Tanaros watched long enough to be certain Cerelinde would not throw herself from the saddle, then turned his attention to his company. To the west, the Staccians had regrouped, returning shamefaced at their flight. Singly and in pairs, the Kaldjager loped through the streets, irritable at the false hunt. But Hyrgolf's Fjel… ah, no!
They came slowly, carrying one of their number with uncommon care.
"General Tanaros." Hyrgolf's salute was sombre. "I am sorry to report—"
"Jei morderran!" It was a young Tungskulder Fjel, one of the new recruits, who interrupted, hurling himself prone on the cracked marble, offering his bloodstained axe with both hands. "Gojdta mahk åxrekke—"
"Field marshal!" Tanaros cut the lad short. "Report."
"Aye, General." Hyrgolf met his gaze. "Bogvar is wounded. I do not think he will live. Thorun asks you to take his axe-hand in penance."
"He asks what? No, never mind." Tanaros turned his attention to the injured Fjeltroll, laid gently on the ground by the four comrades who carried him. "Bogvar, can you hear me?"
"Lord… General." Bogvar's leathery lips parted, flecked with blood. One of his eyetusks was chipped. A dreadful gash opened his massive chest, and air whistled in it as he struggled for breath, blood bubbling in the opening, gurgling as he spoke. "You… were… right." The claws on his left hand flexed, and he forced his lips into a horrible smile. "Should have held… my shield higher."
"Ah, curse- it, Bogvar!" Kneeling beside him, Tanaros pressed both hands hard over the gash. "Someone bring a—ah, no!" A rush of blood welled in the Fjel's open mouth, dribbled from one corner. Bogvar of the Tungskulder Fjel lay still, and bled no more. Tanaros sighed and ran a hand through his hair, forgetful of the blood. "You should have held your shield higher," he muttered, clambering wearily to his feet. "The lad Thorun did this?"
"Aye." Hyrgolf's voice came from deep in his chest. "An accident. The dead came among us, and some broke ranks. Thorun was one. He thought he struck a blow at an Ellyl wraith. My fault, General. I reckoned him ready."
"Gojdta mahk åxrekke…" The young Fjel struggled to his knees, holding his right arm extended and trembling, clawed fist clenched. "Take my axe-hand," he said thickly in the common tongue. "I kill him. I pay."
"No." Tanaros glanced round at the watchful Fjeltroll, the chagrined Staccians straggling back on their wind-blown mounts. "The first fault was mine. I chose this place without knowing its dangers. Let it be a lesson learned, a bitter one. We are at war. There are no safe places left in the world, and our survival depends on discipline." He bent and retrieved Thorun's axe, proffering it haft-first. "Hold ranks," he said grimly. "Follow orders. And keep your shields up. Is this understood?"
"General!" Hyrgolf saluted, the others following suit.
The young Fjel Thorun accepted his axe.
THE TASTE OF FREEDOM WAS sweet; as sweet as the Long Grass in blossom, and as fleeting. She felt the Host of Numireth disperse, its bright presence fading. She felt the Misbegotten's thought flung out across the plains, a thread of will spun by an unwholesome spider of a mind.
If he had reached for her, Cerelinde might have resisted. Even with the Helm of Shadows, he was weak from the ordeal and here, on the threshold of Cuilos Tuillenrad, she was strong. The old Ellylon magics had not vanished altogether.
But no, he was cunning. He turned her mount instead.
She had dared to hope when it had raced willingly at her urging; another of Haomane's Children's ancient charms, the ability to sooth the minds of lesser beasts. But the horses of Darkhaven were willful and warped by the Sunderer's Shaping, with great strength in their limbs and malice in their hearts. It fought against her charm and the bit alike, its eyes roiling with vile amusement as it turned in a vast circle to answer the Misbegotten's call.
She let it carry her back to the ruined city, its path carving a wake through the long grass. There Tanaros stood, watching and awaiting her return. Her dark-dappled mount bore her unerringly to him then stopped, motionless and quiescent.
"Lady," Tanaros said, bowing to her. "A noble effort. Bravely done."
Cerelinde searched his face for mockery, finding none. "Would you have done otherwise?" she asked.
"No," he said simply. "I would not."
Behind him, grunting Fjel wielded their maces with mighty blows, breaking the chalcedony slabs into rubble, demolishing forever the inscriptions upon them. They were porting massive chunks of moon-blue stone and heaping them atop a fallen comrade to form a cairn. Cerelinde felt herself turn pale at the sight. "They are destroying the resting-place of my ancestors!" Her voice shook. "Ah, Haomane! Is it not enough the city was destroyed long ago? Must you permit this desecration?"