Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2 Read online

  Keraal stared up at him for a moment, then stood with a rattling of chains. “The honor of the Gan’duur will last beyond my death. The Gan’duur starved Rhukaan Draal and eluded all the troops that Haruuc Shaarat’kor sent against us.”

  “All except the last,” Dagii said grimly, “and that’s how I want my victory remembered: a triumph over a strong enemy. But I promise you that if Keraal of Gan’duur dies without fighting in the arena, then all that Darguun remembers of the Gan’duur will be a warlord who passed from life as a coward. It would be better for your legacy if you had died in agony on the grieving tree.”

  The dead look had left Keraal’s eyes. They were bright and angry, and his chest heaved with each breath. Tariic let out a furious hiss. “Dagii!” he said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “He reminds me that I owe muut to my clan even if I no longer have a clan, even if I no longer have atcha.” Keraal straightened and turned to face Munta. “I will fight in the arena.”

  Munta nodded again, slowly and with a look of approval on his face.

  Tariic’s features twisted with frustration, however. “And if he wins, he walks free? What kind of punishment is that for my uncle’s enemy?”

  Geth felt a strange pressure creep into his mind, a vague memory that wasn’t his own, and shivered. He recognized the sensation: it was Wrath. This was what Haruuc had experienced and what had almost driven him mad. The Sword of Heroes had been created to protect and inspire, though, not to command. Geth pushed it away—and it retreated, but not without leaving an idea behind.

  “He won’t fight just any fight,” Geth said. “He’ll fight a battle each day. If he wins all of them, he wins his freedom.”

  Tariic spun around to give him an ugly look, but Keraal stood tall and nodded. “I accept these conditions,” he said.

  “No!” said Tariic. He looked to Munta. “What about honoring Haruuc?”

  “Keraal didn’t kill Haruuc,” Munta said. “Chetiin did. Keraal can fight. He must be allowed to fight.”

  “No weapons, then!” snapped Tariic. “He fights with nothing more than he has now.”

  Dagii looked Tariic over and nodded. “I agree.” Tariic seemed relieved—relief that turned into renewed fury as Dagii added, “Let him fight with the chains he wears.”

  “I won’t allow this!” Tariic said. “It can’t be allowed to happen.”

  “You’re not lhesh, Tariic.” said Munta. “The decision is Geth’s. He is Haruuc’s shava.”

  The old warlord looked to him. So did Tariic. And Dagii. And Keraal. Geth drew a breath and let it out.

  “Keraal fights. Five battles wielding the chains he wears.”

  Keraal bent his head in acceptance. Tariic’s eyes flashed. He turned and strode out of the cell, pushing past Dagii. Munta frowned after him, then looked to the others. “I’ll summon the keeper and make the arrangements. We’ll need to have a fight added to the games today.”

  Munta left, leaving Keraal with Geth and Dagii. The chained hobgoblin glanced between them, then bent his head again to Geth. “Ta muut,” he said. You do your duty—the simplest way of saying “Thank you” in Goblin.

  Then he turned to Dagii. “Paatcha!” An offering of honor.

  Dagii made no response—none was needed. He stepped out of the cell as the dungeon keeper, grumbling about warlords changing their minds, and a pair of guards arrived. Geth glanced once more at Keraal as he stood still for the keeper to unlock his chains, then went after Dagii. “Honor between enemies?” he asked the young warlord.

  “A good enemy is better than a bad friend,” Dagii said.

  “You didn’t come down here to shame Keraal into fighting, though.”

  A smile flickered across Dagii’s face, then was gone. “No. That was just luck. I came looking for you.” He leaned close for a moment. “Midian has returned to Rhukaan Draal.”

  Geth’s gut twisted. “Get messages to Ashi and Ekhaas and let them know. We’ll meet tonight.”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  19 Sypheros

  They met in the small room high in Khaar Mbar’ost where they had once met with Haruuc and where he had revealed his plan to seek out the Rod of Kings. Once again, Aruget stood guard outside the door. After Haruuc’s assassination, Ekhaas had wondered if the warrior could be trusted, but he already knew some of the truth behind the rod and had kept his silence. He could be trusted.

