Dani winced and wriggled backward into the safety of the deep shadows, careful not to let the clay vial bang against the stony floor. In a soft whisper, he told Uncle Thulu what he had seen.
“Darkhaven’s larder.” Thulu gave a soundless chuckle. “Ah, lad! Time was I could have put a dent in it.”
“What should we do?” The thought of retreating into the tunnels made Dani shudder all over his skin. “Try to find another route to the river?”
“We wait.” Thulu nodded toward the cavern. “The river lies a distance beyond. No point tempting fate; I don’t know if there is another route. Whatever they’re doing, it can’t take forever. Wait for silence and darkness, and then we’ll see.”
Once, Dani would have thought it a bleak prospect; lying on cold, hard stone for untold hours, hungry and thirsty. With fresh air to breathe, the tunnels behind him, and Darkhaven before him, it seemed like bliss. “And after that?” he asked.
Uncle Thulu glanced at him. “I don’t know.” He shook his head. In the dim light, his eyes were wide and dark in his worn face. “After that it’s up to you, lad.”
SEVENTEEN
The three quarreled about it, but in the end, Vorax won. He would serve as his Lordship’s envoy. It had to be one of the Three; on that, they agreed. No one else could be trusted with a task of paramount importance. They did not agree it should be Vorax.
It was the logical choice, though Tanaros Blacksword and the Dreamspinner refused to see it, arguing that he was needed in Darkhaven, that they could ill afford the delay. Vorax listened until he could abide no more of their foolishness, then brought his gauntleted fists crashing down upon the table in the center of the Warchamber.
“We are speaking of driving a bargain!” he roared. “Have either of you an ounce of skill at it?”
They didn’t, of course, and his outburst made them jump, which made him chuckle inwardly. It wasn’t every day any of the Three was startled. There was menace in the old bear yet. In the end, they relented.
He spent the morning supervising the creation of a supply-train, shifting most of the contents of the larder, arranging for it to be carted down the Defile. Meat was a problem, but it could be hastily smoked; enough to provide for the Fjel, at least. There was food aplenty. Vorax had prepared for a siege of weeks; months. As long as it took. A battle on open ground, that was another matter.
It was folly, but it was his Lordship’s folly. And in truth, although his head was loath, the blood in his veins still beat hard at the thought of it, remembering the maddening call of the Ellylon horns.
Still, it would take a cool head to negotiate the matter. That ruled out Blacksword, who was like to lose his the moment he clapped eyes on Aracus Altorus, and the Dreamspinner … well. The half-breed could be cool enough when he chose, and betimes he spoke sense in his foolhardy madness, but he was as unpredictable as spring weather in Staccia.
No, it had to be Vorax.
When the matter of supplies had been dealt with to his satisfaction, he retired to his chambers and ate a hearty dinner, enough to give him ballast for the task to come. He kissed his handmaids good-bye and fancied he saw a shadow of concern in the eyes of the youngest. An old bear was entitled to his fancy. It heartened him when he went to speak to the Ellyl bitch.
Cool heads; now, there was one. She didn’t bat a lash at his query, just stared at him with those unsettling eyes and said, “Why should I assist you, Lord Vorax? It is not in my interest to give you tools with which to bargain.”
He shrugged. “Lady, your only chance lies in this battle. If I’m not satisfied with the negotiations, it will not happen. Do you want to take that chance?”
She turned her head. What thoughts were passing beneath that smooth white brow, he could not have said. “Is Lord Ingolin in the field?”
“Your Rivenlost Lord?” Vorax scratched his beard. He hadn’t picked him out from atop the crag, but the Ravensmirror had shown him leading the Host of the Ellylon. “Aye, Lady. He’s there.”
“Then tell them I said Meronil must have rung with the sound of horns this morning.” She spoke without deigning to look at him. “By that token, they will know I live.”
“Ladyship.” He bowed with an ironic flourish. “My thanks.”
He took his leave of her, accompanied by a pair of Havenguard. Tanaros had insisted upon it. The General might be hotheaded, but he was cautious of the Ellyl bitch’s safety. Wisely enough, since Vorax would as lief see her dead.
His escort was waiting at the Defile Gate; ten of his Staccians, a company of thirty Fjel including a pair of Kaldjager scouts, and the young Midlander Speros. Vorax had his doubts about the lad—he was untried, desert travail or no—but he knew when to hold the line and when to quibble. It was what made him a shrewd bargainer; that, and the fact that he didn’t look shrewd.
It felt strange to pass through the Gate, to abandon the safety of the thick walls and unscalable heights and enter the narrow Defile. There was little danger here—the Defile was well guarded from above—but it brought home the reality of the folly of his Lordship’s decision; aye, and the excitement, too. His skin crawled at the same time he found himself humming battle-paeans.
“If it be folly, let it be a glorious one,” he said aloud.
“Sir?” The Midlander glanced at him.
“Battle, lad. This battle.”
They passed through the Weavers’ Gulch without incident, the Kaldjager striding ahead to part the sticky veils. Vorax regarded the scuttling spiders with distaste. The Dreamspinner was fond of them, finding some arcane beauty in the patterns they wove. Small wonder he was mad, though it was a madness he shared with Lord Satoris. One of several, perhaps.
For the remainder of the descent, they spoke little, paying close heed to the dangerous trail. The Kaldjager had vanished, but Vorax could hear their sharp, guttural cries and the answer of the Tordenstem sentries above, low and booming. He wished they had more Kaldjager. The Cold Hunters were tireless in the chase, and if there was any weakness in their enemy’s rearguard that could be exploited, they would find a way to circle around and sniff it out.
Too many lost in the northern territories, chasing down a rumor, a whisper of prophecy. Vorax would have given up his youngest handmaid to know what had truly happened there. Some trick of Malthus’, like as not. There was simply no way a pair of desert-bred Charred Folk could have evaded the Kaldjager and defeated an entire company of Fjel.
The Kaldjager were waiting at the last bend, before the Defile opened its Maw, crouched like a pair of yellow-eyed boulders. They nodded at him, indicating the way was clear.
“All right, lads.” Vorax settled his bulk more comfortably in the saddle and pointed with his bearded chin. “Let’s drive a bargain.”
They filed ahead of him, rounding the bend. Eigil, his Staccian lieutenant—the last one so appointed—carried their banner, the black banner of Darkhaven with the red dagger of Godslayer in the center. He was young for the task, but what else was Vorax to do? He had lost his best man, Carfax, in the decoy flight to Beshtanag; Osric had fallen to Staccian treachery. His blood still boiled when he thought about it. Speros of Haimhault carried the parleybanner; a pale blue oriflamme, unadorned. He took his job seriously, knuckles white on the banner’s haft.
A silvery blast of horns sounded the instant they were seen. Vorax scowled into his beard. Trust the damned Ellylon to make a production of war. He waited for Eigil’s answering shout.
“Lord Vorax of Darkhaven will entertain a delegation!”