Behind them, a legion of Haomane’s Allies.
They were silent, watching him.
Gazing at them, Tanaros smiled.
When the last of his strength failed, when arrows pierced his breast, when their sheer numbers bore down his sword-arm and the black sword fell at last from his nerveless fingers, one of them would kill him. It didn’t matter which one. All that mattered, here at the end, was that he would die with his Lordship’s name on his lips, his honor intact in his heart. He would fulfill his duty.
“I am Darkhaven,” he said. “Come and take me.”
Ushahin’S madlings clung to him.
They surrounded him in a ragged tumult, weeping and apologizing for their failure to find the Lady of the Ellylon, begging him not to leave them. Some of them crawled, gasping at the sight of Godslayer; others sought to touch the case that held the severed Helm of Shadows, keening at Lord Satoris’ death.
“Hush,” Ushahin said, gentling them as he went. “Hush.”
They wept all the harder, grasping his hands and kissing them, the healed and the broken alike.
“All things must be as they must,” he said to them. “And I must leave you. Do not fear. Haomane’s Allies will treat you gently.”
He hoped it was true. They had not bothered to do so when they were ordinary people living ordinary lives. But perhaps the burden of right they had taken so violently on themselves would impel them to kindness.
It crossed his thoughts to send them to Vorax’s quarters. There was time, yet, for the Ellyl bitch to pay for her sins. It would be a fitting ending for her. But the memory of the shadowed pain haunting Tanaros’ eyes forestalled him.
Was it strength or weakness that stayed my hand?
Ushahin did not know. The question begged an answer, and he had an immortality in which to find it … if he lived through the next hour. If he did not, nothing would matter. And vengeance was unimportant in comparison with fulfilling his Lordship’s will and taking his place in the pattern that bound him.
“Do you know which mount is mine?” he asked instead. “Bring it round to the postern gate near the kitchens.”
The silent madling boy, the one who loved horses, pelted away at a dead run. Ushahin let the others escort him. His people, his wailing, keening throng. It would hurt to leave them. They passed through the kitchens, the fires burned down to unbanked embers, untended for the first time in memory, crowding through the door after him, surrounding him at the postern gate.
There was the stablehand, holding the bridle of his blood-bay stallion.
It was time.
Ushahin lashed the Helm’s case to his saddle. He touched Godslayer’s hilt, making certain it was secure in his belt. He mounted his horse.
“Remember,” he said to them. “Remember Satoris, Third-Born among Shapers. Remember he was kind to you when the world was not.”
The wailing throng swirled and parted, then Meara was there, clutching his stirrup, her tearstained face lifted upward.
“Forgive me,” she gasped. “Oh please, oh please, my Lord, forgive me!”
He gazed down at her, thinking what a piece of irony it was that his Lordship’s downfall should have hinged in part on such a small matter. It was true, Ushahin had failed his madlings. He alone had understood their longings, their vulnerability. He had let himself grow overly concerned with great dangers, forgetful of the small ones. Did he not owe Meara compassion? It was a fit counterpoint to the act of vengeance he had forgone.
An act of honor; a small kindness. Things his enemies would never acknowledge.
Leaning down in the saddle, Ushahin laid his misshapen left hand upon her head. “Meara of Darkhaven. In Satoris’ name, I do forgive you.”
Her eyes grew wide. Ushahin smiled his crooked smile.
“Farewell,” he said to them. “When you remember his Lordship, think of me.”
Straightening, he invoked the dark magic taught to him long ago by the Grey Dam of the Were, letting his waking awareness drift. The world shifted in his vision, leached of color. The madlings’ voices faded, and Meara’s last of all.
He beheld the paths between and set out upon them.
The courtyard was a place of slaughter.
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.
Something was wrong with his vision, for the world seemed dim and strange. They stood out brightly, those two; and behind them, another figure. One who rode astride, giving the battle a wide berth and making for a gap in the forces entering freely through the Defile Gate. A Shard of terrible brightness burned at his hip, red as blood and urgent as the rising sun. He glanced in Tanaros’ direction, a glance filled with vivid emotion that had no name.
Overhead, ravens circled and cried aloud.
“Ushahin,” Tanaros whispered. “Go!”
The Counselor’s head tilted, as though to catch a distant strain of sound. He began to turn, his gaze already searching. Tanaros struggled to fill his lungs, hearing his breath catch and whistle, feeling the arrow’s shaft jerk.
“Malthus!” he shouted. “I am here!”