Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2 Page 13

  And there were offerings! From the moment that he and Pradoor had left the alley where he had come close to death, people had thrust gifts upon them. Sometimes they requested blessings—

  “A new sword, Pradoor!”

  “My children, Pradoor!”

  “I fight in the games tomorrow, Pradoor!”

  —but often they were given up with only a word of praise for one or all of the Six. Meat, bread, wine, beer, a fine knife, coins of copper and silver, so many offerings that Pradoor directed Makka to take a sack from a shop. The merchant bowed and scraped as if the theft was an honor.

  Much of what they were given was handed out again to beggars, but Makka’s belly was full and the sack was never empty. The knife found a place at his belt. When Pradoor was tired, it seemed like all they had to do was turn a corner and they were met with an offer of a place to rest.

  “Pradoor,” Makka said as his third day in Rhukaan Draal drew toward dusk, “are there other priests of the Six in Rhukaan Draal?”

  Pradoor laughed her shrill cackle. “Ah, it speaks! I wondered if the Keeper had kept hold of your voice when I snatched you back from him.” She tugged on one of Makka’s ears. “Yes, there are other priests. Haruuc spread the faith of the Sovereign Host, but the old faith of the people never went away. Priests of the Six are like mice in Rhukaan Draal—and most hide like mice too! They scurry about in shrines and temples, afraid of Haruuc’s pet cats. They’ll grow bold sometimes, but only Pradoor has the faith to walk the streets!”

  “You don’t walk, I carry you,” said Makka.

  Pradoor pulled his ear hard enough to make him wince. “You serve as I serve!” she said. “I keep the old ways alive. The faithful may seek out shrines from time to time, but they see me and they remember the hold of the Six on their lives. When the city starved, I led the famine march. When the Night of Long Shadows falls, I tell the stories that make the faithful roar and nonbelievers tremble. I feel the mood of the streets and the people.” Her voice sank into a harsh croak. “The age turns. Rhukaan Draal is the axle and I am the pin.”

  “Do you mean the war with the elves?” Makka asked.

  Rumors had spread through the streets all day, growing wilder and wilder with each telling. Raiders had destroyed clanholds. Fires had consumed eastern Darguun, the smoke blotting out the sun at dawn. Valenar cavalry had crossed the Mournland and were riding on Rhukaan Draal. Darguun would follow Dhakaan into the dust of ages. All of the elves of Eberron had risen to war, determined to exterminate the dar—unless dar marched to destroy them first, which they undoubtedly would because Haruuc himself had returned from the dead to reclaim the Rod of Kings and lead Darguun to victory!

  Makka believed less than a quarter of what he heard. Something was happening, there was no doubting it, but it could have been anything from a pitched battle to a mere skirmish. Still, he had seen hobgoblins and bugbears with the look of seasoned warriors checking armor, sharpening weapons, and glaring murder at any elves they saw. War it was, then.

  Pradoor’s ears twitched. “The war is a part of it as I am a part of it and you are a part of it,” she said. “The Six give straw to some, clay or steel to others. What we are given makes no difference—we are judged by what we make of it.”

  Sudden certainty uncoiled in Makka’s mind. “I am given steel,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Pradoor. “You are a warrior called to serve.”

  Makka twisted his head so that he could see Pradoor out of the corner of his eye. “What were you?” he asked. “What are you given?”

  Pradoor laughed again, her cackle rising above the noise of the street. “No one who has served me has ever dared to ask that question!”

  “Are you going to answer it?”

  Blind eyes turned to a red sky and the setting sun. “I was a midwife,” said Pradoor. “I am given souls.” Then she pulled back her hand and smacked the back of his head. “Now turn here!” she commanded. “And hurry. We are expected.”

  Makka turned and strode along another narrow crooked street. A hobgoblin working the edge of a well-used sword with a whetstone glanced up and gave him a nod. Makka returned it.

  Full dark had fallen and the streets had come to life when the tight-packed buildings fell away. A crowd stood in the space beyond. Makka instinctively held back to assess what lay ahead. Pradoor smacked his skull. “Keep going.”

