Not the Host of the Ellylon.
It had been a long time, since the Fourth Age of the Sundered World. Altoria had reigned and the Duke of Seahold had sworn fealty to its Kings when last these banners had been seen in the city.
It was a glorious sight.
Pennants and oriflammes hung from every turret, overhung every door of Castle Seahold. In the marketplaces, merchants displayed them with pride, hoping to stake some claim by virtue of symbolism to Ellyl patrons. In the streets, companies of Ellylon passed, carrying their standards with sombre pride. There was the argent scroll of Ingolin, the thistle-blossom of Núrilin, the gilded bee of Valmaré, the sable elbok of Numireth, the shipwright's wheel of Cerion… all of these and more, many more, representing the Houses of the Rivenlost, personified by their living scions and grieving kin alike.
Above them all hung the Crown and Souma of Elterrion the Bold.
No company dared bear this standard, no merchant dared display it. It hung limp in the summer's heat from the highest turret of Castle Seahold, gilt and ruby on a field of virgin white, a dire reminder of what was at stake.
Cerelinde.
And one other standard flew, plain and unadorned, taking place of precedence above the Duke of Seahold. It was dun-grey, this banner; a blank field empty of arms. From time to time, the summer breezes lofted its fabric. It unfurled, revealing… nothing. Only dun, the dull-yellow color of the cloaks of the Borderguard of Curonan, designed to blend with the endless plains of heart-grass.
Once, Altoria had reigned; once, the King of Altoria had born different arms. A sword, a gilt sword on a field of sable, its quillons curved to the shape of eyes. It was the insignia of Altorus Farseer, who had been called friend by the Ellylon and risen to rule a nation in the Sundered World of Urulat.
No more.
Aracus Altorus had sworn it. Not until his Borderguard opposed Satoris Banewreaker himself would he take up the ancient banner of his forefathers. But he did not doubt—did not doubt for an instant�that the Sunderer was behind the Sorceress' actions. Once Cerelinde was restored, he would turn his far-seeing gaze on their true Enemy.
Rumor ran through the city. Citizens and merchants and freeholders assembled in Seaholder Square, gazing up at the Castle, waiting and murmuring. Opportunistic peddlers did a good trade in meat-pies wrapped in pastry; winesellers prospered, too. At noon, Duke Bornin of Seahold appeared on the balcony and addressed them. Possessed of a good set of lungs, he spoke with volume and at length.
It was true, all true.
The Prophecy, the wedding-that-would-have-been, the raid on Lindanen Dale. Oronin's Children, the Were at hunt. An abduction; the Lady of the Ellylon. Pelmaran soldiers in guise, falling trees. A message, an impossible ransom, delivered at a magical distance; rumors of the Dragon of Beshtanag, seen aloft.
Oh, it was all true, and the Sorceress of the East had overreached.
There was cheering when Duke Bornin finished; cheering, rising en masse. He had ruled long enough to be clever. He waited for it to end. And when it was done, he introduced to them Aracus Altorus, naming him warleader of the Allied forces of the West.
Primed for it, they cheered all the louder. War was declared on Beshtanag.
WASHED, SALVED AND RESTED, CLAD in the armor of slain a Staccian warrior, Speros of Haimhault looked much improved by daylight. Despite his travail, his eyes were clear and alert and he moved as smoothly as his bandaged wounds allowed, a testament to the resilience of youth.
He hadn't lied, either; he knew how to handle a sword. At his insistence, Tanaros tested the former prisoner himself on the training-field of Darkhaven. Hyrgolf brought a squadron of Tungskulder Fjel to watch, forming a loose circle and leaning casually on their spears.
Inside the circle of onlookers, they fought.
Speros saluted him in the old manner; a clenched fist to the heart, then extended with an open palm. Brother, let us spar. I trust my life unto your hands. The old traditions died hard in the Midlands. How many times had he and Roscus Altorus saluted each other thusly in their Altorian boyhood?
Too many to count, and the memories were fond enough to hurt.
Tanaros returned the salute and drew his sword. Speros wasted only one glance upon it, briefly disappointed to see that it was not the General's infamous black sword, but merely an ordinary weapon. As well for him, since the black sword could shear through steel like flesh. Afterward, he ignored it, fixing his gaze on Tanaros himself, watching the subtle shifts in his face, in the musculature of his chest, in the set of his shield, that betokened a shift in his attack.
Flick, flick, flick, their blades darted and crossed, rang on the bosses of their shields. It made a prodigious sound on the training-field. Back and forth they went, churning the ground beneath their boots. Such was the swordplay of his youth, drilled into him a thousand years ago by a grizzled master-of-arms, sharp-tongued and relentless, always on the lookout for a pupil of promise.