Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2 (45 page)

Another rider joined Keraal at Dagii’s side. Dressed in black, he was all but invisible against the black fur of the great worg he rode, but Ekhaas knew him. Chetiin—and Marrow—had returned.

The double scimitar of Seach Torainar dipped and spun, gutting a goblin with one blade and piercing his wolf mount with the other. Then the weapon rose high and whirled. The high warleader raised a slim horn to his lips and blew a long, wailing note—and he wheeled his mount and raced from the battlefield. Everywhere, elves broke off their fighting to follow his retreat. Ekhaas might have been standing at the ocean’s edge, watching the tide turn. Victory had turned into a rout.

Those Valenar who were still mounted offered a hand to comrades on foot, or else turned to cover their escape. The
taarka’khesh
didn’t pause. Elves who stood to fight and horses too slow in their flight were overwhelmed by snapping, tearing jaws and stabbing blades. The retreat was a flurry of red robes and white flanks galloping away
along the plain; the pursuit was a rushing shadow, night chasing day into the east instead of the west.

The desolation of the battlefield was revealed. Corpses of elf and
dar
, horse and great cat and wolf. Of the proud Darguul army, only the Iron Fox Company remained in any numbers.

Ekhaas’s song swirled to a final ringing note that filled the sky in triumph. The power of it faded from her body and left her trembling. Her right hand found a shoulder of the earthwork for support. Her left found the
Riis Shaarii’mal
. She plucked the banner from the ground and thrust it high.

A cheer rose from the survivors of the battle, muted and small amid the carnage, yet deafening in its own way. A rider turned his tiger, racing it across torn corpses and churned grass, and urging it up the steep slope of the hill’s front in mighty bounds. When the beast reached the earthworks, Dagii slid from the saddle, pulled his helmet from sweat-drenched hair, and dropped to his knees in front of Ekhaas. His ears stood tall. His shadow-gray eyes were wide with pride and adoration.

“Taarka’nu,”
he rasped. Wolf woman.

Ekhaas’s strained throat could barely work but she forced her voice through it.
“Ruuska’te,”
she whispered. Tiger man.

He rose, put his hand over hers on the shaft of the
Riis Shaarii’mal
, and they turned to face the battlefield together. The survivors roared again, even louder than before.

The long shadows of late afternoon reached along the plain. The survivors of Dagii’s army gathered
dar
corpses. A pit would be dug and a cairn built over it. Later a proper monument might be erected to the heroes who had expected only to slow an attacking army and had instead defeated it.

The bodies of elves and their horses were left where they lay. Carrion eaters were already circling in the sky and gathering in the woods.

Most of the
taarkakhesh
and a number of the surviving great cat cavalry still pursued the fleeing Valenar. The howls of wolves and worgs echoed out of the east, relayed over great distances.
“The elves make no stand,” Chetiin said, listening to the howls along with Marrow. “They may run all the way to the Mournland. Horses can outpace cats and wolves over long distance but the
taarka’khesh
will patrol the border for a time to make sure they don’t try to come back.”

“They’ll find their way back to Valenar,” said Dagii. He sat on a log, one bandaged leg thrust out before him. A scimitar had pierced a weak point in his armor. One of the
taarka’khesh
had offered him magic to heal it, but Dagii had directed him to chant his spells over Ekhaas’s wounded back instead. “Through the Mournland or down to Kraken Bay for passage on a sympathetic Lyrandar ship.”

Keraal, standing with his arms crossed, grunted agreement and added, “Lhesh Tariic owes a debt to you. He should greet you in Rhukaan Draal as a hero.”

Caught in the middle of a sip of numbingly hot herbal tea intended to soothe her throat, Ekhaas grimaced. She looked around. The four of them were, for the moment, alone. She wasn’t sure she wanted to speak in front of Keraal, but she didn’t think she had much choice.

“That may not happen,” she croaked. Her voice sounded as strained as Chetiin’s. “A song message from Senen Dhakaan came to me during the battle. Tariic has arrested Ashi, and a changeling has taken Geth’s place. She said Makka is hunting, too. I don’t know what that means, but—”

“Something is wrong,” Dagii said.

“I’m going back,” Ekhaas told him. “Ahead of the returning troops. I may be able to slip into the city.”

Dagii nodded. “I’m going with you.”

“No,” said Chetiin. The
shaarat’khesh
elder’s ears cupped. “Your place is with your soldiers. I’ll go with her.”

Keraal’s eyes had narrowed in suspicion. Dagii bared his teeth and flattened his ears. “There’s more happening than you know, Keraal. This may be a test of your oath to serve me.”

“Ban,”
the other warrior snarled. “I see as well as a hawk by day.” He looked at Chetiin. “Your name’s not Maanin. You’re Chetiin.”

Marrow growled. The goblin’s ears flicked, but he nodded.

Keraal looked back to Dagii. “Did you hire him to assassinate Lhesh Haruuc? I hated him, but I wouldn’t have done something
like that. If you did, you don’t have the
muut
or the
atcha
I believed you did.”

Breath hissed between Dagii’s teeth and his ears pressed back even further. “I didn’t—and Chetiin wasn’t the assassin. Suggest something like that again and I’ll pit my sword against your chains.”

Tension pulled at the air between the two warriors. Ekhaas’s hands tightened around her mug, but before she could say anything, Keraal bent his head. “I am without honor in this,
lhevk’rhu,”
he said in apology. “I doubted you.”

