Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2 (2 page)

N
oise battered Geth loud enough that he could feel it in his belly. It swelled out from pipes fashioned from brass stems and inflated bags of leopard skin; from the rhythm of big drums beaten with short, thick rods; from the voices of hundreds—thousands—of goblins, hobgoblins, and bugbears as they crammed the streets of Rhukaan Draal and shouted a final farewell to Lhesh Haruuc Shaarat’kor.

The corpse of the assassinated lhesh sat in a throne carried on the shoulders of six strong bugbears. Haruuc had been dressed in a suit of heavy armor decorated with the claws and fangs of great cats, his hands curled around the hilt of the famous red sword that had carved out Darguun’s destiny. Protective magic had held off decay for the ten day period of mourning. When Geth had knelt before the throne in the last ritual submission demanded by goblin tradition, it had seemed to him that the lhesh might have been resting except for the ruin of the eye socket through which Chetiin’s dagger had plunged. Goblin tradition put the fatal wound on display for all to see, though Geth knew that the greatest wound was invisible. The dagger, straight and ugly with a blue-black crystal winking from its blade like the eye of a great cat, was called Witness. When it killed, it consumed its victim’s soul. Powerful magics could return life to the dead, but Chetiin had made certain that Haruuc was beyond even their power.

For ten days, no fires had burned in Rhukaan Draal. For ten days, the streets had been empty between dawn and dusk, and even between dusk and dawn, they had been quiet. The infamous
Bloody Market was virtually deserted, most of its stalls shuttered. For ten days, no one had entered or left the city without permission from the fortress of Khaar Mbar’ost—no easy command to enforce, but the guards who patrolled Rhukaan Draal’s ragged fringes and stood watch at the barricades that sealed its entrances were not above using fists and clubs to keep order. Wagons carrying food for a city still recovering from the raids of the rebellious Gan’duur clan were permitted to enter, but they did not leave.

Ten days without fire, ten days of silence, ten days of isolation. By goblin tradition, a warlord was mourned within his clanhold for five days, but Haruuc Shaarat’kor had been more than just a warlord.

The morning of the eleventh day had come. Soon the people would be released to the spectacle of games commemorating the dead lhesh. But first, Haruuc’s tomb waited for him. The mingled sound of pipes, drums, and goblin voices was discordant and terrifying, halfway between a lament and a call to battle, a primal roar to accompany a king to his grave.

Or, Geth thought as he marched behind the moving throne, to sound the doom of a shifter who was in over his head.

His hands, already clenched around the Rod of Kings, tightened even more. The rune-carved byeshk shaft seemed colder and heavier that it had any right to be. He glanced at it and thought for the hundredth time in the last ten days, This is your fault.

If the rod made any response, he couldn’t hear it. At his side, Wrath, the Sword of Heroes fashioned by the same ancient hands from the same vein of byeshk as the rod, murmured its own subtle song of inspiration. Not so long ago, he’d only been vaguely aware of the sword’s influence as it urged him toward the deeds of a hero. Now, knowing where the rod had led Haruuc, the sword’s very weight was an uncomfortable reminder of its influence. Would it someday guide him to his doom as the rod had guided Haruuc to his?

A crooked smile pulled on Geth’s lips, baring sharp teeth. Maybe it already had. For ten days, a shifter mercenary had been the ruler—in name if not in practice—of a goblin kingdom. Why? Because it was the heroic thing to do?

On Geth’s right, Tariic, who had been Haruuc’s nephew, leaned close and spoke over the noise of the crowd. “You look uneasy.”

Geth forced the smile away, but he couldn’t completely hide how he felt. “I feel uneasy,” he growled back.

“I could help you,” Tariic said. “With the ceremony. You don’t have to do it all yourself.” His eyes darted to the rod and his ears flicked. “It would be within my right—”

There was sudden movement at the edge of Geth’s vision, and he turned his head to see another hobgoblin, his broad shoulders made even broader by two thick leopard pelts worn as a mantle, his cheeks marked with ritual scars like clawmarks, pushing out of the packed mass of warlords who followed close behind the throne. Other warlords looked at him, but his eyes were on Tariic, and he had the look of a zealous magistrate watching for the slightest violation of the law. Geth shifted his grip on the rod and dropped one hand to Wrath’s hilt. He might mistrust the sword’s guidance, but while it was in his grasp it allowed him to understand the harsh sounds of the Goblin language as if he’d been born to it. The warlord’s words became clear in his ears.

“Have care if you seek to advance your status, Tariic. Haruuc is not yet in his tomb!”

He spoke louder than he needed to. Even against the noise of the crowd, his voice carried to the warlords nearby. Geth knew him: Aguus, warlord of the Traakuum clan, and like Tariic, one of those in contention to take Haruuc’s place as lhesh. The other claimants were close, too. Garaad of Vaniish Kai, lean as a spear and just as deadly by reputation, walked with his supporters on the left. Iizan of Ghaal Sehn, wealthy and willful, looking more like a merchant than a warrior, watched from the right.

Haruuc had been deeply concerned with selecting the perfect heir, with finding a successor who would build on the foundations that he had built. Unfortunately, death had found Haruuc before he had named that heir. It could have been worse, Geth knew. If there had been a clear heir, he wouldn’t have had the chance to take control of the rod. It had killed Haruuc as surely as Chetiin. But sooner or later there
would
be an heir, and he’d have no choice but to hand over the rod—and the dangerous secrets within it.

Tariic looked over his shoulder as he walked. He met Aguus’s challenge with a practiced calm. “I speak to a friend, Aguus.”

