He rode around the bend, traversing the final descent, lifting one hand in acknowledgment. It was a shock to see Haomane’s Allies at close range. There were so many, covering the plains, arrayed no more than fifty yards from the Maw itself. His company was clustered at its base, the Fjel with their shields held high, prepared to defend his retreat if necessary.
Haomane’s Allies stirred, conversing among themselves. He watched figures gesticulating, wondering if they argued as did the Three.
They knew the protocol. Three figures relinquished their arms with ceremony and rode forward, accompanied by an escort of forty Men and Ellylon. Half wore the dun-grey cloaks of the Borderguard; half the bright armor of the Rivenlost. There were no archers among them. If it came to a fight, it would be fair.
Vorax waited.
Malthus, Ingolin, Aracus; Haomane’s Counselor, the Lord of the Rivenlost, and the Scion of Altorus. Vorax took their measure as they approached, riding from sunlight into the mountain’s shadow. Their escort fanned out in a loose circle. His remained where they stood; shields high, bristling with weapons. The pale blue oriflamme in Speros’ hands trembled, then steadied.
“Vorax of Staccia!” Aracus Altorus’ voice was hard and taut. One hand rested on the hilt of his ancestral sword, drawing attention to the dull red gem set in its pommel. “We have come to demand that the Lady Cerelinde be restored to us.”
Vorax laughed. “Why, so you have, little Man. Will you go if she is?”
It made the would-be King of the West uncertain; he frowned hard, staring. Malthus the Counselor exchanged a glance with Ingolin the Wise and shook his whitemaned head.
“Vorax.” His voice was gentle; almost kind. The clear Soumanië on his breast sparkled. “Do not insult us with false promises. Your Dark Lord knows what we are about. Why does he send you? What is his will?”
Vorax smiled. It was always good to establish the principal agent in any bargain. “One that should please you, wizard. For a small price, it is his Lordship’s will to give you what you desire.”
“Cerelinde!” Aracus Altorus breathed.
“War,” the Rivenlost Lord said gravely.
“War,” Vorax said, agreeing with the latter. Broadening his smile, he opened his arms. “What else have you courted so assiduously? You have swayed him, wizard; you have swayed us all! His Lordship is willing to meet the forces of Haomane’s Allies upon the plain. And yet, we must have certain assurances.”
Aracus Altorus raised his brows. “Why should we bargain with you?”
“Ah, little Man!” Vorax bent a benign glance upon him. “Do you see these heights?” He pointed toward the Gorgantus Mountains. “They cannot be scaled. There is but one passage, and believe me, if you believe nothing else I say, when I tell you it is well guarded. You have no leverage here.”
“What is the Sunderer’s price?” Malthus asked.
“Fall back.” Vorax shrugged. “As I said, it is a small one. You seek battle; his Lordship is willing to give it. Fall back … half a league, no more. Allow our forces to assemble and meet yours in fair combat upon the plains. No attack shall begin until the signal is given.”
The Counselor nodded. “And if we do not agree?”
“Look around you.” Vorax indicated the plains with a sweep of his hand. “Can you fill your bellies with grass, like horses? I think not, Haomane’s Counselor. Darkhaven can outwait you. Darkhaven will outwait you.”
Malthus smiled, wrinkles creasing his face. The Soumanië nestled in his beard brightened, starry. “Will you?” he asked. “Oh, I think not, Vorax of Staccia. The Sunderer’s will is fixed.”
Vorax squinted sidelong at the Soumanië, feeling the urge to battle quicken his blood. “You’re handy with that, Counselor,” he observed. “Makes me pity my countrymen, those you led into betrayal. I trust you found them waiting, as promised. Doubtless Haomane is pleased.” Bloodlust thickened his tongue, and he nodded at the gem. “Have a care. I come to bargain in good faith.”
“And yet you perceive your weakness,” Malthus said gently.
“Mine, aye.” With an effort, Vorax tore his gaze from the Soumanië. “Funny thing, Counselor. Seems your pretty brooch doesn’t work on the Dreamspinner.” He forced his lips into a smile. “Something in his nature renders him proof against its folly, and he’s right eager to see the Lady Cerelinde dead, is Ushahin Dreamspinner. He doesn’t mind defying Lord Satoris to do it. He’s quite mad, you know.”
Aracus Altorus swore; Malthus passed his hand over the Soumanië, quenching its light.
Ingolin of the Rivenlost, who had sat motionless in the saddle, stirred. “You touch upon my fears, Vorax of Staccia. You are quick to use the Lady Cerelinde’s life as a bargaining chip, yet it is in my heart that the Sunderer has little reason to have spared it to date.”
“Oh, aye, she lives.” Breathing easier, Vorax laughed. “For now, Ellyl lordling. His Lordship,” he added contemptuously, “has staked his honor upon it.”
Ingolin’s melodious voice deepened. “I put no trust in the honor of Satoris Banewreaker. Let her be brought forth, if you would have me believe. Let us see with our own eyes that the Lady Cerelinde lives!”
“See, I thought you might ask that.” Vorax scratched at his beard. “Problem is, Ingolin my friend, she’s our safeguard. I don’t put a great deal of trust in your word.” He gave the Lord of the Rivenlost a friendly smile. “Why, you might break it, if you reckoned it were for the greater good!”
“I would not,” the Ellyl Lord said stiffly. “The Ellylon do not lie.”
“Maybe, maybe not.” Vorax shrugged. “Someone else might break it for you, eh? The Lady stays in Darkhaven. But I asked her for a token, whereby you might know she lives. She asked me if you were in the field. When I said you were, she said, ‘Tell them Meronil must have rung with the sound of horns this morning.’ Does that suffice?”
Ingolin bowed his head, silver hair hiding his features. “Cerelinde,” he whispered.
“Cerelinde,” Vorax agreed. “Whose life hangs by this bargain, and your ability to honor it to the word. Shall we strike it?”
“How do we know you will keep your word?” Aracus Altorus’ eyes blazed. “Perhaps this bargain is but a mockery. What safeguard do you offer, Glutton?”
Vorax glanced around, his gaze falling on the Midlander. “Speros of Haimhault.” He beckoned. “Are you willing to serve?”
“My lord!” The Midlander looked ill. “Aye, my lord.”
“Here you are, then.” Vorax clapped a hand on his shoulder. “He’s the architect of Darkhaven’s defense. Try the Defile, and see what he’s got in store for you! Word is he engineered the means to let General Tanaros fill in that pesky Well in the Unknown Desert, though you might know more of it than I. Any mind, he’s been Tanaros Blacksword’s right-hand Man for some time. Will he suffice?”
They looked shocked; all save Malthus. Did nothing on the face of Urulat shock the damned Counselor? He inclined his head, white beard brushing his chest.
“He will suffice,” Malthus said somberly.
“Good.” Vorax glanced at the sky, gauging the angle of the sun. “You’ll withdraw your troops by dawn on the morrow, on pain of the Lady’s death?”
“We will.”
“Then we will meet you ere noon. You’ll know our signal when we give it.” He grinned. “Gentlemen, I will see you anon!”
His Staccians closed in tight, following as he turned his mount and headed into Defile’s Maw, the Fjel guarding their retreat, step by backward step, shields held high. Below them, Speros of Haimhault sat on his ghost-grey mount and watched them go with desperate eyes.