Everywhere he turned, the wraiths surrounded him, riding in a ring, swirling into mist when his steel passed through them, only to coalesce unharmed. White fire filled the hollows of their eyes, and death was written in it. Some yards away through the wraith-mist, Ushahin Dream-spinner had fallen writhing to the ground, clutching his twisted hands over his ears. And then one of the riding wraiths brushed close enough to touch him, and Tanaros heard the voices of the dead whispering in his own mind.
… because of you we were slain whom the Lord-of-Thought made deathless, because of you the world was Sundered, because of you we are bound here…
"No!" Tanaros shouted to silence the rising chorus. "It's not true!"… dwelled in peace until the Enemy came from the north and hordes upon hordes of Fjeltroll tore down our walls and slaughtered our armies…
"It's not true!"
Numireth, Valwe, Nandinor… names out of legend, slain before his birth. Tall lords of the Ellylon with eyes of white fire, and on their breastplates the insignia of their House, the swift plains elbok, picked out in sable shadow. Numireth the Fleet, whose silver helm was crowned with wings. They closed around him, wraith-mist touching his living flesh, the tide of their litany rising in his straining mind.
… plains of Curonan ran red with blood and the screams of the dying, and we were driven from our homes, we who are the Rivenlost…
"No." Tanaros shut his eyes against them in desperate denial, putting up his sword. Under his right elbow, he felt the lump of Hyrgolf's rhios in its pouch. A familiar rage rose in his heart. "Dwelled in peace, my arse! You marched against him in Neherinach!"
Elsewhere, the sound of battle raged; but the voices fell silent in his mind.
Without daring open his eyes, Tanaros dismounted, letting the reins fall slack. Crawling, he groped his way across the cracked marble and tufted heart-grass toward the sound of Ushahin's agonized keening. There, a few paces from the half-breed, his hands found what he sought—the leather case that held the Helm of Shadows.
"Cousin." He reached out blindly to touch Ushahin. "I'm taking the Helm."
"Tanaros!" A breath hissed through clenched teeth. "Get them out of my head!"
"I will try." With fingers stiff from clutching his hilt, Tanaros undid the clasps and withdrew the Helm. It throbbed with pain at his touch and he winced at the ache in his bones. His hands trembled as he removed the Pelmaran helmet and placed the Helm of Shadows on his head, opening his eyes.
Darkness.
Pain.
Darkness like a veil over his vision, casting the plains and the ruined city in shadow; pain, a constant companion. The ghost of a wound throbbed in his groin, deep and searing, pumping a steady trickle of ichor down the inside of his leg. Such was the pain of Satoris, stabbed by Oronin Last-Born before the world was Sundered, and the darkness of the Helm was the darkness in his heart.
Once it had been Haomane's weapon. No longer.
Tanaros rose. Before him, the wraiths of the House of Numireth arrayed themselves in a line, silent warriors on silent horses. In the Helm's shadowed vision they had taken on solidity, and he saw bitter sorrow in their eyes instead of flames, and the marks of their death-wounds upon their ageless flesh.
Across the plains and throughout the city, other battles raged. Westward, the surviving Staccian riders fled in full-blown terror, not even the horses of Darkhaven able to outrun the wraiths. In a deserted plaza where once a fountain had played, Hyrgolf's Fjel fought shadows, their guttural cries hoarse with exhaustion and fear. Here and there in the streets, the stalking Kaldjager waged battle with the dead.
And to the south, a lone rider streaked in flight, unpursued.
"Numireth." Tanaros gazed steadily through the eyeslits of the Helm of Shadows. "I claim this city in the name of Satoris the Shaper. This quarrel is older than your loss, and your shades have no power in Urulat. Begone."
The Lord of Cuilos Tuillenrad, the City of Long Grass, grimaced in the face of the Helm's dark visage; held up one hand, turned away, his figure fading as he rode. One by one, the wraith-host followed, growing insubstantial and vanishing.
"Well done." Breathing hard, Ushahin struggled to his feet. His mouth was twisted in self-deprecation. "My apologies, Blacksword. I've walked in the dreams of the living. I've never had the dead enter mine. It was… painful."
"It doesn't matter." Tanaros removed the Helm, blinking at the sudden brightness. The piercing throb in his groin subsided to a vestigial ache. "Can you summon her horse? I've not the skill for it."
"Aye." Donning the Helm of Shadows, Ushahin faced south, sending out a whip-crack of thought. In the distance, the small, fleeting figure of a horse balked. There was a struggle between horse and rider; a brief one. The horses of Darkhaven had strong wills and hard mouths. This one turned in a sweeping loop, heading back for the ruined city at a steady canter, bearing its rider with it.