“See to it that no one passes unnoted,” he said. “Even the Dreamspinner’s madlings, do you understand? It was one such who served the Lady poison.”
“Lord General.” It was Krognar, one of his most trusted among the Havenguard, who answered in a deep rumble. “Forgive us. One looks much like another.”
“Do they smell alike?” Tanaros asked sharply.
The Mørkhar exchanged glances. “No,” Krognar said. “But you did not ask us to note their scent. They are Lord Ushahin’s madlings. You never troubled at them before.”
“I’m asking you now.”
The Mørkhar bowed. “It will be done,” said Krognar. Leaving them, Tanaros paced the halls. His heart was uneasy, his feet restless. He half-thought to track down Meara and question her, but there was no telling where she might be in the maze of corridors behind the wall. And did it matter? She was Ushahin’s creature. If it had been her, she had only been doing his bidding. He had paid the price for it; for all of them. His Lordship was content. Could Tanaros be less?
Since he had no answers, he went to see Hyrgolf instead.
There was always merit in inspecting the barracks. Tanaros exited Darkhaven proper, making his way to the Fjel delvings north of the fortress. He strode through tunneled corridors, pausing here and there to visit the vast, communal sleeping chambers. They were glad of his visit, proud of their preparations, showing him armor stacked in neat readiness, weapons honed to a killing edge. Word traveled ahead of him, and he had not gone a hundred paces before the Fjel began spilling into the corridors, baring eyetusks in broad grins and beckoning him onward.
“Hey, Lord General!”
“Hey, boss!”
“Come check our weapons!”
“When are we going to war?”
The sheer weight of their enthusiasm settled his nerves and made him smile. The Fjel, who had the most to lose in accordance with Haomane’s Prophecy, were with him. No sign of faltering there; their loyalty was unswerving. “Soon enough, lads!” he shouted to them. “I’m off to see Marshal Hyrgolf.”
They cheered the mention of his name. One of theirs, one of their own.
And then there was Hyrgolf, standing in the entryway of his private chamber, his broad shoulders touching on either side of it. His leathery lips were curved in a smile of acknowledgment, but the squinting eyes beneath the heavy ridge of his brow held a deeper concern.
“General Tanaros,” he rumbled. “Come.”
VORAX WALKED ALONG THE NORTHEASTERN wall of the auxiliary larder, touching items stacked alongside it; kegs of Vedasian wine, vast wheels of cheese wrapped in burlap piled into columns. Sacks of wheat, bushels of root vegetables; so much food it could not be stored within the confines of Darkhaven proper, but space must be found outside its walls. The towering cavern was filled to bursting with them.
All his, all his doing.
He was proud of it. There was no glamour in it; no, nor glory. There was something better: sustenance. Glutton, Haomane’s Allies called him. Let them. He had earned his appetite, earned his right to indulge it. For a thousand years, Vorax had provided sustenance. Food did not fall on the plate and beg to be eaten, no matter who you were; peasant, Rivenlost lord, or one of the Three.
No, it had to be obtained; somehow, somewhere. In Staccia, they had always understood it. Precious little could be grown in the northern mountains. Neheris had not Shaped her lands with Men in mind. There was fish and game, and sheep and goats were tended. Never enough, not for as many Men dwelled in Staccia. For aught else, they had to trade; and they had little with which to trade. There was proud living in the mountains, but it was hard living, too. It had made them hungry, and it had made them shrewd.
And Vorax was the hungriest and shrewdest of them all. He had made the bargain to end all bargains—and he had kept it, too. Staccia had done naught but profit by it, and Darkhaven done naught but prosper. The betrayal of the Staccian lordlings incited by the Galäinridder was the only blot on his record, and that had been dealt with swiftly and irrevocably. He had earned the right to be proud.
“Do you see this, Dreamspinner?” He slapped a wheel of cheese with one meaty hand. It made a resounding echo in the vaulted cavern. “We could feed the Fjel for a month on cheese alone!”
“I don’t imagine they’d thank you for it,” Ushahin muttered, wrapped in his sheepskin cloak. Darkhaven’s larders were built into the mountains of Gorgantum, deep enough that they remained cool even in the warmth of summer; not Fjel work, but older, part of the tunnel system that lore held was dragon-made.
