Gondolin shoved aside a pair of lovers who'd met their end on a stone bench, then sat heavily in their place. No plan emerged in his mind; every prospect fluttered erratically like the cloud of flies before him. He had weathered battles without count, but each time his uncle Gamlin had stood before him—his high wall and steadfast shield. Now that protective veil had vanished; the uncle who once held danger at bay, who stood between him and the abyss, was lost to an uncertain fate.

  "What do we do now?" Hard Stone asked, settling beside him. "Where's Off-Key?" He saw the answer in Gondolin's face before the words came. "How many of us are left?"

  "Few," he said, shaking his head. Two wounded arbalesters descended the stairs, leaning on one another. Upon spotting Gondolin and Hard Stone, they offered respectful nods. "I still haven't decided what to do."

  "You're our commander now, Gondolin." He spoke without adding undue pressure.

  "Tell me—what would Gamlin do in this position?"

  "What would Gamlin do? Gamlin wouldn't 'do' anything now, Gondolin. You needn't concern yourself with Gamlin's thoughts—you must attend to your own." He nudged Gondolin with his shoulder. "There's an old saying: victory has a hundred fathers, but defeat is an orphan. A father can be a guide, yes, but he can also cast a long shadow. We've won too many battles, Gondolin. We have too many fathers, and too many shadows. We've lived in those shadows so long, we've forgotten what the sun feels like on our faces."

  "He's my... uncle."

  "What difference does the name make? Uncle, father... it's all the same. If they stand between you and the world, if they make all your choices for you, how will you ever learn to stand on your own? Stop thinking about how to live in Gamlin's shadow, Gondolin. It's time you cast your own."

  "My shadow," he echoed softly.

  "Precisely. Your shadow. Learn to face adversity, Gondolin. You've already confronted shame." He gestured toward his own beard. "No hardship remains that could force you to retreat."

  "We make for Triumphant Fort." He rose suddenly. "We go to aid my uncle."

  "That's your decision?"

  "Yes. My decision," Gondolin declared, a spark of pride in his voice.

  "Just the few of us?" one of the crossbowmen asked, leaning heavily on his good leg.

  "Yes," Gondolin said. "My shadow will shelter you now." The two crossbowmen looked at each other, utterly lost.

  "So you proceeded to Triumphant Fort?" The High Priest lowered himself to the floor, disregarding all ceremony; his corpulence made prolonged squatting an agony.

  "We did," the dwarf replied wearily. "It was a grievous mistake."

  "The fort's situation was dire?"

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  "Beyond dire. I should never have led them there—by all the gods." The High Priest understood who "them" signified and refrained from inquiring. "I cannot comprehend how a stone fortress can burn with the fury of an active volcano."

  "Perhaps because it was full of people," the High Priest offered, his smile thin and bitter.

  "And full of dwarves," the dwarf echoed, his own smile just as bleak.

  The sun had retreated some time ago. The temple's sisters kindled torches and candles throughout the sanctuary. "If there's one thing we possess in abundance, it's illumination," the High Priest remarked with satisfaction, gazing upward at the massive chandelier suspended above the Statue of Goria, its one hundred twenty-eight altar candles blazing magnificently. His attempt at levity elicited no response from the dwarf, leaving him slightly deflated.

  The temple doors parted just enough to admit a mail-clad dwarf bearing a short bow. "Combat will reach the Temple District shortly," the sentry reported crisply. "I believe withdrawal is now advisable."

  "Triumphant Fort—is there any hope of taking it back?" Lorraine demanded, stepping up to the sentry. He shook his head, his face grim. "The Captain?" Every Oathsworn warrior in the temple went still, listening. Again, the grim shake of the head.

  A collective sigh of dismay rippled through the assembly. Yet their disciplined training prevailed; the revelation of their commander's demise required merely seconds for acceptance. Gondolin still lay on the floor, his back to them all. Only the High Priest saw the silent track of a tear escape and trace a path through the grime on his cheek.

  "May the gods embrace him," Lorraine intoned, bowing her head reverently. "Where stand Duke Pafaheim's forces?"

  "They mounted a formidable counteroffensive once, driving Godma back to Spiderweb Street, but their resistance cannot endure. We mustn't rely on their support."

  "Then we depend solely on ourselves," she murmured.

  "Indeed."

  "Gondolin!" Lorraine's voice struck him squarely between the shoulder blades. "With our captain fallen and the senior officers of the council unaccounted for, I deem it most appropriate that you assume the mantle of interim commander. Do you object?"

  (At last, the moment has arrived.) He nearly smiled. (I have envisioned myself leading the Oathsworn on multiple occasions—but never under these circumstances, never in this manner.) Every warrior present awaited his response. (If the price of captaincy is Gamlin perishing here, reduced to ashes within Triumphant Fort, then I would gladly forswear command forever. But I lack alternatives, as do all of you. We have suffered defeat, and so we all stand as orphans.) Gondolin rose deliberately. The High Priest wisely retreated several paces. (Then I shall become your father—your sanctuary. I will shield you from gale and deluge. You shall dwell within my shadow until I fall beneath the sun's radiance.) "I raise no objection, Lorraine." He adjusted his mail, his belt, and his hand-axe before turning to face them. "I willingly accept the position of interim commander of the Gambril Oathsworn in Gamlin Browal Hasfeng's absence. I shall lead my brothers into the crucible of battle and surrender my life if necessary."

  "Compatriots, do any among you object?" Lorraine planted her fists firmly upon her hips and surveyed the assembly. "We acclaim Gondolin Browal Hasfeng as interim commander and captain of the Gambril Oathsworn!" "As one!" they responded in unison. "We shall follow his advance and shatter all opposition before us!"

  "Good. Good." Lorraine turned toward Gondolin. "You are now our captain, brother."

  "I am captain, sister."

  Blake Barinder stood near the refugees, his thumb smoothing the worn deerskin cover of his poetry book. (A changing of the guard, he thought, watching Gondolin Browal Hasfeng. The old world giving way to the new.) He felt a sharp sting behind his eyes. (And isn't Cynthia facing the very same crossroads? Today, Claire Grace wields the scepter of rule. Tomorrow—who shall it be? Will Queen Claire retain her throne? Or shall Emperor William Davidow claim dominion?) He possessed no answer and sought none. He recognized only this immutable truth: all transformations of worldly power arise from warfare, regardless of its cruelty or justice. Anything not touched by eternity is doomed to fight an endless war against time.