He was proud of it. There was no glamour in it; no, nor glory. There was something better: sustenance. Glutton, Haomane’s Allies called him. Let them. He had earned his appetite, earned his right to indulge it. For a thousand years, Vorax had provided sustenance. Food did not fall on the plate and beg to be eaten, no matter who you were; peasant, Rivenlost lord, or one of the Three.

No, it had to be obtained; somehow, somewhere. In Staccia, they had always understood it. Precious little could be grown in the northern mountains. Neheris had not Shaped her lands with Men in mind. There was fish and game, and sheep and goats were tended. Never enough, not for as many Men dwelled in Staccia. For aught else, they had to trade; and they had little with which to trade. There was proud living in the mountains, but it was hard living, too. It had made them hungry, and it had made them shrewd.

And Vorax was the hungriest and shrewdest of them all. He had made the bargain to end all bargains—and he had kept it, too. Staccia had done naught but profit by it, and Darkhaven done naught but prosper. The betrayal of the Staccian lordlings incited by the Galäinridder was the only blot on his record, and that had been dealt with swiftly and irrevocably. He had earned the right to be proud.

“Do you see this, Dreamspinner?” He slapped a wheel of cheese with one meaty hand. It made a resounding echo in the vaulted cavern. “We could feed the Fjel for a month on cheese alone!”

“I don’t imagine they’d thank you for it,” Ushahin muttered, wrapped in his sheepskin cloak. Darkhaven’s larders were built into the mountains of Gorgantum, deep enough that they remained cool even in the warmth of summer; not Fjel work, but older, part of the tunnel system that lore held was dragon-made.

“They would if their bellies pinched,” Vorax said pragmatically. “And it may come to it, does this siege last. Meanwhile, who procured the flocks that keeps them in mutton?”

“Would you have me sing your glory?” The half-breed shivered. “I would as soon be done with it, Staccian.”

“As you will,” Vorax grumbled, and went back to counting kegs. “Third row, fifth barrel … here.” He reached between the wooden kegs, grunting, and drew forth a parcel thrice-wrapped in waxed parchment, which he tossed onto the stony floor. “I had to bargain dearly for it, Dreamspinner. Are you sure we ought to destroy it?”