  Ekhaas saw Aruget’s ears rise slightly as she and Ashi approached. Duur’kala magic had erased the aches and cuts of their battle against Makka, but there were still bruises. In addition, Ashi walked like an angry cat, full of rage and ready to lash out. Aruget said nothing, though; just opened the door for them.

  Geth and Dagii, on the other hand, weren’t so restrained. “Rat!” Geth said, leaping up out of a chair by the room’s only window. “Were you in a fight?”

  “A fight that ended too early,” said Ashi. She snapped her teeth on the words.

  “Makka is in Rhukaan Draal,” Ekhaas explained.

  Dagii’s ears lay back. “The bugbear Marguul chief from the mountains? What’s he doing here?”

  “I’d say looking for revenge. He looked like he’d been traveling and he seemed to be alone.” She described their fight with the bugbear—and his escape.

  Geth growled. “That’s all we need,” he said. “An enraged bugbear trying to kill you.”

  “Trying to kill us,” Dagii corrected him. “He had Ashi, Ekhaas, and me captive. I doubt if he’d end an attempt at vengeance with just Ashi and Ekhaas. He may even be looking for you—it wouldn’t take much to link us together.”

  “How would he have found us?” Geth asked.

  “He knows my name. He might have started with that.”

  Geth’s eyebrows jumped. “You told him? You told him your real name?”

  Dagii shrugged. “There was no reason to hide it.”

  “He may not be coming after anyone anymore,” said Ekhaas. “Ashi left him with a bad wound. If he doesn’t get to a healer, it could kill him.”

  “Let’s hope,” Geth said.

  “Let’s not.” Ashi’s hands opened and closed as she moved around the room. “He’s still got my sword—Kagan’s honor blade.”

  “We’ll find it,” Ekhaas assured her. “One way or another, we’ll—”

  A knock on the door interrupted her. The door opened and Midian Mit Davandi slipped through. Geth gave a genuine smile, probably the first one Ekhaas had seen from him in ten days. “Midian.”

  The gnome’s sun-browned face was flushed and his pale hair damp with sweat as if he’d been running. “Sorry,” he said. “I had to call on the Zil ambassador. She’s trying to keep track of all the Zils currently in Darguun in case there’s trouble.”

  Ekhaas had never been to Zilargo, but she’d heard it was a strange place, ruled by a blend of gossip, co-operation, and subtle coercion. Then again, an entire race that was no bigger than goblins, without larger hobgoblin and bugbear cousins to rely on for physical might, probably would develop different ways of dealing with the world. Certainly it showed in their history—the gnomes of Zilargo had never fought a war, preferring to hide behind policies of conciliation and neutrality. It seemed to work. The nation still existed in a pocket between humans and dar when by all rights it should have been overrun long ago.

  Midian caught her looking at him and his blue eyes flashed. “I have something for you, Ekhaas. I found it in the ruins I was investigating at Bloodrun.” He produced a small object and tossed it to her. It was a Dhakaani coin, black with age and badly corroded. A hole had been punched through one edge. Once it would have been threaded on a cord, the face of the emperor on the coin looking outward, to make a kind of simple amulet. They were common artifacts in all eras of the empire. She looked for the dynasty name on the coin, frowned, and glanced at Midian.

  “Koolt Dynasty. Early empire. The ruins at Bloodrun are late empire.”

  “Wrong, duur’kala,”
Midian crowed with delight. “Dig down and you find that the late empire ruins are built on top of early empire ruins. Did the Kech Volaar know that? I don’t think so!”

  Ekhaas glowered at him. Tariic had hired Midian to join the quest for the Rod of Kings without Haruuc’s knowledge. The gnome had proved to be clever and resourceful, but it had taken time for Ekhaas to admit respect for him. He was a researcher for the Library of Korranberg, a scholar, and a historian—and as such a bitter rival to the duur’kala of the Kech Volaar. Her clan kept the glorious history of the Empire of Dhakaan alive through tales and the careful collection of artifacts. Scholars like Midian turned vibrant history into dusty reports and stole Dhakaani artifacts from their rightful keepers. In fact, when Senen Dhakaan had first learned Midian was in Darguun, she’d demanded his death as a grave robber and thief. Haruuc had overruled her, and when he was handing out rewards for the recovery of the rod, had granted Midian official permission to investigate some of Darguun’s many ruins. Ekhaas had eventually come to like the gnome. Most of the time.

