Vashuka raised a clenched, clawed hand, and the circle fell silent. Her gaze never left him. “Tell us, Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn. What has it come to?”

“A favor.” It was harder than he had imagined to hold his ground before her. His very flesh was vulnerable. For all that he was one of the Three, he was no warrior like Tanaros or Vorax. His crippled hands could scarce grip a sword, and such powers as he had would avail him little against the Were, who were themselves the stuff of which Men’s nightmares were made. “Death.”

“War!” she growled, and the pack echoed her.

“No.” Ushahin shook his head. “You have refused to commit Oronin’s Children to war, honored one, and Satoris Third-Born respects this. It is death he asks of you; a hunt, far from the battlefield. There is a company, a small company, that enters the forests of Pelmar, These, my Lord wishes slain.”

“Wishes.” The Grey Dam’s voice was dry. “Asks. Who are we to slay?”

“Malthus the Counselor,”he whispered. “And all who accompany him.”

At that, she threw back her head, loosing a howl. It echoed forlorn throughout the forest, and the Were who accompanied her crouched and quivered.

“Old mother,” Ushahin said to her. “Has Malthus the Counselor been a friend to our kind? Have the Sons of Men? Have the Ellylon? No! Only Lord Satoris. Seven deaths is not so much to ask.”

Closing her jaws with a snap, Vashuka snarled. “Have we not given as much?” She jerked her chin toward the red star above the tree-line of the glade. “There, Ushahin-who-walks-between-dusk-and-dawn! The Counselor Dergail’s Soumanië, that we wrested from him! For this, Men and Ellylon name us enemy and hunt us without mercy.” She folded her arms across her gaunt bosom. “I am the Grey Dam; I remember. I am the Grey Dam; I say, no more.”

“And I say,” Ushahin said softly, with infinite regret, “that do you refuse, Lord Satoris will name you his enemy. And there is an army coming, old mother. An army of Fjeltroll with hides like leather and the strength to move mountains, commanded by General Tanaros Blacksword himself. Right now, there is a force—” he pointed, “—of two hundred Rukhari warriors on that plain, and their swords are whetted. Who will you turn to if Lord Satoris turns against you? The Pelmaran Regents, who have sought to stamp out your kind? Aracus Altorus?” He shook his head. “I do not think so. My mother-who-was spent her life’s last blood seeking Altorus’ throat. He will not be quick to forgive.”

She snarled again, and the moonlight glittered on her sharp teeth. “Ask! You ask nothing and demand everything!”

Heavy with sorrow, he nodded. “Yes, old mother. Childhood must end, even for immortals. Will you abide or refuse?”