Once, Dani would have thought it a bleak prospect; lying on cold, hard stone for untold hours, hungry and thirsty. With fresh air to breathe, the tunnels behind him, and Darkhaven before him, it seemed like bliss. “And after that?” he asked.

Uncle Thulu glanced at him. “I don’t know.” He shook his head. In the dim light, his eyes were wide and dark in his worn face. “After that it’s up to you, lad.”

SEVENTEEN

SEVENTEEN

THE THREE QUARRELED ABOUT IT, but in the end, Vorax won. He would serve as his Lordship’s envoy. It had to be one of the Three; on that, they agreed. No one else could be trusted with a task of paramount importance. They did not agree it should be Vorax.

It was the logical choice, though Tanaros Blacksword and the Dreamspinner refused to see it, arguing that he was needed in Darkhaven, that they could ill afford the delay. Vorax listened until he could abide no more of their foolishness, then brought his gauntleted fists crashing down upon the table in the center of the Warchamber.

“We are speaking of driving a bargain!” he roared. “Have either of you an ounce of skill at it?”

They didn’t, of course, and his outburst made them jump, which made him chuckle inwardly. It wasn’t every day any of the Three was startled. There was menace in the old bear yet. In the end, they relented.

He spent the morning supervising the creation of a supply-train, shifting most of the contents of the larder, arranging for it to be carted down the Defile. Meat was a problem, but it could be hastily smoked; enough to provide for the Fjel, at least. There was food aplenty. Vorax had prepared for a siege of weeks; months. As long as it took. A battle on open ground, that was another matter.

It was folly, but it was his Lordship’s folly. And in truth, although his head was loath, the blood in his veins still beat hard at the thought of it, remembering the maddening call of the Ellylon horns.

Still, it would take a cool head to negotiate the matter. That ruled out Blacksword, who was like to lose his the moment he clapped eyes on Aracus Altorus, and the Dreamspinner … well. The half-breed could be cool enough when he chose, and betimes he spoke sense in his foolhardy madness, but he was as unpredictable as spring weather in Staccia.

No, it had to be Vorax.

When the matter of supplies had been dealt with to his satisfaction, he retired to his chambers and ate a hearty dinner, enough to give him ballast for the task to come. He kissed his handmaids good-bye and fancied he saw a shadow of concern in the eyes of the youngest. An old bear was entitled to his fancy. It heartened him when he went to speak to the Ellyl bitch.