“They would if their bellies pinched,” Vorax said pragmatically. “And it may come to it, does this siege last. Meanwhile, who procured the flocks that keeps them in mutton?”
“Would you have me sing your glory?” The half-breed shivered. “I would as soon be done with it, Staccian.”
“As you will,” Vorax grumbled, and went back to counting kegs. “Third row, fifth barrel … here.” He reached between the wooden kegs, grunting, and drew forth a parcel thrice-wrapped in waxed parchment, which he tossed onto the stony floor. “I had to bargain dearly for it, Dreamspinner. Are you sure we ought to destroy it?”
“I’m sure.” Ushahin squatted next to the packet, bowing his head. The ends of his pale hair trailed on the ground; he glanced upward with his mismatched eyes. “We had our chance and took it. The time has passed. Do you want to risk Tanaros finding it? He is asking questions, cousin, and in time he may think of your outermost larder, or learn it from my madlings. Do you want his Lordship to know your involvement? Would you risk that?”
“No.” Vorax shook his head and shuddered. “No, I would not.”
“So.” With his newly deft right hand, Ushahin unfolded the parcel. A scant pile of herbs lay in the center of the creased parchment. There had been more, once. He inhaled, his nostrils flaring. “All-Bane,” he murmured. “Sprung from the death-mound of a Were corpse. I have not smelled it since I dwelled in the forests of Pelmar.”
“Aye,” Vorax said. “Or so the Rukhari swore. I demanded it in compensation for our aborted bargain. They were loath to part with it.” He shrugged. “Do you think it would have killed her?”
“Yes,” the half-breed said. “Oh, yes, cousin. All-Bane, Oronin’s Foil. To taste of it is to hear the Glad Hunter’s horn call your name. Death rides in his train, and not even the Ellylon are exempt from its touch.” He regarded the herbs with his twisted smile. “Would that Oronin Last-Born had protected his Children as well in life as he does in death. The Lady would have died had she sampled the broth.”
“Pity,” Vorax said, reaching for a torch. “It was a noble effort.”
“Yes.” Ushahin straightened and rose. “It was.”
Vorax touched the torch to the parcel. The waxed parchment ignited with a flare. Fire consumed it, and soon the dried herbs were ablaze. Tendrils of smoke arose, dense and grey, with a faint violet tint, more smoke than one would have thought possible from such a scant handful. It coiled along the floor, rising where it encountered living flesh.
“It smells … almost sweet,” Vorax said in wonder. “No wonder the Fjel did not recognize it as a poison.” A pleasant lassitude weighted his limbs and his eyelids felt heavy. He inhaled deeply. “What is the aroma? Like vulnus-blossom, only … only the memory it evokes is pleasant. It reminds me of … of what, Dreamspinner?” He smiled, closing his eyes and remembering. “Childhood in Staccia, and goldenrod blooming in the meadows.”
“Out. Out, cousin!”
The words came to him filtered through a haze; a gilded haze of swimming light, violet-tinged, the air filled with pollen. Vorax opened his eyes and frowned, seeing Ushahin Dreamspinner’s face before him, skin stretched taut over the misshapen cheekbones. “What troubles you, cousin?” he asked in a thick voice.
Pale lips, shaping a curse in the tongue of the Were; he watched with mild interest, watched the shapely right arm swing back, then forward, tendrils of smoke swirling in its wak
e. It all seemed so slow, until it was not. Vorax rocked on his heels at the impact of the half-breed’s palm against his bearded cheek.
“Enough!” he roared, anger stirring in his belly. “Do not try my patience!”
Ushahin’s eyes glittered through the smoke. One was black, drowning-black, swallowed by pupil; the other was silver-grey, fractured into splintered shards, like a mirror broken into a thousand pieces of bad luck, with a pinprick of black at the center. His hand, his right hand, fell upon the Staccian’s shoulder with unexpected strength, spinning him. “Vorax of Staccia, get out of this place!”
There was a shove, a powerful shove between the shoulder blades, and Vorax went, staggering under the impetus, placing one foot after the other until he reached the outermost opening with its narrow ledge. There the air was cold and clean and he breathed deeply of it, gazing at Darkhaven’s holdings until his head began to clear. There was edifice; there was the encircling wall, vanishing to encompass them. There was the Gorgantus River. There, in the distance, were the pastures and the mines; there, nearer, were the furnaces and forges, beneath their pall of smoke.