Dagii said nothing for a moment, then his ears rose slightly. “I have a story to tell you, Keraal, but it will wait for the journey back to Rhukaan Draal.” He looked at Ekhaas and Chetiin. “If Geth and Ashi are in trouble, we should hurry. It would take three days if we travel at the pace of the slowest survivor. A small company could make it in two. Tariic would think nothing of that—a victorious warlord isn’t slow to share his news.”

“Your arrival can serve as a distraction, then,” said Ekhaas. “Chetiin and I will go ahead. I know magic that can speed our travel.”

“Save your voice.” Chetiin scratched Marrow’s head. “You’re not the only one who knows something of swift travel. The Silent Clans will aid us. I guarantee that no one will know we’ve returned to Rhukaan Draal.” He glanced at her. “If you’re not too tired to leave tonight.”

Ekhaas’s ears stood tall. “I’m ready.”

G
eth could smell burned flesh. It was his.

He could smell scorched hair and stale sweat, old blood and hot metal, charcoal and, curiously, the hint of sweet spices.

“Te laloo kaanii.”
Daavn’s voice. The warlord of the Marhaan spoke Goblin. Without Wrath, Geth only caught the roughest meaning of his words. Something about healing quickly.

“Chiit so shiftaa,”
said Tariic. Geth felt something poke at the skin of his side. With his arms stretched and bound over his head, his body was exposed and vulnerable.
“Toma piisho,”
Tariic added.
“So kaas te vusrii.”

Vusrii
. To burn.

The touch of red-hot metal seared his other side and Geth jerked and screamed. His eyes snapped open to the same small, brazier-lit chamber lit chamber he had seen for … who knew how long. He managed to evade the burning metal for a brief instant, but the it was back, pressed firmly against his skin. He howled and thrashed but the iron stayed on him. The gnarled hands of the waxy-fleshed goblin who held it were steady. Dark eyes flashed with greedy pleasure.

Finally the metal pulled away. Geth collapsed back against the inclined table on which he was stretched. Tariic moved close and clamped a hand over his forehead, holding him still. Eyes so brown they were almost red stared into his.

“Where is the Rod of Kings?” he asked.

Geth fought the haze of pain and forced out the same answer he had given again and again. “I don’t have it!”

“Te kuur doovol.”
He tells the truth.

This time it was Pradoor’s shrill voice. Geth twisted his head under Tariic’s palm. He could just see the old goblin woman crouched beside a heavy rack of knives, white eyes shining like the sharpened blades. Symbols had been scrawled in a rough arc on the filth-crusted floor in front of her. At the center of the arc, smoke shifted from a metal bowl filled with coals.

Tariic cursed. “You’re certain?”

Pradoor’s fingers twined through a bunch of cords knotted together and strung with small, flashing tokens. “The Six lend me the wisdom to hear lies,” she said in the human tongue, accented but clear. “He tells the truth.” Her wrinkled face split in a smile. “But he doesn’t answer the question, does he? Ask another.”

Tariic’s ears went back and he looked at Geth again. “Who has the Rod of Kings, then?”

“I told you!” Geth groaned. The evasions came easily. “Chetiin stole it!”

“He tells the truth.”

With a growl, Tariic gestured and pointed at Geth’s belly. The goblin torturer nodded and turned to the brazier. Metal grated on metal as he exchanged the cooling iron for a fresh one. He didn’t speak. Tariic had shown Geth that he couldn’t—his tongue had been cut out—and that he couldn’t hear pleas, questions, or answers either. Deaf and mute, he was the perfect tool for extracting secret information.

The chamber was well-used. Had the torturer plied his trade for Haruuc?

Hot metal swiped across Geth’s stomach like a knife. He screamed again and strained against his bonds. Ropes creaked. Tariic slammed him back.

“What did Chetiin do with it?”

“He ran! He climbed down the wall of Khaar Mbar’ost and disappeared into Rhukaan Draal. I haven’t seen him since!” His voice cracked in an involuntary sob. Deep inside him, an inner voice was stronger.
Hold out! He must not find it
.

“He tells the truth,” said Pradoor again.

Geth looked up into Tariic’s eyes. “Just kill me,” he said. “Get it over with.”

Tariic roared and seized the collar of black stones that still hung around Geth’s neck—the torturer hadn’t been able to break or remove it, a strange property that even Geth hadn’t been aware of—in one hand and wrenched him up by it. “I have your sword,” he snarled into Geth’s face. “I have Aram. It hangs on the wall of my quarters as a trophy. I know you’re hiding something. If you don’t tell me where to find the Rod of Kings, you will die by the Sword of Heroes!”

Geth bared his teeth. “You can’t wield Wrath. The Sword of Heroes won’t bear the touch of a coward.” Up close he could see the red burns on Tariic’s palms. “You’ve found that out already.”

Tariic’s ears went back flat and he shifted his grip on the collar, twisting it around his fist until the stones bit into Geth’s throat. Shadows swam in Geth’s vision. He saw the torturer’s face. The goblin looked disappointed. Geth sank down into warm oblivion—until the pressure on his neck eased. Air came rushing back. He thought he saw Tariic step back, fury on his face, and he thought he heard the lhesh say, “He won’t break easily. I don’t have time for this. Take him away.”

He gestured at the torturer, communicating instructions with signs. The goblin produced a leather bag and pulled it over Geth’s head. Something coated the leather, making his vision whirl again. His last sight as the bag came down was Tariic turning to Daavn. The last thing he heard were the words, “Bring me the tiefling.”