Sorash the Grey Dam lifted her muzzle and keened a lament for her long-slain cubs.
The moment had come.
Tanaros drew his sword, and though it was not his, still it sang as it cleared the scabbard, a high, piercing sound that echoed inside his head. "Go!" he shouted, digging his heels into his mount's sides, feeling the surge of muscle as the black horse lunged up the sloping tunnel for the entrance. "Go, go, go!"
Lashed by green vines, Tanaros burst through the tunnel entrance, bounding into a forest in the full foliage of spring. A grey form hurtled past him, bound at speed for Lindanen Dale.
Altorus!
The word was a battle-paean in his head, igniting the ancient hurt, the ancient hatred. Altorus! He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with it. Rage, cleansing rage. Tanaros wheeled the black horse, his mind clear and sharp. There, the Staccians, emerging in formation. There, the dim figures of the Kaldjager Fjel, slipping through the trees. There, by the opening, Ushahin Dreamspinner, lowering the Helm of Shadows onto his head.
"Ride!" Tanaros shouted. "Men, ride!"
They rode, pounding through the oak wood, the ancient holdings of Altoria, and the mounts they rode were the horses of Darkhaven, swift-hooved and high-spirited, their glossy coats disguised with mud and burrs. They rode, and the trees passed in a blur, and behind them slid Fjeltroll with yellow eyes and sharp axes, laying a trap for those who would follow—and there four of their number paused, waiting. Here and there lay corpses, Ellylon and Men alike, sentries who grinned in death at the innocent spring leaves. They rode, and death ran before them, Oronin's Children, grey and implacable.
A league, a league, less than a league.
Ahead, the trees thinned, bright sunlight shining on Lindanen Dale. Tanaros glanced left and right, wind-sprung tears blurring his vision. In the periphery of his gaze, he could see the Staccians following, falling into a wedge formation. The Were had vanished. Let them be there, he thought, a desperate prayer. Oh my Lord, let them be there! Drawing his sword, he loosed a wordless cry as they emerged into the Dale.
Greensward, and flowers hidden in the grass.
Silk tents, with pennants fluttering.
And the host, the nuptial host, milling on the lawn, chaos sown in their midst, with rent garments and blood flowing freely. A harpist, moaning and pale, cradled a torn forearm; others lay unmoving, and their blood spread on the grass, darkening. This, they had not expected. Not the grey hunters of the Were, not Oronin's Children, who could penetrate any defense not raised behind walls. Ah, and even so! So many, so many of Haomane's Allies, gathered in one place. Lindanen Dale seethed like a kicked anthill. Unready and unmounted they might be, but they had not come unarmed. Already, the soldiers were gathering their wits. There was one of the Were brethren, dying, his hairy belly slit, entrails dragging on the greensward. And there, the other, brought to bay by the Duke of Seahold's men, closing in with spears.
Tanaros thundered past, ignoring them.
There… there.
Before the bower, wrought with Ellylon craftsmanship, enwrapped with flowers—there. A man, bare-headed, danced with death in a bridegroom's finery, and the sunlight gleamed on his red-gold hair and the naked steel of his blade. A grey, shadowy figure lunged at his throat, teeth snapping in a hunger that had honed itself for centuries. Around and around they went in a deadly pavane. After a thousand years, the Grey Dam of the Were sought to avenge the deaths of her mate and cubs. And all around them, the Altorians stood in a ring, the Borderguard of Curonan, holding their blades for fear of striking awry, shouting fierce encouragement to their king-in-exile, so grievously assaulted on his wedding day.
Not there. No.
To the left, where an Ellyl woman stood, clad in bridal silks. There was fear in her face, and pride. Oh yes, Haomane knew, there was pride! She shone like a flame, lending courage to the women who attended her and cowered at her side, strengthening the hearts of her Rivenlost guards who bristled about her, swords and spears at the ready.
It took all his strength not to howl his Lord's name, betraying the origin of their attack; though in truth, it would not have mattered if he did, for at that moment the Dreamspinner's subtle influence began to manifest, warping sight and sound, and Men turned in confusion toward imagined attackers where there were none. Such was Ushahin's illusion, augmented by the Helm of Shadows, that even the Ellylon believed with utter certitude that an involuntary Beshtanagi warcry was uttered in the melee.
"Now!" Tanaros shouted to his men. "Now!"
They followed as he led them in a charge against the personal guard of Cerelinde, granddaughter of Elterrion the Bold, Lord of the Rivenlost. Young men—boys, some of them—sworn to fat Vorax. Why? He didn't dare ask, but must trust them to be there, fighting on horseback at his side as his sword rose and fell, rose and fell, dripping with Ellyl blood. The cries of the dying rang in his ears, his and theirs. Proud Ellyl faces, eyes bright with Haomane's favor, swam in his vision; he cut them down, cleaving a path through them, again and again and again, until his sword-arm grew tired.