“Lord General.” It was Krognar, one of his most trusted among the Havenguard, who answered in a deep rumble. “Forgive us. One looks much like another.”

“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.