She was old, a thousand years old. Today, she felt it.
Oh, Calandor! she asked silently. What have we done?
There was a long pause before the dragon replied, longer than she remembered.
Wait, little sister, and be strong. You must be strong.
There was sorrow in the thought, deeper than she'd known the dragon to evince. Lilias gripped the balustrade with both hands, staring at the mountain's base. There, in the shadow of the forest, a flash of red-gold hair. Aracus Altorus, bare-headed and arrogant, the would-be King of the West. Even at a distance, she saw him pause, his gaze measuring her will and searching the sky for dragon-sign.
And then he turned his back on her, cool and purposeful, ordering his troops as they set about the construction of the implements of war. Ladders of branches, lashed with rope. Siege-towers, capable of holding a dozen men. Entire trunks hewn into battering rams. All of Pelmar's forests provided fodder for his efforts, as if in league with him. Already Haomane's Allies had essayed her wall in a score of places. She could hold it, for now, with the aid of Gergon's wardsmen. What would happen when their stores ran low? What would happen if Malthus arrived to pit himself against her, armed with a Soumanië like her own?
In her deepest self, Lilias knew the answer.
Hurry, she prayed in the direction of Darkhaven; oh, hurry!
TENS OF THOUSANDS OF FJEUROLL were packed into the Chamber of the Marasoumië and the tunnels that underlay Darkhaven. Armor creaked, rough hide jostled hide, horn-calloused feet trod the stony floors. Despite the fact that the ventilation shafts had all been uncovered, the air was stifling with the musky, slightly rank odor of the Fjel. The red node-light was reflected in thousands of eyes, all of them fixed on Tanaros.
Despite it all, they stood patient, adhering to the formations he'd drilled into them and trusting to his leadership. The swift Gulnagel, the ferocious Nåltannen, the dark M�rkhar and the mighty Tungskulder�all his to command, a vast army, divided into dozens of small units, mobile and skilled.
And at his side was Speros of Haimhault, grinning a gap-toothed grin, holding the reins of a pair of the horses of Darkhaven; Tanaros' own black, and a second like enough to be its twin. After much debate, Tanaros had decided to leave the mounted Staccian forces behind. Under Vorax's command, they and the Havenguard would serve to defend Darkhaven. He had made a promise to the young Midlander; let him serve as his equerry.
As for the battle itself; ah! For that, he had his field marshal, and there was no one, Man or Fjel, he trusted more than Hyrgolf. In the suffocating press, their gazes met quietly and Hyrgolf gave a nod, showing his eyetusks in a faint smile.
The Army of Darkhaven was ready.
"My friends." Tanaros raised a hand, and the rustling cavern fell into silence. "Tonight, we go forth to achieve a great good. Tonight, we will travel the ancient Ways of the Marasoumië, that traverse the length and breadth of the Sundered World itself."
There was a murmur; of eagerness, of anxiety.
"Be at ease." He pointed at Vorax, who stood beside the flickering node. "There stands Lord Vorax of Staccia, who will open the entrance. At the other end awaits Ushahin Dreamspinner, who will open the egress. Between them, they will hold open the Way, until the last of us has passed. And I, Tanaros Caveros, the Commander General of Darkhaven, will guide you through it."
They were afraid, these mighty warriors, the feared Fjel. It made him fond, and he smiled upon them. "Do not fear, my brothers. We are the Three, branded by Godslayer itself. We are the chosen of Lord Satoris. We will not fail you."
It braced them like svartblod. Tanaros saw it, felt it in his veins. His spirits soared, running high. Within the scarred circle on his chest, his heart beat, strong and steady. This was what he had been born to do. Lord Satoris himself had said it, summoning him to the Chamber of the Font. There, amid the blue-white coruscation of the marrow-fire, God-slayer's pulsing and the sweet reek of ichor, he had spoken words that filled his general's heart to bursting with pride and nameless emotion.
I trust you, Tanaros Blacksword. You will not fail me.
"Brothers!" Tanaros ripped his sword from its sheath, holding it aloft. "Though Haomane First-Born cowers on Torath, for too long his tyranny has held sway over Urulat! In his pride and refusal to relent, he rouses his Children against us, he sends his Counselors to wage war, and looses his Prophecy on us like a hunting dog. Lord Satoris grows weary of being brought to bay like an animal, and I grow weary with him. Have the Fjel not been persecuted by his Wrath, threatened with extinction? I tell you, it need not be so. Our destiny lies within our grasp. Haomane's Allies await us! Shall we make an end to it?"