Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2 (55 page)

He stared at her with gray eyes as hard as the half-visor of his helmet and as cold as the Rod of Kings. “Ekhaas of Kech Volaar, assassin and traitor,” he said, “by command of Lhesh Tariic, you are my prisoner.”

The hole in Ekhaas’s gut swallowed her.

The day in the dungeon, the day he had spared Ko from the arena, came back to Geth. Tariic’s disapproval of his mercy. His own promise to the dungeon keeper—“I’ll be back to talk to him when I can.” But he’d never made it back and his mercy had returned to damn him.

There was no room in his fury—at Tariic, but especially at himself—even for cursing. He’d thought he was a hero. He was a fool.

His feet hit the stones of the plaza and he sank into a crouch, Wrath ready, his gauntlet up. Chetiin landed beside him. They were in the clear for the moment, but the crowd, summoned back by Tariic’s command, was swarming in fast.

“Geth!”

Ashi. He twisted to face the platform. Ashi lay near the edge of it, struggling desperately but held by half a dozen pairs of hands that tried to drag her back. Two of those pairs belonged to Aguus and Garaad.

The rest of the warlords caught in the rod’s power were jumping and climbing down from the platform.

“Geth …” Chetiin said in low warning.

“Watch the crowd,” Geth growled. “I’m going for Ashi.”

Before the goblin elder could say anything else, he moved, throwing himself against Tariic’s puppets. Confronted by Wrath, the Darguuls drew weapons, though they didn’t strike to kill—Tariic’s command had been to seize. Geth lashed out with the twilight blade, trying to drive them back while using the false rod, still gripped in gauntleted hand, as a club against those who got close. For a moment, it worked—until Munta the Gray thrust himself between the others. The old warlord’s sword caught Geth’s and held it. Dark eyes in a wrinkled face blazed. “Traitor!”

The hatred and ferocity in his voice made Geth bare his teeth. “Munta, it’s the rod! Tariic has—”

Nothing in Munta’s face or posture hinted that he even heard him. “You’re mine,” he snarled. “When I drag you before Tariic, he will know I’m still fit for battle!”

He threw back Wrath and swung his own sword with a strength and speed that Geth wouldn’t have expected in someone of his age. The shifter blocked the blow with his gauntlet, then jabbed at Munta with the false rod.

The old warlord’s sword whirled around and struck the rod at a sharp angle. The edge of the blade bit deep into the byeshk. Geth thought he felt a sting in his hand as the magic Tenquis had woven into the false rod unraveled. Munta must have felt something, too. He hissed and stumbled, dropping hard onto one knee.

“Sorry, Munta,” Geth growled. He swung the damaged rod down onto his gray head. Munta collapsed like an empty sack.

Geth let the false rod tumble onto him as he jumped over the old warlord’s sagging body. More hands grabbed for him. He struck them away with his gauntlet. Ashi saw him, and her struggles intensified. She freed a leg and gave Aguus a hard kick in the chest. She freed a fist, but Garaad grabbed it again.

“Ashi, I’m coming!” Geth roared, but the crowd was all around him now. Every step was a battle. Chetiin was fighting at his back, stabbing at knees and legs and chests whenever someone fell.

Somewhere a tiger roared. “Dagii!” said Chetiin.

Geth twisted his head around. Across the seething mob that filled the plaza, Dagii had drawn his mount up before Ekhaas—but one glance at the warlord’s face told him that his appearance was no rescue. “Tariic has him. I don’t see Aruget or Midian!”

Up on the platform, Tariic stood back with a look of supreme confidence on his face. To one side of him, Pradoor’s head turned back and forth, ears twitching as the blind goblin listened to the sounds of the fight. To the other, Makka strained like a dog on a lead, eager to join the battle but held back by his master. Geth grimaced. Tariic didn’t need Makka’s strength to defeat them—the sheer numbers of the crowd would drag them down. Soon.

Then somewhere behind Geth, hooves beat on stone and a voice rose in a rasping shout—“
For the blood and line of Castalla!”
Geth turned again, the other way this time.

Tenquis, mounted and riding at a full gallop, plunged through the crowd, splitting it apart. In one hand, he held a rope gathering together the reins of the other horses; they followed him in a bucking, whinnying wedge of muscle and hooves. The tiefling rode with his head low over his horse’s neck, gaze fixed on the platform.

Hands dragged at Geth as he turned his head between lhesh and artificer. Tariic raised the Rod of Kings and drew breath. One shouted command would halt the wild charge.

“Tenquis, watch out!” Geth roared.

But Tenquis had already released the other horses and pulled back on the reins of his own. The beast reared up on its hind legs. Tenquis’s free hand flicked out. Pale liquid spread out from a vial clutched in his ingers and seemed to evaporate on the air.

