"Agreed," Craer said, wrinkling his nose. "How about this next one?"
"Three preserve," Blackgult said grudgingly, after a moment, "but it seems ideal." He peered around again, and nodded. "Bear in mind, though, that anyone left in the castle will come here foraging, ere long. We have to be able to wedge this door against considerable force-and it has to be able to withstand a ram, and lots of arrows."
"Well, there's only one way to find that out, as they say," Craer commented brightly. "However, there's a harder test yet."
"Hey?"
"Embra has to say aye to it. Naught else matters, hmm?"
"I'm not," the Lady Silvertree said frowningly, "quite so much of a surly dragon as you make me out to be, Craer." She looked around the old stone room, reading what was painted on some of the jars. "Olaunt. Sar-fruit. Gaddorn. Yes, this will do."
There was a general murmur of approval-that lasted for as long as it took Craer to fetch two shallow tureens down from a kitchen shelf and present them to Tshamarra and Embra with the grand words, "Ladies-your chamberpots for the night. No, no, I'll accept no payment for this thoughtful service!"
"Tash," Embra said wearily, "kick him. Somewhere where it hurts."
"More!" Craer said grandly, dropping two bulging sacks beside Blackgult and trotting back through an archway again before his fellow overdukes could say a word.
Tshamarra sighed. "Been a day or two since he last had a chance to practice looting, would you say?"
Embra chuckled. "He's not done badly. I hope we can find a wagon in the stables to carry all he's gathered."
"Lass," Blackgult said reprovingly, "wheels of cheese and kegs of wine are wise booty to anyone. Be not so hard on the lad. We may even need yon chest of coins-if we need to buy a spare castle or two, for instance."
They stepped over more sprawled and gnawed corpses, and Embra shuddered. Stornbridge Castle had become one great charnelhouse, with bodies lying everywhere, fires smoldering unchecked, furniture and belongings broken and strewn, and transformed folk prowling the rooms and passages in their bewildering newfound lives as wild beasts.
By the cries of the suffering, unmilked cows, the town and the farms around were in much the same state. Anyone who'd survived the plague-fury had fled far away or was keeping well hidden.
"Let's hope some horses have been left uneaten," Hawkril muttered, advancing into the gloom of the stables cautiously, his drawn sword ready. Bright scratches on his armor bespoke the power behind the claws of the last beast he'd battled. It had pounced on him from above-and it had been a long time since the armaragor had been taken that much by surprise.
Some stalls had been torn open, and dead and half-devoured horses lay within most of them. Grimly Hawkril stalked on, seeking danger first, and beasts they could ride second. Two monstrous things of many claws and turtlelike body shells lay twisted together in death in one end stall, their jaws still locked in each other's throats, and an evil carrion smell wafted down from the loft above, but no foe remained alive to pounce or menace-only trembling, snorting horses who were more inclined to kick than to welcome being led out of their stalls into all the slaughter.
"Seven beasts worth looking at," Hawkril growled, returning from his survey. "No wagons, Lord Delnbone."
"No wagons? Then we take every horse and saddlebag. What we don't fill, we sling over top, tied down, and take empty-we'll find uses for them, never fear."
"Aye, I'll bet," Embra murmured. " 'Tis those in our path who own any-thing attractive or valuable who'll have to fear."
"By the Three!" Blackgult agreed with a smile, in quavering mockery of a doom-saying old man.
"Help me get reins and saddles on these horses, you jesters," Tshamarra said from her perch on the rail of a stall above them, where she stood eyeing a horse almost as uncertainly as it was eyeing her. "If'tis not too much trouble for you high-and-mighty folk, that is."
"Lady Talasorn," Embra said in mock-offended tones, "everything's too much trouble for we high-and-mighty folk. That's what's made Aglirta the glorious center of peace and prosperity that 'tis today!"
Tshamarra gave her a sour look. "Get in here and show me which end of the horse I put this on, hey?"
"Hey, indeed," Embra agreed. "Father?"
"Of course," Blackgult agreed, striding into the stall, striking aside its frightened occupant's deadly foreleg kick with one blow of a practiced hand, and ramming himself against the breast of the horse, crowding it back until he could get the bridle on. "Easy, see?"
Tshamarra and Embra looked at each other and rolled their eyes in heartfelt unison.
Fires were rising here and there in Stombridge town, and half-eaten bodies and the stains of pools of blood were everywhere. The horses snorted and danced, even under Dwaer-calming, and their disgusted riders glanced around warily in search of danger. No dogs barked… probably because they'd been eaten, perhaps by the dark shapes that slunk from bush to bush and tree to tree, following the five riders and their pack horses, but never coming near.
"So this is a Blood Plague," Tshamarra said slowly, looking around at the devastation. "If it was what tainted us, it can be visited on folk in food or wine… but what is it, really?"
"Aye," Hawkril growled. "Foul Serpent-work, to be sure, but how? What spell, and how to undo or stop it?"
Embra sighed. "And so we're back to the problem that always besets us: not knowing." She held up the Dwaer. "If I knew what I was doing with this, and how to make sure the other three Dwaerindim were lost forever, I could rule Darsar quite handily, were I subtle and cunning enough."
She smiled thinly at the looks she received. "Worry not, friends-not only have I no desire to rule Darsar, I'll never know this Stone properly. They fight you, you know, quietly-things you've done before with them become harder to remember how to evoke, not easier."
Blackgult nodded. "That's true. I've never voiced it before, but… yes. The Dwaer do fight their wielders."
Craer glanced at the molded Stone in Embra's hand with new respect. "Well, now," he began, "that makes dreams of snatching one of these baubles for my own-"
He was interrupted by a ragged shout from among the cottages to their left. A wild-eyed man charging at them, pitchfork in hand, with several boys running along in his wake. They clutched stones, and echoed the man's roar of challenge as he ran right at the horses, fork leveled.
"Hold!" Hawkril bellowed, drawing his sword, but the Storn folk didn't seem to hear him. Straight at the overdukes they ran.
Embra sighed, the Dwaer flared in her hand-and when the first stones came, they struck something unseen in the air and bounced away. The fork halted suddenly in midair, causing its wielder to emit a startled "Ooof!" as he folded up around it. The overdukes spurred their horses and rode away, up the road where they'd been greeted by arrows the day before.
Today, there were no woodcutters, or bowmen, though they all kept a sharp watch as they rode up through the trees, heading back to Osklodge.
"Whither now?" Craer asked quietly, as the trees gave way to fields around them. No carts, no beasts in the high meadows; this part of Aglirta seemed to have emptied.
"Glarondar," Embra said firmly. "We go right back the way we came."
"Well, that's a relief," the procurer said with a smile, cutting into a small wheel of cheese that seemed to have fallen out of his saddlebag into his hand a moment before. " 'Tis nice to have a clear destination for once. The barony of Glarond, where they've at least heard of decent wine, food, and hospitality."
Blackgult and Hawkril both cast looks at Embra, but said nothing. If she was choosing not to share her reason for heading to Glarond with them yet, that was all right. They had to search for missing Dwaer somewhere-and seemed to have found something more pressingly important that just might be everywhere in the Vale, so one direction was as good as any other.