  She flicked the coin back to him and his fingers snapped it out of the air. He tucked it away and turned to Geth and Dagii, his expression sober. “Your message was slow reaching me—the messenger showed up at the ruins suffering from dust fever. I tried to treat him, but we didn’t have what he needed. I stayed with him until he died, then came to Rhukaan Draal.” His face darkened. “It wasn’t easy to hear about Chetiin. If Haruuc had discovered the rod’s power, though, I suppose he did the right thing.”

  “No,” Geth said, “he didn’t. He only made the situation worse.” Midian looked at him with startled curiosity and Geth let his breath out in a hiss. “There were things we couldn’t trust to the messenger. The power of command isn’t the rod’s only secret—”

  As Geth laid the whole truth about the Rod of Kings before Midian, the gnome’s face grew first pale, then hard. Ekhaas pushed a chair at him. It had been designed for a larger creature and for Midian it was like jumping up to sit on a table, but he did it anyway, never taking his eyes from Geth. There was a strange intensity about him, Ekhaas thought. The light-hearted researcher who had gloated over an ancient coin was gone, replaced by someone who grasped immediately just what kind of trouble they—and Darguun—faced. When Geth had finished, Midian sat in silence for a long moment.

  “Chetiin needs to answer for this,” he said finally.

  “He will,” said Dagii. “If we find him, he will.”

  “And you wouldn’t trust any of the potential heirs with the rod?”

  “No,” Ekhaas answered. She counted the names off on her fingers. “Aguus, Garaad, Iizan—definitely not. Tariic …” She hesitated.

  “Not even Tariic,” said Geth. “I’d rather see him on the throne than any of the other three and maybe he would have been Haruuc’s choice, too. But if Haruuc couldn’t stand up under what the rod was urging him to do, how can Tariic?”

  The gnome wrinkled his nose. “I agree. And the only plans you’ve come up with are stealing the rod or destroying it?”

  Ashi looked up as if about to repeat her suggestion of using her dragonmark to block the rod’s power, but Ekhaas shook her head sharply and said, “Or both. Something stolen can be recovered. I don’t think we want anyone to get their hands on the rod. But stealing the rod presents its own problems. Darguun needs it as a symbol of stability.”

  Midian’s lips twitched. “By Aureon’s blue quill, it’s a good thing none of you were born a gnome. You would have had to be locked up for your own safety.” He sat back in the chair and spread his hands. “Replace the rod with a fake.”

  Ekhaas stared at him. They all stared at him. Midian looked back at them then rolled his eyes. “You can’t all be that high-minded, can you? Replace the true rod with a false rod. Darguun has its symbol, the lhesh is safe, and we can take the true rod somewhere and destroy it without anyone ever suspecting.”

  “But it’s the Rod of Kings,” said Geth. “How do you create a fake? Someone will notice.”

  “Nobles across Khorvaire walk around with paste gems all the time, and no one can tell. Half of the nobles probably don’t even know they’re wearing fakes.” Midian sat forward again. “How many people besides the five of us and Haruuc have ever examined the rod closely?”

  “Chetiin,” Ashi said.

  Midian waved the name away. “He’s not likely to get close to the rod again, is he? Anyone else?”

  “Senen Dhakaan wanted to look at it, but Haruuc wouldn’t let her,” said Ekhaas. “Maybe he already realized there was a danger in handling the rod.”

  Geth pressed his lips together in thought. “Most of the warlords have seen it, but never up close. Razu has been close to me and to Haruuc, though.”

  “Do you think she would suspect anything?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Wait.” Dagii looked uncertain. He rose from the chair he had been sitting in and paced around the small room. “The rod is made out of byeshk. That’s not exactly a common metal.”

  Midian gestured toward the window. “We’re in Rhukaan Draal. You can buy anything at the Bloody Market.”

  Dagii frowned. “Maybe so. But the rod is more than just a piece of metal. Even without its power of command, you could feel something when Haruuc held it. He had a greater presence. He seemed more majestic.”

