Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2 (10 page)

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.

“Oh, you would be a terror at your full strength!” Her stick rapped his knuckles again. He grabbed for her and missed again. Her smile grew tight. “You honor the old ways,” she said. “You wear the
muu’kron.”

It was a statement, not a question. An eerie feeling penetrated Makka’s anger. How had the goblin known? She couldn’t have seen the six knotted cords on his belt. Had she guessed? There was too much confidence in her voice. His hands dropped and he pulled back a little bit.

“I wear the
muu’kron,”
he said.

“You call on the Dark Six. The Keeper. The Fury. The Mockery.” She paused and cocked her head. “The Devourer?”

“When thunder rolls and my belly is empty,” said Makka.

“The Shadow?”

He shivered. “I have little dealing with dark magic.”

“But you honor him?”

“I fear his power.”

The goblin tapped her stick against the ground. “That is as much as honoring him. And the Traveler?”

Makka’s hair rose as stories of the trickster god came creeping out of his childhood. Stories that told of how the Traveler had remained on Eberron after the age of creation, wandering the world to spread chaos and test the faithful, never appearing in the same guise twice. Stories rejected by the adult mind of a hunter that had no room for chance, but broke down on the edge of death. Makka looked at the old goblin woman with new eyes and a growing wariness.

His silence must have given away his thoughts. The
golin’dar
laughed. “You think I could be the Traveler? Your wounds must be bad! And yet surely the Traveler led me to you.”

Makka found his voice again. “Or the Mockery, to increase my torment.”

She laughed again, a sound like some night-hunting bird, and moved closer to settle down on her haunches. She was close enough to seize now, but Makka didn’t move. It wasn’t just because of the growing darkness that drained the strength from him. There was something odd in this fearless woman.

“I am Pradoor,” she said.

“Makka.” He didn’t add the name of his tribe, partly because he no longer had a tribe, partly because a strange sensation had fallen over him. He stood on a cliff. With one step, such things as tribes would no longer matter.

“You are called, Makka,” said Pradoor. “The change beloved of the Traveler is coming. Haruuc fled to the gods of the Sovereign Host in the belief that it would make Darguun strong, but only the strength of the old ways can make Darguun great. There will be a new lhesh, and he will respect the Six. The people still believe. The order of the world will be set right.”

Her blind eyes faced him. “You want revenge. The Dark Six—the Fury—will place it in your path. Serve me, and your strength will be greater than anything you had before. Refuse and die.”

The words were blunt. It wasn’t a threat, only the truth. “When the Six give a sign, only a fool ignores it,” Makka said. “I choose vengeance.”

“When the Six call, you have no choice.” Pradoor stretched out a gnarled hand—she was somehow even closer than he had thought—and stroked his head the way his mother had when he’d been a pup. “You are their instrument. The Keeper will not take you this night.”

Waves of fatigue and weakness washed over Makka. For a moment, he thought that Pradoor was wrong, that the Keeper had claimed him, then fatigue and weakness were both gone. He trembled, as if just recovering from a long and terrible fever, but the fire of the wound in his side had cooled. He stood up and pulled apart the gap that Ashi’s sword had made in his bear hide vest. The skin beneath was crusted in dried blood, but the wound had closed, leaving a tender pink scar behind.

“Stare later,” said Pradoor. She poked her stick into his leg. “Up.”

Makka lifted her up to his left shoulder where she settled herself comfortably, one hand curled around the back of his neck. The old goblin weighed almost nothing. She tapped his head and pointed to the mouth of the alley. “The people wait for us. A king waits for us.” Her fingers stroked his head again. “Your revenge waits for you.”

Makka bared his teeth. “Praise the Six,” he said, and walked out to face the jackals of Rhukaan Draal.