  He stepped out from the shadow of the buildings and into an unpaved square over which arched the first trees he’d seen since before he entered Rhukaan Draal. They were twisted, spindly things, much like the guul’dar who lived in the city, with smooth trunks he could have circled with his hands and thin canopies that barely iltered the moonlight. Torches—real burning torches and not harsh magical imitations—had been hammered into the ground around them and wedged into their lower branches. Figures roamed the square in small groups, talking quietly and casting shadows against the smoky flames. There was something at the heart of the square among the trees, something that looked like a dark jumble, though he could make out no more against the torchlight and the shifting shadows.

  “What is this place?” he asked Pradoor.

  “Somewhere older than Rhukaan Draal, a place that was here before the city and that the city surrounded but could not fully consume. People come here when they are uncertain or when they’re afraid. I always find them here.” She tapped his head again, gently this time, and he continued on toward the dark jumble among the trees.

  He had taken only a few paces before some of those in the square noticed him—or rather, noticed Pradoor. A pair of hobgoblins talking with their heads together looked up. Their ears rose, then they bent their heads and murmured, “Pradoor.”

  Their voices drew the attention of others, who bent their heads and spoke Pradoor’s name in turn. The respect that the wizened goblin woman had received on the streets of Rhukaan Draal had left Makka amazed. The respect she received as they passed through the square came close to adoration. The bending heads were like grass in a windy field; the chorus of her name was like the whispering of a breeze. “Pradoor.” “Pradoor.” “Pradoor.”

  They moved under the branches of the trees, and for a moment they were alone. The dark jumble resolved itself into a pile of weathered, lichen-covered rocks. A gaping hole among them plunged into the ground, and Makka thought he could hear the rush of water. The rocks were an ancient well, he realized, and the water below some hidden branch of the Ghaal River—and yet there was something more here, as if a vast and unseen presence had focused its attention on this spot.

  He knew the feeling. The cursed valley that had lain below the camp of the White Stone tribe, the valley that Dagii of Mur Talaan, Ekhaas of Kech Volaar, and the rest of their party had disturbed, had felt like this. No bugbear of the tribe had ever gone further than the edge of the ancient trees that covered the valley floor, but all of them had gone at least that far, if only so they understood why the valley should be left alone and the trolls that lived there kept sated.

  But Pradoor seemed to have no fear of the strange presence. Her fingers on his head urged him forward until he stood beside the rocks and above the hole. “Turn,” she said in his ear, and he did.

  Those who wandered the square had moved in among the trees, crowding in on all sides. Torchlight illuminated faces even more diverse in race and rank—though Makka could see no elves among them—than those that had greeted Pradoor on the streets, as if the cover of night had drawn to the Six those who by day professed only a faith in the Sovereign Host.

  They were silent, then Pradoor spoke. “What troubles you?”

  Those gathered stayed quiet, glancing nervously at each other, until a bugbear found the nerve to speak. “War comes,” he said.

  A goblin called, “The Valenar are riding against us!”

  And suddenly all those who stood among the trees seemed to find their voices at once. Makka heard all of the wild rumors he had heard during the day and more beside. He heard fear for
safety in Rhukaan Draal and fear for the safety of sons and husbands called to ight. He turned his head to glance at Pradoor and found her listening to everything with cupped ears. She let the babble run, then raised her hands. The gathering fell silent again.

  “Your fear,” she said, “shames you. Your fear shames me. You’re afraid of war? Why?”

  No answer came. Pradoor gave a mirthless laugh. “You dread even giving your fear a name when you of all the peoples of Eberron have the least to fear. The Dark Six smile on Darguun. You who will ight—do you fear that the Fury will not give you strength to smite your enemies?”

  This time a chorus came back. “No.”

  “Do you fear that the Mockery will not give you the skill to make your enemies suffer?”

  “No!” Louder and stronger than before.

  “Do you fear that the Shadow will not give power to the spell-casters who march at your side?”