  “Any artificer worth his fee could create the same effect—and work the byeshk, too.” The gnome shifted. “The only problem might be finding an artificer we can take into our confidence. If you’re willing to try this.”

  Once again, they looked at each other. What Midian had suggested was, Ekhaas thought, dangerously simple. It wasn’t without risks, but it was the only plan they’d come up with that met all of their needs.

  “I’m willing,” she said.

  “So am I,” said Ashi.

  Dagii nodded his agreement.

  Geth opened his hands. “We’ll do it. So we need to find an artificer we can trust and who can create a replica of the rod in five days before the end of the games.”

  “Four days,” Ekhaas said. “We’ve lost a day now. I’ll take care of that—of all of us, I can move around Rhukaan Draal without attracting attention.”

  “Move fast.” Geth leaned his head back against the wall behind his chair. “Grandfather Rat’s naked tail. This could actually work.” He looked at Midian. “You’re brilliant.”

  The gnome’s smile flashed. “Say that again. I don’t get tired of hearing it.”

  The wound in Makka’s side was an agony. He’d tried to staunch the bleeding, but every movement tore the wound open again. Blood matted the thick hair of his body and left a spattering of big drops on the ground wherever he stopped.

  When the wolf had savaged his arm on the mountainside, he’d been in familiar territory and—for a short time at least—among friends. There had been someone with sure hands to bandage the wound. There had been herbs to treat it. Rhukaan Draal was strange and alien. There were no allies. Makka had tried to find a healer, but everyone he’d demanded aid from had fled.

  When he staggered and fell against the wall of a building, he knew the wound was too deep. This was the end of him—the end of his search for vengeance. The jackals of this accursed city would circle him, and when he was dead they would strip the flesh from his bones. He felt along the wall until the building became an ally. He slipped into the cool shadows, found shelter behind an abandoned cart, and lay down to wait.

  Memories and dreams came to him. Hunting deer at dusk in the mountains. Feasting on liver cut fresh from the steaming carcass. Gorging on hot, dripping meat roasted over a fire. Creeping up behind Ashi of Deneith and plunging her bright sword through her belly, laughing as she turned in astonishment to face her killer, as he wrenched the sword sideways to tear through her flesh. Catching Ekhaas the duur’kala and cutting the tongue from her mouth, then using her mewling cries to lure Dagii of Mur Talaan. Stringing him up like a deer and butchering his still living
flesh, blood falling with a drip-drip-drip—

  —tap-tap-tap. Slow shuffle of feet. Tap-tap, shuffle again. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

  Makka opened his eyes. Full darkness had fallen, though not yet the darkness of death. The constant noise of Rhukaan Draal was a din in the distance.

  An elderly goblin woman made her way along the alley, tapping before her with a stick. After feeling in front of her with the stick, she would slide forward a few steps and repeat the procedure. Her old eyes were milky white.

  The stick found the cart and she came around it.

  “Go away,” growled Makka. She moved to the other wall of the alley but kept coming. “I said, go away!”

  Her answer was a thin chuckle. Makka snarled and lashed out at her. He still had strength in his arm, if not in his body. The attempted blow pulled him off balance and he sprawled to the side. His weight fell against the cart, sending it rolling forward a short distance with the protesting squeal of a rusted axle. Makka fell against the ground and lay there choking on a new burst of pain. His arm stretched out across the alley—the old golin’dar was just out of reach.

  Her tapping stick encountered his hand, then rapped down hard across his hairy knuckles. “You have fallen,” the old woman said in a shrill voice. “One of the hunters lies wounded. The order of the world is reversed.”

  “If you’re going to try and rob me, get on with it,” said Makka. “There’s still enough strength in these hands to drag you into the Keeper’s domain with me!”

  Her chuckle turned into a cackling laugh. Makka roared and thrust himself forward, sliding on a slick of his own blood, ignoring the pain in his side. “By the Fury, you’ll meet the Keeper before I will—and by the Mockery, you’ll suffer more too!”

  His push wasn’t quite enough. Somehow she was still just beyond his reach, though her cackle was dropping now. Her big ears cupped as if she was listening to something more than his threats and curses, and her wrinkled face creased in a thin smile.