It made him glance involuntarily behind him; but the smoke of the All-Bane had not followed him. There was only Ushahin, huddled in his sheepskin cloak, looking raw with the cold.
“Are you well, cousin?” he asked in a low voice.
“Aye,” Vorax said roughly. With his chin, he pointed at the Dreamspinner’s hidden right arm. “Who would have thought there was such strength in that wing of yours. So is … that … what you might have been?”
“Perhaps.” Ushahin gave a terse laugh. “I am the Misbegotten, after all.”
“Ah, well. You would have made a doughty warrior, cousin.” There was nothing else in those words he wanted to touch. Vorax breathed slow and steady, watching the sluggish flow of the Gorgantus River below them. The waterwheel Tanaros’ Midlander protégé had built turned with excruciating slowness, murky water dripping from its paddles. Still, it did its job, powering the bellows. “Is it done?” he asked presently.
Ushahin shrugged his hunched shoulders. “Let us see.”
They did, returning step by step, side by side. There was the larder, lined with kegs and loaves and wheels. There, on the floor, a tiny pile of ashes smoldered, no longer smoking. Side by side, they stared at it.
“Is it still dangerous?” Vorax asked.
“I do not believe so.” Ushahin glanced into the darkness at the rear of the larder, where the chamber narrowed into a winding tunnel. “There is no one there to heed Oronin’s Horn. The passages are too low, even for my madlings.” He shrugged again. “Even if they were not, the tunnels leading from here link to the Vesdarlig Passage, and it is blocked, now. No one travels to or from your homeland, cousin.”
“I pray you are right.” Vorax stamped on the smoldering pile with a booted heel, grinding the remnants into harmless powder until nothing remained but a faint sooty smear. “There,” he said with satisfaction. “All evidence of our conspiracy is gone.”
Ushahin considered him. “Then we are finished?”
“Aye.” Vorax met his gaze unflinching. “I lack the courage of your madness, Dreamspinner. Already, you have shielded me from his Lordship’s wrath. I will not risk facing it a second time.” He shook his head. “Haomane’s Prophecy is no certain thing. His Lordship’s fury is. Do you cross his will again, there will be no mercy. I would sooner die in his name than at his hands.”
Ushahin nodded. “As you will, cousin.”
“URU-ALAT!” DANI WHISPERED. “A ROCKFALL?”
There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Beside him, Uncle Thulu was silent, staring in disbelief. By the wavering torchlight, the pile of boulders before them reached all the way to the ceiling.
“No.” Thulu spoke at last, his voice heavy. “No, this was done on purpose. There’s no damage to the tunnel itself.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Of course it was. Why wouldn’t they block it? One less entrance to guard.”
It was too much to encompass. How many days had they been traveling beneath the earth? Weeks, at least; it may have been longer. Each step filled with fear and trepidation, each curve in the tunnel harboring the potential of a Fjel attack. All for nothing. There had been no Fjel. There was no egress. The tunnel was blocked.
“Can we move them?” Dani asked. “Or climb over it?”
Uncle Thulu squared his shoulders, shaking off the yoke of despair. “I don’t know, lad. Let’s try.”
They wedged the torches into the pile and began working, shifting the smaller rocks and digging out around the larger, concentrating their efforts on one several feet off the tunnel floor that appeared to be supporting the weight of others.
“Ready, lad?” Uncle Thulu asked, once he could wrap his arms around it.
Dani nodded grimly, taking hold of the boulder. “Ready.”
On a count of three, they hauled together, tipping it. The massive stone’s weight did the rest, rolling loose. As they leapt clear of its path, a small section of the pile shifted, other boulders settling in a cascade of smaller rocks.
Otherwise, it was unchanged.
“No good.” Thulu shook his head. “This is Fjeltroll work. It may go on for yards; scores of them, is my guess. After all, they’re trying to keep an army out, not just a couple of weary Yarru-yami.”
Dani took a deep breath. “I’ll see if we can climb over it.”
