“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.