He bowed his head. The Were Brethren growled softly.
Tanaros cleared his throat. "Then you will strike here, honored one, and your Brethren will clear the way. In the confusion, we will make our move, here." He traced a pathway on the map. "Under my command, a company of Lord Vorax's men will seize Cerelinde of the Rivenlost, and fall back to the meeting point, where the switch will be made. From thence, they will flee east, with the decoy. Lord Ushahin, weave what visions you may. The remaining men and I will hold them as long as we dare, before we retreat to the tunnels and the Kaldjager Fjel hide our passage."
And there it was, the first phase of it, in all its risky totality.
"General." Hyrgolf's shrewd eyes met his with a soldier's frankness. "The Fjel are ready to serve. It would be better if you did not command the raid yourself."
"It must be," Tanaros said bluntly. "It is his Lordship's will, and there is no room for error. Hyrgolf, I would trust you to lead it, and I would trust any lieutenant of your appointing. But if we are to convince the Ellylon and the Altorians that this raid originated in Beshtanag, there can be no hint of the presence of Fjeltroll."
"Cousin, I would command my own—" began Vorax.
Ushahin cut short his words, his tone light and bitter. "You can't, fat one. Your bulk can't be concealed under Pelmaran armor, as can the rest of your beard-shorn Staccians, and Tanaros, too." With a twisted smile, he raised his crippled hands that could grip nothing heavier than a dagger. "I would do it myself, if I could. But I think my skills do not avail in this instance."
"Enough!" Tanaros raised his voice. "It is mine to do." For a moment, he thought they would quarrel; then they settled, acceding to his command. He leaned over the map-table, resting his hands on the edges, the southwestern quadrant of Urulat framed between his braced arms. "Are we in accord?"
"We are, brother," whispered the Grey Dam. "We are."
No one disagreed.
HIS DREAMS, WHEN HE HAD them, were restless.
Tanaros slept, and awoke, restless, tossing in his bed-sheets, and slept only to dream anew, and twist and wind himself into shrouds in his dreaming.
Blood.
He dreamed of blood.
An ocean of it.
It ran like a red skein through his dreams, wet and dripping. Red, like the Souma, like Godslayer, like the star that had arisen in the west and the one that adorned the Sorceress' brow. It dripped like a veil over the features of his wife, long-slain, and over his own hands as he looked down in horror, seeing them relinquish the hilt of his sword, the blade protruding from his King's chest.
Tanaros tossed, and groaned.
It went back, further back, the trail of blood; far, so far. All the way back through the ages of the Sundered World, blood, soaking into the earth of a thousand battlefields, clots of gore. Back and back and back, until the beginning, when a great cry rent the fabric of Urulat, a mighty blow parted the world, and the Sundering Seas rushed in to fill the void, warm and salty as blood.
Tanaros awoke, the mark of his brand aching in summons.
He dressed himself and went to answer it.
Downward he went, through one of the three-fold doors and down the spiraling stairs that led to the Chamber of the Font, down the winding way where the walls shone like onyx, and the veins of marrow-fire were buried deep and strong. At the base of the spiral stair a blast of heat greeted him.
"My Lord."
Some distance from the center of the chamber, in a ringed pit, the marrow-fire rose from its unseen Source to surge like a fountain through a narrow aperture, blue-white fire rising up in a column, falling, coruscating. And in the heart of it—ah! Tanaros closed his eyes briefly.
There in midair hung the dagger Godslayer, that burned and was not consumed, beating like a heart. Its edges were as sharp and jagged as the day it had been splintered from the Souma, reflecting and refracting the marrow-fire from its ruby facets.
"Tanaros." The Shaper stood before the Font, a massive form, hands laced behind his back. The blazing light played over his calm features, the broad brow, the shadowed eyes that reflected the red gleam of the Souma in pinpricks. "Tomorrow it begins."
He knew not what to say. "Yes, my Lord."
"War," mused the Shaper, taking a step forward to gaze at the Font. The preternatural light shone on the seeping trail of ichor that glistened on his thigh, and the marrow-fire took on an edge of creeping blackness, like shadow made flame. "My Elder Brother gives me no peace, and this time he wagers all. Do you understand why this must be, Tanaros? Do you understand that this is your time?"
"Yes, my Lord." His teeth chattered, his chest ached and blazed.