Weeping, she told him.
Twin jets of smoke had risen from his nostrils, for such was the laughter of dragons. And it was there that he gave a great treasure into her keeping: One of the lost Soumanie, Ardrath's gem that had been missing for many centuries. It had been plucked from the battlefield by a simple soldier who thought it a mere ruby. From thence its trail was lost until it ended in the hoard of a dragon, who made it a gift to a mortal woman who did not wish to die.
Such was the caprice of dragons, whose knowledge was vast and unfathomable. Calandor taught her many things, the first of which was how to use the Soumanie to stretch the Chain of Being, keeping mortality at bay.
She was no longer afraid.
It had been a long time ago. Lilias' family was long dead, her lineage forgotten. She was the Sorceress of the East and possessed great power, which she used with neither great wisdom nor folly. She allowed Oronin's Children, the Were, to hunt freely in the forests of Beshtanag, though elsewhere they were reviled for aiding Satoris the Sunderer in the last great war. The regents of Pelmar feared her and left her in peace, which was her sole desire.
And, until now, the Six Shapers had done the same.
Lilias regarded the red star on the horizon and felt uneasiness stir in her soul for the first time in many centuries. Dergail's Soumanie had risen, and change was afoot. Behind her in the mammoth darkness a vast shadow loomed.
"What does it mean, Calandor?" she asked in a low voice.
"Trouble." The word emerged in a sulfurous breath, half lost in the heights of the vaulted cavern. Unafraid, she laid one hand on the taloned foot nearest her. The rough scales were warm to the touch; massive claws gleaming like hematite, gouging the stone floor. On either side, forelegs as vast and sturdy as columns. Somewhere above and behind her head, she could hear the dragon's heart beating, slow and steady like the pulse of the earth.
"For whom?"
"Usssss." High above, Calandor bent his sinuous neck to answer, the heat of his exhalation brushing her check. "Uss, Liliasss." And there was sorrow, and regret, in the dragon's voice.
I will not be afraid, Lilias told herself. I will not be afraid!
She touched the Soumanie, the red gem bound at her brow, and gazed westward, where its twin flickered on the horizon. "What shall we do, Calandor?"
"Wait," the dragon said, laying his thoughts open to her. "We wait, Liliasss."
And in that moment, she knew, knowledge a daughter of Men was never meant to bear. The sorceress Lilias shook with knowledge. "Oh, Calandor!" she cried, turning and hiding her face against the plate-armor of the dragon's breast, warm as burnished bronze. "Calandor!"
"All things must be as they are, little sister," said the dragon. "All thingsss."
And the red star flickered in the west.
* * *
TWO
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TENS OF THOUSANDS OF FJELTROLL awaited his command.
It was the first full assembly since the troops had been recalled, and there were seasoned veterans and raw recruits alike in their ranks. All of them had labored hard through the winter at the drills he had ordered, day in and day out, put to the test this spring afternoon.
Whatever reservations he had, Tanaros' heart swelled to behold them. So many! How long had it been since so many had assembled under his Lord's command? Since the fall of Altoria, centuries ago, when he had led a vast army across the plains of Curonan, breaking the rule of the House of Altorus forevermore in the southwest of Urulat, establishing the plains as no-man's-land. If they could not hold it, neither would they cede it to the Enemy.
Who threatened them once again.
"Hear me!" he shouted, letting his voice echo from the hillsides. "A red star has risen in the west! Our Enemy threatens war! Shall they find us ready, my brothers?"
A roar answered, and his mount danced sideways beneath him; black as pitch, a prince among stallions, frothing at the bit. The strong neck arched, hide sleek with sweat. At his side, Vorax chuckled deep in his chest, sitting comfortably in his deep-cantled saddle. Unlike Tanaros in his unadorned field armor, the Staccian wore full dress regalia, his gilded armor resplendent as a lesser sun beneath the heavy clouds.
"Steady," Tanaros murmured to his mount, shortening the reins. "Steady." A breed apart, the horses of Darkhaven. The stallion calmed, and he raised his voice again. "Let us do, then, what we do, my brothers! Marshal Hyrgolf, on my orders!" And so saying, he gave the commands in common parlance. "Center, hold! Defensive formation! Left flank, advance and sweep! Right flank, wheel! Attack the rear!"
Under a sullen sky, his orders were enacted. In the center, banner-men waved frantically, conveying his commands to the outer battalions, even as Hyrgolf roared orders, repeating them in common and in the rough tongue of the Fjeltroll, taken up and echoed by his lieutenants. The chain of command, clear-cut and effective.