  “No!”

  Pradoor raised her shrill voice to match the volume of the crowd. “You who will remain—do you fear that the Devourer will not protect the supplies stored against attack?”

  “No!”

  “Do you fear that the Traveler will lead your enemy past those who defend you?”

  “No!”

  Her voice rose so loud that it seemed impossible it should come out of her small, trembling body. “Do any of you fear that the Keeper will break his pact with those who have faith, that if you fall your souls will wither like forgotten fruit?”

  “No!”

  “Then why do you fear war?”

  Makka felt his heart stir to Pradoor’s words as the hearts of her audience did. For all of his life he had feared and venerated the gods of the Six. They were the primal forces of the worlds—hunger and passion and pain and death and power and change. But as Pradoor spoke, he found fear and veneration coming together with the sense of service that had hung over him since the goblin woman had healed his wounds. What did a true servant of the Six have to fear from war—or from anything in life?

  Pradoor let her words hang among the trees for a moment before she continued. “You who are of the People understand muut and atcha, duty and honor—you who are not should learn. There is muut in serving the Six, just as there is muut in serving a warlord. There is muut in faith. But duty is like the two halves of a mill stone. There is muut in serving a warlord, but for a warlord there is muut in protecting those who serve him. So it is with the Six, who protect those who serve them and keep their faith!”

  She spoke the words with a power and confidence far larger than her frail old body. The words lifted Makka up—lifted him beyond those others who stood before the old goblin woman. He could see the wonder in their expressions, but he knew in his gut that none of them could feel the way he did. Some were crying. Some had dropped to their knees. His spirit struggled within him as if it was ready to burst free.

  “The Six protect those who serve them and keep their faith,” repeated Pradoor, her tone softening slightly. “Don’t fear war. If you must fear something, fear defeat, because it will mean you have failed the Six—and Darguun. This is a time to celebrate. You have the chance to prove yourselves.” Her voice rose again. “Are you strong?”

  “Yes!” answered the crowd in one unified voice.

  “Are you fierce?”

  “Yes!”

  “Are you faithful?” “Yes!”

  Pradoor raised her hand in blessing. “Then return to your homes and prepare for what the Six bring you, but leave your fear behind. It will only drag you down. Now go from this place in awe of the Six who rule our lives!”

  The crowd broke apart, its unified voice splintering into babble. Most of those who had gathered melted away into the shadows and torchlight, renewed confidence showing in the way they held themselves and in the tone of their voices. A few came forward to kneel before Pradoor and Makka. Pradoor tapped him on the top of his head, and he lowered her to the ground. It was strange to see hobgoblins and other bugbears humbling themselves before the blind old woman, but it almost seemed that, in that moment, she was bigger than they were. Drawing a worn muu’kron from her belt, she pressed it against the foreheads of those who knelt and murmured a blessing to each of them.

  With each blessing, Makka felt his own belly grow tighter. His head seemed to throb. When the last kneeling igure had risen and left the shelter of the trees, he spoke, his voice cracking in his throat. “Pradoor—”

  She stopped him with a raised hand. “There are others who want to speak.” She turned her blind eyes out to the shadows among the trees. “You. Come forward now.”

  Two hobgoblins detached themselves from the shadows. One walked barefaced. The other had a scarf wound around his neck, and he tucked his face down into it. In a crowd he might not have drawn attention, but alone he seemed familiar. As he drew closer, Makka recognized him. He had walked beside the shifter Geth in Haruuc’s funeral procession, and Makka suspected that made him important. He tried to push back his own urgent desire to speak with Pradoor and studied the intruders more closely. The one who had walked beside Geth carried himself with confidence in spite of his attempt at disguise. His eyes were bright and a shade of dark brown so intense they were almost red. He looked back at Makka, raising his face from the concealment of his scarf to study him and Pradoor just as he was studied. A sense of wariness seeped into Makka.

