"Blacksword." The Staccian clasped his forearm.
"Vorax. Your men did well. Commend them for me."
"I'll do that." Vorax paused, lowering his voice. "His Lordship awaits you, Blacksword; you and the Ellyl. Come see me when he's done."
"The captive?"
"Aye."
"I'll be there." An escort of M�rkhar Fjel stood waiting just inside the vast doors; four brethren all of a height, the silver inlay on their weapons-harnesses contrasting with their dark, bristling hides. "Dreamspinner?"
"You go, cousin." Ushahin thrust the helm's case into his unready arms. "You took the risks, not I. Tell Lord Satoris… tell him I am in the rookery. I will make my report anon."
"All right." Tanaros frowned again. It should have been a glorious homecoming, this moment; it was a glorious homecoming. The Prophecy had been averted, and the Lady of the Ellylon was theirs. She didn't look it, though. As frightened as Cerelinde was—and she was frightened, he'd felt it in his fingertips—she held herself with dignity. "Lady. Are you ready?"
Wide, her eyes; wide and grey, luminous as mist. "I do not fear the Sunderer."
"Then come," Tanaros said grimly, "and meet him."
THE SEDGE GRASS APPEARED TO bow at their approach, flattening as if a great wind preceded them. Carfax, sword in hand, found a Staccian battle-song on his lips as he rode. He sang it aloud, heard other voices echoing the words.
To battle, to battle, to battle! What a glorious thing it was! The horses of Darkhaven, who had borne them so faithfully, were bred to this purpose. His mount sensed it, nostrils flaring, the broad chest swelling with air as its hooves battered the marshy plains.
And there, ahead: The Enemy.
Malthus' Company had heard their approach, the hooves drumming like thunder. They prepared, as best they could, making a stand on the open sedge. Carfax watched them encircle the Charred Ones, back to back to back.
"Fan out!" he cried, seeking to pick his target.
The Staccian riders divided, two wings opening to encompass the tight-knit company, which they outnumbered nearly three to one. Which one, which one? The old Counselor, staff in hand? The Vedasian, glaring defiance? The Archer, coolly nocking arrows? The Ellyl lordling with his bright eyes, sword braced over his shoulder?
Ah, no, Carfax thought. You, Borderguardsman. You, in your dun cloak and false modesty. Unless I am much mistaken, I think you are charged with the protection of this Company, Blaise Caveros, my General's kinsman. We are of an age, you and I; but I am Tanaros' disciple, and you are Altorus' dog. Let us cross steel, shall we?
He swung close, close enough to exchange blows. His round Pelmaran shield rang with the force of the Borderguard's strength; rang, and held true. Carfax kneed his mount and swung away, exultant. In the center of their circle, the Charred lad looked wild-eyed, clutching a flask at his throat. Only his kinsman, the fat one, stood at his side, wielding a digging-stick like a quarterstaff, huffing as he did.
Carfax laughed aloud.
Thrum, thrum, thrum.
Arrows, flying level as a bee to clover. Two Staccians cried out, fell. The Archer of Arduan had dismounted, kneeling on the marshy soil; the Vedasian knight protected her, swinging his father's sword with ferocious blows.
"Take the Archer!" Carfax cried, readying for another pass at the Borderguard.
He was aware, distantly, of his men closing in on Malthus' Company, overwhelming them by sheer force; surging past the old Counselor, peeling the Vedasian away from the Archer and surrounding her, penetrating the silvery circle of defense the Ellyl wove with the point of his blade. A surprise, there on the inside, how deftly the fat one wielded his digging-stick, protecting his young kinsman.
It didn't matter, though. They were too few, and Carfax's men too many. He watched Blaise Caveros angle for position, setting his sword a touch too high. A good trick, that, good for luring in an overconfident enemy. General Tanaros had devised it a thousand years ago and taught it to his troops, as well as how to evade it.
All those hours on the practice-field paid a reward.
Carfax shifted his grip on his sword, digging his heels into his mount's sides. Let him believe, he thought, bearing down on his dun-cloaked opponent. Let him believe I have taken the gambit, and at the last moment, I shall strike high where he looks for low…
"Enough!"
It was Malthus who spoke, and the Counselor spread his arms, his staff in his right hand. There, gleaming through the parted strands of his beard, was the Soumanië. Red, it was, like a star, and it shone upon his breast, until no one could look away. A ruddy glow rippled in the air and a force struck like a hammer.
And the world… changed.