If he could.
Anag took them down several steeply sloping streets that wound down the side of the plateau, all of them built with strong gates and battlements at regular intervals-the road through the pass that led up to the range of Shuar proper, until, near the base of the plateau, they stopped before the largest building they had seen so far, an enormous cube of black stone at least two hundred feet high.
After dismounting, they passed through several guard stations and past several higher-ranking officers. It took them the better part of two hours to work through the chain of command, but eventually they were shown to a chamber somewhere toward the center of the building. It was a large room, stretching out beneath a high dome overhead. Tavi was impressed by the sheer skill involved in engineering such a thing. The weight from above must have been enormous, yet the chamber’s smooth dome arched gracefully, apparently unsupported by any pillar or buttress.
A red-coal fire burned in a pit in the center of the room. Beside it, a circular table no more than two feet high but nearly ten feet across sat, supporting the weight of a scale model of the fortress’s defenses, complete with markers of blue stone for Canim troops, black stones for Vord, and colored green sand that, Tavi realized, represented the presence of the croach.
Several Shuarans, with their distinctive golden fur, were crouching on their haunches around the table, rumbling and growling at one another-except for one. That one, a rather small but burly specimen of his breed, his fur showing streaks of silver to mix with tawny gold, sat in silence, staring down at the pieces on the table, following the conversation around him with attentive twitches of his narrow ears.
Anag approached the table and inclined his head deeply to one side. “Warmaster.”
The burly Cane lifted his eyes-odd, for a Cane’s, since they were bright blue against the bloodred background-to the young officer and inclined his head slightly in response. The other Canim at the table immediately fell silent. “Pack second,” rumbled the Warmaster. His voice was extremely deep, even for a Cane. “Where is your pack leader?”
“At Molvar, my lord,” Anag replied, his tone neutral and polite. “Wounded.”
“Unto death, one supposes?”
“I am uncertain, my lord,” Anag responded. “Though if I may volunteer: I am no healer, my lord, but I have yet to hear of a warrior expiring from a clean, properly attended injury to the foot.”
“For that to happen,” the Warmaster replied, “he would need to be a warrior. Not the spawn of a forced mating of some jackal of a ritualist to a female barely more than a pup.”
“As you say, my lord.”
“Bring me better news next time, Anag.”
“I will do my best, my lord.”
The Cane rose to his feet and prowled over to them. He moved with a slight limp, though Tavi judged that only a fool would think him crippled, slow, or incapable. His armor, like Varg’s, was ornate, battered, and heavily decorated with bloodred gemstones. Also like Varg’s, most of the dark steel had been enameled in color, though in his case it was deep blue instead of Varg’s crimson.
He inclined his head slightly-very slightly-to Varg, who matched the gesture with precise timing.
“Varg,” the Warmaster rumbled.
“Lararl,” Varg replied.
Lararl turned his attention to the others, eyes probing, his nose quivering. “We thought you long dead.”
“Not before I kill you.”
Lararl’s eyes went back to Varg, and he bared his fangs in a slow, almost-leering smile. “I am pleased to see that the demons across the sea have not deprived me of the pleasure of showing your guts to the sky.”
“Not yet,” Tavi said. “But who knows? The night is young.”
Lararl’s ears quivered back and forth in a gesture of brief surprise, and his gaze shifted to Tavi. “You speak our tongue, little demon?”
“I speak it adequately. I understand it fairly well.”
Lararl narrowed his eyes. “Interesting.”
“Lararl, of Shuar,” Varg growled. “Tavar of Alera. He is gadara to me, Lararl.”
“As Varg is to me,” Tavi added, guessing that it was the proper thing to say.
Lararl’s ears quivered again, and he shook his head. “Tavar, is it? A demon gadara.” He glanced back at the table and the model there. “Sometimes I think that the world is changing. That I am too old to change with it.” He shook his head. “Varg, your word of peace for this night?”
“You have it.”
Lararl nodded. “And you mine. Will you vouch for Tavar and his pack?” Varg looked at Tavi. “Will you give your word that you and your people will abide peacefully here tonight, so long as no harm is offered to you?”
“Of course,” Tavi said. “Provided we receive the same word in return.”
“He will,” Varg told Lararl.
The golden-furred Warmaster nodded. “And will you vouch for my word to him?”
Varg looked at Tavi. “I will. Lararl keeps his word.”
Tavi nodded. “Done, then.”
Lararl nodded to the other Canim in the room. “Leave us.”
His officers filed out rapidly and quietly. Anag was the last out the door, and he shut it behind him.
Lararl crossed to the coal fire and crouched beside it, holding out his hands. “Sit, sit.”
They did so. Tavi was grateful for the fire’s warmth. The interior of Lararl’s command tower was quite literally as cold as a cavern.
“There is much work for me to do,” Lararl said. “What would you have of me?”
“First, your protection,” Varg said. “I am here with nearly one hundred thousand of my people.”
Lararl froze for a second, blue eyes locked on Varg. “Where?”
“Molvar,” Varg replied. “We arrived five days ago.”
Lararl sat in silence for several seconds. “And what protection do you ask of me?”
“My intention when I came here was to ask only for room enough to debark until our ships could be repaired to a condition suitable to return to Narash. Now…”
Lararl nodded. “No longer. Narash is no more. None of them are anymore, Varg. It’s all…” His hand lashed out behind him and struck at the table, cracking its surface and scattering green sand. “All that hideous offal. And those things. Those Vord.”
“You’re sure?” Varg asked.
“Yes.”
“How did it happen?” Tavi asked quietly.
“It started in Narash,” Lararl replied. “The ritualists and their sects among the makers rose up against the Warmasters, with these Vord as their allies. But soon it became clear that ritualists from the other ranges were eagerly smuggling more Vord into their lands to help with their own uprisings. Soon, Warmasters in every range were putting down one rebellion after another.”
Tavi could see where this was leading. “And once the Vord had a solid foothold everywhere, they turned on the ritualists.”
Lararl nodded. “The stupid taurga. Now, they are all but extinct. Within days, every range was in flames. Battlepacks roamed over every portion of the countryside. There was no communication, no order. Some fought longer than others, held on longer than others-your own line, Varg, longer than any, even though the poison began in their own range. But in the end, it didn’t matter. They fell. One by one, they all fell.”
Tavi shivered and held his hands closer to the coals.
After a silent minute, Varg said, “Then I must ask you for sanctuary for the makers under my charge. And pledge my warriors to aid in your defense.”
Lararl grunted. His eyes flicked to Tavi. “And you, Tavar?”
“I would like to ask your permission to spend a few days here, resupplying my ships and repairing damage. Then I intend to sail back to my home and, with any luck, never bother you again.”