Princeps’ Fury

Short of a miracle, there would be no chance whatsoever of escaping the fortress at night, Tavi realized. The simple lack of light would make it impossible, even if the sheer numbers of Canim hadn’t made the entire idea laughable in the first place. To have enough light to see by, they’d have to light themselves up like a beacon, announcing to any Cane with eyes exactly where they were. And in daylight, of course, sneaking about was almost as unlikely. Which meant that they’d have to rely entirely upon furycraft, if it came to that-and surrounded by so much bleak stone, a woodcrafted veil would be out of the question, a windcrafted one frail and difficult to hold.

Best to avoid the need to escape, then.

If he could.

* * *

Anag took them down several steeply sloping streets that wound down the side of the plateau, all of them built with strong gates and battlements at regular intervals-the road through the pass that led up to the range of Shuar proper, until, near the base of the plateau, they stopped before the largest building they had seen so far, an enormous cube of black stone at least two hundred feet high.

After dismounting, they passed through several guard stations and past several higher-ranking officers. It took them the better part of two hours to work through the chain of command, but eventually they were shown to a chamber somewhere toward the center of the building. It was a large room, stretching out beneath a high dome overhead. Tavi was impressed by the sheer skill involved in engineering such a thing. The weight from above must have been enormous, yet the chamber’s smooth dome arched gracefully, apparently unsupported by any pillar or buttress.

A red-coal fire burned in a pit in the center of the room. Beside it, a circular table no more than two feet high but nearly ten feet across sat, supporting the weight of a scale model of the fortress’s defenses, complete with markers of blue stone for Canim troops, black stones for Vord, and colored green sand that, Tavi realized, represented the presence of the croach.

Several Shuarans, with their distinctive golden fur, were crouching on their haunches around the table, rumbling and growling at one another-except for one. That one, a rather small but burly specimen of his breed, his fur showing streaks of silver to mix with tawny gold, sat in silence, staring down at the pieces on the table, following the conversation around him with attentive twitches of his narrow ears.

Anag approached the table and inclined his head deeply to one side. “Warmaster.”

The burly Cane lifted his eyes-odd, for a Cane’s, since they were bright blue against the bloodred background-to the young officer and inclined his head slightly in response. The other Canim at the table immediately fell silent. “Pack second,” rumbled the Warmaster. His voice was extremely deep, even for a Cane. “Where is your pack leader?”

“At Molvar, my lord,” Anag replied, his tone neutral and polite. “Wounded.”

“Unto death, one supposes?”

“I am uncertain, my lord,” Anag responded. “Though if I may volunteer: I am no healer, my lord, but I have yet to hear of a warrior expiring from a clean, properly attended injury to the foot.”

“For that to happen,” the Warmaster replied, “he would need to be a warrior. Not the spawn of a forced mating of some jackal of a ritualist to a female barely more than a pup.”

“As you say, my lord.”

“Bring me better news next time, Anag.”

“I will do my best, my lord.”

The Cane rose to his feet and prowled over to them. He moved with a slight limp, though Tavi judged that only a fool would think him crippled, slow, or incapable. His armor, like Varg’s, was ornate, battered, and heavily decorated with bloodred gemstones. Also like Varg’s, most of the dark steel had been enameled in color, though in his case it was deep blue instead of Varg’s crimson.

He inclined his head slightly-very slightly-to Varg, who matched the gesture with precise timing.

“Varg,” the Warmaster rumbled.

“Lararl,” Varg replied.

Lararl turned his attention to the others, eyes probing, his nose quivering. “We thought you long dead.”

“Not before I kill you.”

Lararl’s eyes went back to Varg, and he bared his fangs in a slow, almost-leering smile. “I am pleased to see that the demons across the sea have not deprived me of the pleasure of showing your guts to the sky.”

“Not yet,” Tavi said. “But who knows? The night is young.”

Lararl’s ears quivered back and forth in a gesture of brief surprise, and his gaze shifted to Tavi. “You speak our tongue, little demon?”

“I speak it adequately. I understand it fairly well.”

Lararl narrowed his eyes. “Interesting.”

“Lararl, of Shuar,” Varg growled. “Tavar of Alera. He is gadara to me, Lararl.”

“As Varg is to me,” Tavi added, guessing that it was the proper thing to say.