He went slowly, testing each hand- and foothold with care. The boulders, disturbed by their efforts, shifted beneath his weight. For once, he was glad that he was unshod, feeling the subtle movement of the rocks beneath the soles of his bare feet. Although he no longer needed the sling, his left shoulder was imperfectly healed and ached with the strain. The muscles of his legs quivered; partly with effort, and partly with nerves. The clay vial strung around his neck had never seemed so vulnerable. One wrong step, and he would set off a rockslide. Whether or not Dani survived it, he doubted the fragile vessel would.
Endless as it seemed, he eventually reached the top.
“What do you see, lad?” Uncle Thulu called from the base of the pile, holding his torch as high as possible.
“Nothing.” Dani braced his palms on the ceiling of the tunnel and sighed. The pile was solid. There was no gap at the top; or at least, only inches. “We could try making a passage from here.” He reached forward with one hand to pry a few stones loose and tried to imagine it. Moving through the darkness, shifting rocks a scant few at a time, wriggling back and forth on their bellies, pinned against the ceiling. It was not a hopeful prospect.
“It might be quicker to walk back to Staccia,” Thulu said dourly. “And safer, too. Come down, Dani. We’ll find another way.”
“Wait.” There was something; a faint current of air, moving. Dani went still, holding his outspread hand over the rocks. He could feel it, a whisper against his skin. “There’s an air shaft.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” Taking a better stance, Dani slid the vial around and tucked it under his collar at the back of his neck. “Stand clear, Uncle!”
It felt good, after days and days of grinding sameness, to be doing. He burrowed steadily into the pile, working with both hands, grabbing rocks and tossing them to either side. Those at the uttermost top were smaller, easier to move. They bounced down the rockpile in a rattling, satisfying procession. The larger ones were trickier. The first one he managed to expose was at chest height, twice as large around as his head. Whispering a swift prayer to Uru-Alat, Dani worked it loose.
Unbalanced, the pile shifted. His footholds vanished, sending him sliding and scrabbling downward on his belly, nails clinging ineffectually to stone. Bruised and banged, he fetched up hard, jarring one hip against a solid, immobile boulder.
“Dani!”
“I’m all right!” He checked the clay vial and found it safe, then peered upward. The hole had widened considerably. He could feel the air on his face now. Dani inhaled deepl
y. “Uncle! I smell grass!”
The light cast by Thulu’s torch flickered wildly. “Dani, lad, I’m coming up.”
It was painstaking. Once Thulu completed the treacherous journey, laden with packs and torches and moving with infinitesimal care, they set to work in tandem. They worked as swiftly as they dared, widening the hole one rock at a time, working in the direction of the air current. Torchlight aided, but it posed a hazard, too. Every time the rock-pile settled and their balance slipped, there was the added risk of setting themselves ablaze.
“All this work, and I don’t suppose we’ve any idea how big the shaft is,” Uncle Thulu observed. “It will be a hard blow if we don’t fit.”
Covered in rock dust, Dani grinned at him. “Maybe it’s a good thing you’re not so fat anymore!”
After further hours of labor, there was no jest left in either of them. Feeling with careful fingertips, they found the bottom of the ventilation shaft, clearing around and beneath it. There was no sign of daylight, which hopefully meant nothing worse than that night had fallen while they worked. The shaft was wide enough, barely; a scant three feet across. Whether it narrowed and how high it went was another matter.
“You found it,” Thulu said somberly. “You look.”
“All right.” Returning the flask to its customary place at his throat, Dani eased himself onto his back and ducked his head under the opening. At first, his eyes grown used to torchlight, he saw only blackness and his heart sank. But gradually, his vision cleared, and he laughed aloud. The shaft was deep, but it cut an unswerving path through the solid rock. And far, far above him …
“What do you see?”
“Stars!” A patch of starlight, faint and distant. He ducked back out, eyes shining. “We can do this, Uncle. It’s a long climb, but we can do it.”
Uncle Thulu gave him a worried smile. “We’ll try.”
Squatting atop the rock-pile, they sorted through their gear, paring down supplies to the barest of essentials. A parcel of food and a waterskin apiece lashed around their waists, belt daggers, and the warm Staccian cloaks the Lady of Gerflod had given them. Dani kept his slingshot, and Thulu his flint striker. Everything else, they would leave.