“So long as he holds the throne, he is no friend of yours,” Aguus snapped. “The assembly of warlords swore to respect the terms of mourning. We do not seek to advance ourselves until Haruuc is laid to rest. You already force the terms by marching in a place of pride.”

Tariic’s ears pressed back against his skull. “Haruuc was warlord of the Rhukaan Taash clan before he was lhesh. The traditions of the Rhukaan Taash are clear. By those traditions, I am Haruuc’s heir as warlord. A place of pride is my right.”

“Haruuc’s status as lhesh takes precedence over his status as warlord. You try to influence the assembly by putting yourself on display before the allotted time.”

“And what do you do by challenging him, Aguus? Why do you challenge Tariic’s place when no one else does?”

The words came from the young warlord who walked on Geth’s left. Dagii of Mur Talaan’s gray eyes flashed, and his ears shivered as he glared back at Aguus. Geth had asked him to walk at his side as an advisor—a good choice. In the battle-scarred ancestral armor, the three long horns of a massive tribex mounted on its shoulders and back, of the warlords of Mur Talaan, Dagii made a commanding figure. Warlords who might have mistrusted the shifter who had seized the Rod of Kings could respect the hobgoblin who had defeated the Gan’duur for Haruuc.

Aguus’s glare shifted from Tariic to Dagii, but other warlords were rumbling their agreement with the chief of Mur Talaan. Aguus dropped his gaze. “Haruuc must be honored,” he said. “He leaves us a great legacy.”

“He is honored,” said Dagii. “No more challenges. Let the people see that the lords of Darguun are united in their respect for Haruuc.” With a fluid motion, he drew his sword and thrust it into the air. “Haruuc!” he shouted. “Haruuc!”

The other marching warlords followed his example, drawing their weapons and holding them aloft. Tariic, Geth noticed, was the fastest to put his sword in the air. For a moment, it seemed as if the watching crowd paused in their own shouting—then the air shook with a roar that was louder than ever. Light flashed from polished blades as the gesture was imitated in a ripple along the procession of the powerful and important—warlords and chiefs, ambassadors and envoys from
hobgoblin clans that stood apart from the lhesh’s authority, from the nations beyond Darguun, and from the great dragonmarked houses—that followed behind the throne.

Haruuc’s dead ears heard nothing, but the bugbears carrying his throne stood taller and the day seemed a little brighter.

Geth’s hand squeezed the rod until his fingers ached. He glanced at Dagii and found the young warlord looking back at him. He nodded grimly and Dagii nodded back. Geth drew breath between his teeth and turned his eyes forward again. Somewhere back in the procession, Ekhaas and Ashi would be feeling the same thing he did.

If they failed in what lay before them, Haruuc’s only legacy would be chaos and the collapse of the nation he had founded. Darguun would die. And so might they.

Smoke rose in a column over Rhukaan Draal, illuminated by flames below and moonlight above. From the window at which Ekhaas stood, high in Khaar Mbar’ost, she could see only the one fire, but others were probably burning. Word of Haruuc’s assassination had spread into the city. The night would be violent.

Word had almost certainly spread beyond Rhukaan Draal. Beyond Darguun, as well. Across the city, ambassadors and envoys would be employing any means at their disposal to rush news of the lhesh’s death to their lords. House Sivis’s network of speaking stones would be alive with whispers. House Orien’s legion of couriers would be flashing across vast distances. In every nation of Khorvaire, in palaces and seats of power, sovereigns and dragonmarked patriarchs would be called from tables, desks, and beds to hear of events in Darguun.

She had just helped to do the same, weaving her
duur’kala
magic together with that of Senen Dhakaan, ambassador of the Kech Volaar to Haruuc’s court, to send a message to Volaar Draal. Now the wind brought the ghost of a song back to her ears—a reply, but not one that was meant for her.

Ekhaas turned to look at Senen Dhakaan. The chamber in which they stood was hers, simply decorated in a way that imitated a stark style popular during a middle period of the Dhakaani Empire. Senen’s ears stood high and quivering as she listened to a song that had been sung far away in the mountain caverns of their clan. The song faded and she nodded.

“The visit has been cancelled,” she said. “Tuura Dhakaan and Kurac Thaar will remain in Volaar Draal.”

“And the alliance with Darguun?” Ekhaas asked. Like the other Dhakaani Clans that revered the old ways of the ancient Empire of Dhakaan, the Kech Volaar had stood apart when Haruuc founded his new nation. The Dhakaani Clans lived within Darguun but were not a part of it. Haruuc had recently persuaded the leaders of the Kech Volaar, Tuura Dhakaan and her warlord consort Kurac Thaar, that Darguun and the Kech Volaar had more to gain in working together. By joining Darguun, the Kech Volaar would have a voice in the assembly of warlords and the means to spread the stories of Dhakaan that they had collected for thousands of years—and Haruuc would have access to the clan’s hoarded secrets.

Tuura and Kurac had been planning a journey from Volaar Draal to Rhukaan Draal to formalize the alliance. But like so much that Haruuc had accomplished during his reign, the nascent alliance had been built on the force of his personality. With his death …

Senen shook her head. “They will wait to see who comes to the throne.” She turned a slow stare on Ekhaas. “They aren’t certain what to make of Geth’s actions.”

Ekhaas’s clenched teeth ground a little tighter before she answered. “He is Haruuc’s
shava
. It was his duty to take charge of Haruuc’s affairs until an heir is determined. He follows tradition.”

Senen pursed her lips and her ears flicked. “Which Tuura Dhakaan respects. She also recognizes that by taking up Guulen, the Rod of Kings, he staves off a more serious battle between the prospective heirs. But he is a shifter, not one of the
dar
. Why is he doing these things?”