Banewreaker(82)

"They are yours," Malthus said to the Archer.

Her hand closed on the haft of the bow; black horn, with an immense draw. Kneeling, she set the bottom tip, fingers curling, seeking the string unthinking and drawing it to her cheek. A shaft of white fire tinged with gold, the Arrow flamed, illuminating her cheek, the tendrils of hair curling at her temple. "Oh," she said, her tone amazed. "Oh!"

Carfax, watching, shivered to the bone.

When the unknown is made known, when the lost weapon is found…

The Prophecy was being fulfilled.



BESIDE THE SWELTERING FURNACE, THE flow of the Gorgantus River, diverted by Lord Satoris himself, powered a wooden waterwheel. From it led a welter of rods and cranks, turning and clanking. Levered weights rose and fell, pressing down on the spring-boards that powered the bellows, which opened and closed on their leather hinges, blowing strong drafts. Teams of Fjeltroll worked steadily, feeding coal and ore into the endless maw of the furnace.

It was hotter than before, so hot Tanaros could feel the skin of his face tightening. And the metal that emerged was glowing and molten, pure iron, collected in molds to cool. No longer did the Fjel need to beat the impurities from it before it was fit for the forge.

"You see?" Speros, soot-darkened, was grinning. He shouted above the clamor of the smelting furnace. "We use the force of the river to drive the bellows, providing more heat than even the Fjel can muster!"

"I see." Tanaros had to raise his own voice to be heard. "A commendable innovation! Is it done thus in the Midlands now?"

"No." Speros shrugged, his restless gaze surveying his efforts. "Only to grind grain, but I thought it might serve. No one ever gave me the means to try it, before. I reckon it will help. No small task, to equip such an army." He settled his gaze on Tanaros. "We are going to war, are we not, Lord General?"

"Yes." Tanaros beckoned, leading him a distance from the furnace. Outside, the grass was parched and a reeking cloud of smoke and sulfurous gases hung heavy under the lowering sky, but at least the air did not sear his lungs. "Some of us are, Midlander."

"I want to ride with you," Speros of Haimhault said, direct and sure. "You promised me a horse; one such as you ride, General. Have I not done all I promised, and more?"

Of a surety, the lad had done so. His innovations had increased productivity. With the aid of his waterwheel, the forges of Darkhaven smelted iron at twice their usual rate. This was the first chance Tanaros had had to inspect them, but it was said Lord Satoris himself was pleased.

"Aye." Tanaros ignored his own misgivings, clapping a hand to the young man's shoulder. "You have. You'll have your mount, boy, and your place in the ranks."

Speros smiled with fierce, unadulterated joy.

It was not that his trust had proved ill-placed, for it had not. In a short time, Speros of Haimhault had proven himself in Darkhaven. The Fjel trusted him. Hyrgolf spoke well of him, and Tanaros valued his field marshal's opinion above all others. The young man's energies and ambitions, that had found too narrow an outlet in the Midlands, flourished in Darkhaven. He bore no resentment for the harsh treatment he had received at the outset, reckoning it worth the price. Against his better judgement, Tanaros liked the young man.

That was the problem.

How long had it been since Tanaros had donned the Helm of Shadows and led the forces that destroyed Altoria? Eight hundred years, perhaps. Even so, he had not forgotten how, beneath the blaze of hatred in his heart, there had been a twinge of sorrow. For as much as he had been wounded and betrayed, hated and hounded, they had been his people. And he had destroyed them, bringing down a realm and reducing a dynasty to a shade of its former self.

"You may have kin among the enemy, you know," he told Speros. "It may be a cousin or a brother you face in battle. And this war will not be one such as the poets sing. We fall upon them from behind, and allow no quarter until the threat is eliminated. There is no glory in it."

Regarding his furnace with pride, the Midlander shrugged. "You have outwitted them, General. Is that not glory enough?"

"We do not do this for glory. Only for victory."

"Victory." Speros ran a hand through his brown hair, sooty and disheveled. "A Sundered World in which Lord Satoris reigns victorious. What will happen then?"

"Then," Tanaros said slowly, fingering the rhios in his pocket, "it may be that the Six Shapers will capitulate and make peace. Or it may be that they will not. Either way, Urulat will be in Lord Satoris' possession, as will Godslayer and two of the three Soumanië. And it may be that the third, Dergail's Soumanië, is not beyond reach."