binding that stretched the great Chain of Being to its limits felt thin and tenuous, and Lilias felt old.
She was old, a thousand years old. Today, she felt it.
Oh, Calandor! she asked silently. What have we done?
There was a long pause before the dragon replied, longer than she remembered.
Wait, little sister, and be strong. You must be strong.
There was sorrow in the thought, deeper than she’d known the dragon to evince. Lilias gripped the balustrade with both hands, staring at the mountain’s base. There, in the shadow of the forest, a flash of red-gold hair. Aracus Altorus, bare-headed and arrogant, the would-be King of the West Even at a distance, she saw him pause, his gaze measuring her will and searching the sky for dragon-sign.
And then he turned his back on her, cool and purposeful, ordering his troops as they set about the construction of the implements of war. Ladders of branches, lashed with rope. Siege-towers, capable of holding a dozen men. Entire trunks hewn into battering rams. All of Pelmar’s forests provided fodder for his efforts, as if in league with him. Already Haomane’s Allies had essayed her wall in a score of places. She could hold it, for now, with the aid of Gergon’s wardsmen. What would happen when their stores ran low? What would happen if Malthus arrived to pit himself against her, armed with a Soumanië like her own?
In her deepest self, Lilias knew the answer.
Hurry, she prayed in the direction of Darkhaven; oh, hurry!
Tens of thousands of Fjeltroll were packed into the Chamber of the Marasoumië and the tunnels that underlay Darkhaven. Armor creaked, rough hide jostled hide, horn-calloused feet trod the stony floors. Despite the fact that the ventilation shafts had all been uncovered, the air was stifling with the musky, slightly rank odor of the Fjel. The red node-light was reflected in thousands of eyes, all of them fixed on Tanaros.
Despite it all, they stood patient, adhering to the formations he’d drilled into them and trusting to his leadership. The swift Gulnagel, the ferocious Nåltannen, the dark Mørkhar and the mighty Tungskulder—all his to command, a vast army, divided into dozens of small units, mobile and skilled.
And at his side was Speros of Haimhault, grinning a gap-toothed grin, holding the reins of a pair of the horses of Darkhaven; Tanaros’ own black, and a second like enough to be its twin. After much debate, Tanaros had decided to leave the mounted Staccian forces behind. Under Vorax’s command, they and the Havenguard would serve to defend Darkhaven. He had made a promise to the young Midlander, let him serve as his equerry.
As for the battle itself; ah! For that, he had his field marshal, and there was no one, Man or Fjel, he trusted more than Hyrgolf. In the suffocating press, their gazes met quietly and Hyrgolf gave a nod, showing his eyetusks in a faint smile.
The Army of Darkhaven was ready.
“My friends.” Tanaros raised a hand, and the rustling cavern fell into silence. “Tonight, we go forth to achieve a great good. Tonight, we will travel the ancient Ways of the Marasoumië, that traverse the length and breadth of the Sundered World itself.”