Now, it was different. They needed to draw their Enemy out into the open. And they needed bait to do it. That was where the tunnels came into play, and Beshtanag, and above all, the Were that Ushahin had brought to Darkhaven.
The bath-water was growing cool. Tanaros stood, dripping.
"Here, Lord General."
Meara, the madling, slunk around the entrance to his bathing-chamber, proffering a length of clean linen toweling and eyeing him through her tangled hair. She had never done such before.
"Thank you, Meara." He dried himself, self-conscious for the first time in many decades. Physically, his body was unchanged. Save for the mark of his branding, it was little different than it had been on his wedding night, strong and lean and serviceable. Only the puckered, silvery scar on his breast gave evidence of his nature; that, and the deep ache of years.
"Does it hurt?" She pointed at his chest.
"Yes." He touched the scar with his fingertips, feeling the ridged flesh, remembering the searing ecstasy he'd felt when his Lord took Godslayer from the blazing marrow-fire and branded him with it, using the force of the Souma to stretch the Chain of Being to its limits to encompass him. "It hurts."
Meara nodded. "I thought so." She watched him don his robe. "What was she like, Lord General?"
"She?" He paused.
Her eyes glittered. "The Sorceress."
"She was… courteous."
"Was she prettier than me?" she asked plaintively.
"Prettier?" Tanaros gazed at the madling, who squirmed away from his scrutiny. He thought about Lilias, whose imperious beauty softened only in the presence of the dragon. "No, Meara. Not prettier."
She followed him as he left the bathing-chamber, tossing back her hair and glaring. "Another one is coming, you know. Coming here."
"Another one?"
"A lady." She spat the word. "An Ellyl lady."
"Yes." He wondered how she knew, if they all knew. "Such is the plan."
"It is a mistake," Meara said darkly.
"Meara." Tanaros rumpled his hair, damp from the bath. He remembered the Sorceress, and how the wind on the mountainside had tugged at her hair, that had otherwise fallen dark and shining, bound by the circlet, the red Soumanie vivid against her pale brow. He wondered what the other would be like, and if it were a mistake to bring her here. "The lady is to be under our Lord's protection."
The madling shuddered, turned and fled. Bewildered, Tanaros watched her go.
THERE WAS NEVER ENOUGH TIME to prepare, when it came to it.
The Warchamber was packed with representatives of three of the races of Lesser Shapers, all crowded around the map-table and listening intently to the Commander General of the Army of Darkhaven. It was a simple plan. Tanaros wished he liked it better. Nonetheless, it was his Lord's will, and he continued, carrying it out to the letter. "And here,"�he pointed at the map—"is the mouth of the tunnel. Here, and here and here, there will be sentries posted, guarding the perimeter of Lindanen Dale. Those,"—Tanaros glanced at the Were Brethren—"will be yours to dispatch, as we agreed."
A flat voice spoke, passionless and grey. "And here they plight their troth?"
"Aye." The skin at the back of his neck prickled. With an effort, Tanaros made himself meet the gaze of Sorash, the Grey Dam of the Were, who rested one clawed forefinger upon the heart of Lindanen Dale. "That is where you will strike, honored one, if you be willing."
The Grey Dam gave him a terrible smile. "I am willing."
There was no telling her age. The Were had used the strange magics bequeathed them by Oronin Last-Born to circumvent the very Chain of Being, at least for the Grey Dam. Tanaros knew only that she was ancient. Ushahin Dreamspinner had been a boy when Faranol, Crown Prince of Altoria, had slain the Grey Dam's cubs and her mate in a hunting excursion, heaping glory upon his kindred during a state visit to Pelmar.
"You are brave, honored one," Tanaros said.
The ancient Were shook her head. "My successor is chosen."
Grey her voice, grey her name, grey her being. One year of their lives, that was what each of the Were surrendered that the Grey Dam might endure. So it had been, in the beginning; now, it was more, for their numbers had dwindled. Five years, ten, or more. Tanaros knew naught of what such ceremonies might entail, how it was enacted. Only that the Grey Dam endured, until the mantle was passed, and endured anew.
It had been many centuries since that had happened.
"You know you will die, old mother?"
Ushahin's voice, raw and aching. It was not the first time he had asked it.
"Little Man-cub, little son." The old Were's amber gaze softened, and she patted his misshapen cheek with her padded, hairy palm. "You have assuaged my pain these many years, but the time has come to make an end. It is a good way to die. If the Glad Hunter wills it, my teeth will meet in the flesh of an Altorus before the finish."