At the same instant, thick greenish vapor burst up in a smoky curtain around Tariic, Pradoor, and Makka. Whatever command Tariic might have issued disappeared in a strangled cough.

And the anger and energy of the crowd seemed to drain away, as if only Tariic’s concentration had sustained it. The hands that held Geth fell away. The forehooves of Tenquis’s horse clattered back to the ground and he urged the animal around in a tight circle, driving the confused crowd further apart. “Take a horse and mount up!” he shouted at Geth and Chetiin.

Geth glanced back to the platform. The warlords who had seized Ashi were as confused as the crowd below. Their grips went slack—and Ashi pulled away from them, punching at one, cracking an elbow across Garaad’s face, then twisting to her feet. Her eyes met Geth’s and she gave him a ierce grin. Relief spread through
Geth, so sharp it made him feel almost sick. He turned and leaped onto the back of the nearest horse.

Dagii’s gaze snapped around at Tenquis’s charge, but as the tiefling artificer cast pale liquid on the air and Tariic choked on green smoke, the warlord blinked and his gray eyes cleared. He stared down and Ekhaas saw horror in his face.
“Taarka’nu
, I didn’t—”

The hole that had opened in her closed a little, but not all the way. Her legs trembled. Her head spun. Tenquis was already shouting at Geth. On the platform, Ashi was fighting free. Ekhaas looked up at Dagii and cut him off with curt words. “Tariic has the true rod. Ride or he’ll have you again!”

His ears pressed back. “If I ride, he’ll have you. Take a horse. I’ll cover your retreat.” He whipped up his sword, whirling it around his head. “Iron Fox, forward! Take defensive lines! Protect the lhesh!”

Soldiers already in motion changed their step with disciplined obedience, rushing toward the platform. Ekhaas stared at Dagii. His eyes narrowed and his mouth curved in a smile that was both fond and hard. “Go,
taarka’nu!
Fight another day.”

Her ears rose. “Great glory,
ruuska’te,”
she said, then raced for Tenquis and the horses. Geth was already in the saddle with Chetiin clinging behind him. Ekhaas’s foot found a stirrup and she mounted.

The green vapor that burst around Makka seared his nostrils and stung his eyes, but at least he didn’t choke. Tariic, caught mid-breath, sucked the stuff in deep and doubled over in wracking coughs. Pradoor coughed as well, wheezing between gasps “What is this? What’s happening?”

Makka held his breath, tore the sword from his belt, and leaped through the smoke. Wisps of it caught in his hair and scorched his skin, but he could see again.

He could see revenge slipping away from him.

Geth and Chetiin were already on horseback. Ekhaas of Kech Volaar was mounting. Dagii was rushing forward as if eager to meet his death. Ashi of Deneith—

—was still on the platform and the way between them was open.

The rage of the Fury fell over him. Tariic had denied him his vengeance for too long! Howling the anger that had seethed in him since these
taat
had destroyed his tribe’s camp and his power with it, Makka charged. The sword of Deneith flashed in his grip. Ashi turned. She was unarmed. Defenseless.

Good.

He lunged.

E
khaas saw it happen.

Between one heartbeat and the next, Makka burst through the veil of green vapor and charged with a roar like wind in the mountains. Ashi turned but the bugbear’s sword—the bright blade that he had stolen from her—was already thrusting at her belly.

Then, darting from among warlords clustered on the platform, Vounn threw herself between sword and victim.

There was a rippling in the air around her, and Ekhaas recognized the shield of force conjured by Vounn’s dragonmark. Ashi’s mentor twisted as she moved, using her phantom armor to deflect the blade.

It didn’t work. Makka’s mighty blow plunged his sword through the rippling shield into Vounn’s body—and through her into Ashi. The force of it slammed both women back so hard that Ashi’s arms seemed to wrap around Vounn.

Makka held them there for a long moment, then released the hilt of the sword. Vounn and Ashi fell together, joined by the honor blade of Deneith, hitting the platform with a hard impact that drove a cry of pain from Ashi. Ekhaas thought she saw Vounn turn her head to look at Ashi, thought she saw the lady-seneschal’s lips move before blood oozed from them and her body went limp. Ashi shuddered once, then her head fell back against the rough wood of the platform.

At the side of the platform, Pater d’Orien’s eyes went wide. He glanced up and met Ekhaas’s gaze, then his lips pressed together and his eyes lost focus as if he was gazing into the far distance. He took a small step—and vanished.

Somewhere far away, someone would learn very shortly of the murder of Vounn and Ashi d’Deneith.

And Ekhaas knew she wasn’t the only one to witness Pater’s disappearance. As the curtain of green vapor faded into drifting wisps, she saw Tariic staring with shock and dismay at the place where House Orien’s envoy had been.

Makka threw his head back and howled a second time, then spun to face Ekhaas and Geth. His body tensed, ready to leap—