  The unknown hobgoblin, however, had the look of a schemer. His eyes went to Pradoor and stayed there. He tried to walk tall, but his shoulders hunched as he drew close. “Pradoor,” he said, “I am Liirt—”

  Pradoor interrupted him with absolute confidence. “No, you’re not. Speak the truth to me or do not speak to me at all.”

  The schemer looked at his companion, who nodded. The schemer looked back to Pradoor and his hunched shoulder became a little bow—useless, Makka thought, before someone who was blind. “You are as perceptive as you are eloquent, Pradoor. I am Daavn of Marhaan. My companion is Tariic of Rhukaan Taash.”

  Pradoor smiled at the second name. “Saa’atcha, lhesh of Darguun.”

  The second hobgoblin smiled slightly in return, an honest reflex and not some vain attempt to ingratiate himself. “Saa’atcha, Pradoor, but I am not lhesh. Yet.”

  “You know you will be though—or at least you believe you could be.” Pradoor raised her face in the direction of Tariic’s voice. “You remember me now, don’t you?”

  Tariic answered without hesitation. “The dungeons of Khaar Mbar’ost. You were spared from the games.”

  She cackled. “Your agreement with the decision was grudging at the time. I know it. You don’t begrudge me my freedom now, though.”

  “No,” said Tariic bluntly. Pradoor turned to Daavn.

  “Why do you come to me tonight?” asked Pradoor. “Surely those who would rule Darguun have no fear of war.”

  “We don’t,” Daavn told her, “but I knew there would be those who did—that’s why I brought Tariic to see you. Your words are inspiring.”

  Pradoor snorted and Daavn’s ears flicked. Makka saw his eyes dart to Pradoor as if he thought she might be mocking him. The hobgoblin continued with more care and less flattery. “The assembly of warlords will give their support to Haruuc’s heir in two days’ time. The voice of the people can sway their decision. For three days, our rivals have been attempting to buy the people with food and drink—”

  “As Tariic buys them with contests in the arena,” Pradoor interrupted.

  Daavn squirmed but carried on. “The announcement of war with Valenar gives us a new opportunity. The assembly supports the war but we need a way to reach the people. If they embrace the war, they will embrace the man who called for it. I knew of your popularity in the streets. I knew that if people had fears, they would come to you.”

  “And you came to watch me perform.” Pradoor’s voice was dry. “You want me to lead the people to you so that they forget the comforts of food and drink and see only the glory of war.”

  �
�You already do it,” said Daavn. “Your talk of muut between the people and the lhesh, between the faithful and the Six—”

  Pradoor’s ears cupped and her eyes narrowed. “I do not talk of muut, Daavn of Marhaan,” she said.

  Daavn almost seemed to wither at her words and Makka came close to smiling. Tariic, however, scowled at his companion and waved him back. He stepped forward in his place—and knelt before Pradoor.

  “Guide the people,” he said, “and when I am lhesh, the old ways will be restored to Darguun. You will speak from the dais of Khaar Mbar’ost and warlords will be your audience. You call me lhesh and say that I believe it will be so. I believe that it will not happen without the favor of the Six.”

  “Ah.” A smile spread across Pradoor’s face. “Flattery is sweet, but the truth is sweeter, and reward sweeter still. When you are crowned, where will I stand?”

  “At my left hand, as those who speak for the Six have always stood at the left hand of warlords.”

  “And the priests that Haruuc raised?”

  Tariic bent his head. “When the lhesh praises the Dark Six, I think they’ll find that the worship of the Sovereign Host has not found such deep roots in Darguun as they think.”

  Pradoor’s hand rose, feeling for Tariic’s face, and she pressed her muu’kron to his forehead. “The might of the Six be yours, Tariic of Rhukaan Taash. I will give you the people.”

  “Ta muut, Pradoor.” Tariic caught her hand, holding the muu’kron close for a moment longer. When he released Pradoor, he rose, nodded to Makka, then gestured for Daavn. The scheming warlord of Marhaan followed him away among the trees without a word or a nod to either Pradoor or Makka.

  CHAPTER

  TEN