Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2 (7 page)

Ashi hissed and darted around her, launching a flurry of blows to drive Makka back before he could strike a second time. He tried to hold her at the length of his trident, but she twisted like a weasel, slipped inside his reach, and slashed at him. His heavy bear hide vest turned the blow. He kicked and managed to catch her. Ashi stumbled back, sucking breath through her teeth—and saw him draw a sword from a sheath at his belt.

The sword he had taken from her. Kagan d’Deneith’s bright honor blade.

Her eyes went wide and Makka grinned, exposing sharp teeth. “This sword will kill you,” he snarled in Goblin. “This is my vengeance!”

Maybe he mistook what he saw in her face for fear, but if he
thought the threat or the sight of the stolen sword could frighten her, he was wrong.

A tremble ran through her. The world seemed to sharpen as blood roared in her ears. Her lips twisted to expose teeth stained red with her own blood. Goblin words tore themselves out of her, starting as a snarl and ending as a scream. “Give. That.
Back
!”

Ashi had moved like a weasel before. She moved like a tiger now, attacking with a ferocity that put Makka on the defensive. The bugbear stood a full head taller than her. He weighed probably twice as much as she did. She still forced him back. Her attacks fell with such speed and force that it was all he could do to block them, first with the bright Deneith sword, then with the shaft of the trident. Desperation started to show on his face—vengeance seemed forgotten and all of his attention was focused on Ashi as she pushed him step by step across the space between the buildings.

She chopped down with her sword. Makka raised his trident to block it—and the stout wooden shaft, already deeply gouged, snapped. Deflected, the sword nicked his arm. They staggered apart, but rage surged in Ashi and she lunged. This time her blade cut across his side. She felt it grate along Makka’s ribs, then catch flesh and plunge deep. He howled and dropped the broken trident to lash out blindly with a fist.

The blow was lucky. It caught her on the shoulder and threw her to one side, breaking her attack.

But Ekhaas was there. In the instant that Ashi fell, she heard the
duur’kala’s
song swell. The music was different this time though, not hard and battering, but strangely thick. Ashi saw Makka struggle, his movements slow and dragging as if he were underwater. For a moment, it seemed as if his muscles would lock, betraying him—

“No!” he roared—and smashed his arm into his wounded side.

Ashi saw pain cross his face and his limbs moved freely again, magic’s grip broken by the sudden agony. Ekhaas scowled and let her song fade, but raised her sword. Ashi rolled to her feet and faced Makka, ready to carry on the fight. The bugbear’s small eyes narrowed and his ears curled. Ashi slid close, blade ready.

Makka spun around and took two long strides to the corner where the hobgoblin children huddled and cried. He grabbed the
first one his fingers found and dragged it up in front of him, the Deneith sword held across its squirming body. At the touch of the steel, the child went still and silent.

Ashi stopped. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ekhaas freeze, too.

Makka didn’t say anything. Moving slowly and leaving a bloody trail behind him, he slid sideway across the wall. The alley leading out of the yard was close. Ashi started to shadow him, but he pulled the bright blade tighter and the child whimpered.

She stopped. He would kill the child. She knew it in her gut.

Makka stepped into the alley, walking backward until he was out of sight. A moment later, the hobgoblin child came running out of the alley, face taut with terror.

Ashi was waiting for that. She leaped to the alley mouth, but the shadowed passage was empty. A swirling crowd filled the street at its far end.

The only signs of Makka were the drops of blood that ended where the crowd began, treading feet wiping away the trail as surely as flowing water. Ashi bit off a curse.

T
radition dictated the opening battle of Haruuc’s games—two junior warriors of the warlord’s clan fighting each other to honor the departed chief. Now one of the junior warriors of the Rhukaan Taash lay with his life’s blood soaking into the sand of the arena floor, while the other faced the raised box where Geth sat and thumped a trembling fist against his chest in the hobgoblin salute. Geth stood, raising the Rod of Kings, and slowly the cheers that filled the three tiers of the arena subsided.

“Faalo of Rhukaan Taash, you honor Haruuc Shaarat’kor,” Geth called into the quiet. “Name your reward.” The Goblin words weren’t as elaborate as tradition demanded, but they were what he could manage. It had taken all of his concentration just to get the responses of Haruuc’s funeral right.

The young hobgoblin lowered his head for a moment, then looked up, his ears standing tall. Wrath translated his answer: “I want to lead a squad in battle against the Valenar!”

The crowd erupted again, but Geth felt his belly flip. “Boar and Bear!” he growled quietly in the human tongue.

Seated beside him as the new warlord of the Rhukaan Taash, Tariic leaned a little closer. “Geth—”

Geth glanced down at him. “There’s not going to be a war!”

Tariic’s jaw tightened. “I was going to say give him a rank and be done,” he said. “Make no promises about elves if you don’t want to. If there’s no war, he’ll lead border patrols.”

It was good advice. Geth felt heat flood his face. “What rank?”

Tariic’s ears flicked as he thought, then said,
“Lhikor.”

Geth raised his voice against the noise of the crowd, speaking Goblin once more. “In the name of Haruuc, Faalo of Rhukaan Taash, you will be
lhikorl”

The crowd answered with a wall of sound. A smile spread against Faalo’s face and the young warrior thumped his chest once more, then turned to face the crowd, raising his arms in victory. A pair of honor guards appeared to escort him through one of the arena’s two gates. From the other, a troop of goblins appeared, throwing down fresh sand and dragging off the body of the warrior who had not been so fortunate. From a raised platform, an announcer using a speaking trumpet called out descriptions of the spectacles that would follow through the first day of the games. Geth dropped back into his seat and didn’t listen.

“I would have thought you’d enjoy this,” said Tariic, sitting down as well.

“If I was sitting out there”—Geth gestured around the arena—“instead of up here, I probably would.”

Tariic laughed. “Geth, you realize that if the king of Breland had chosen to attend Haruuc’s funeral, he would be here beside you right now? You’ve put yourself on a level with monarchs and you’d rather be sitting with the people.” He stopped laughing when he realized Geth wasn’t smiling. “This isn’t where you thought you’d find yourself, is it?”

“No.” There was no point in lying about that.

“You did an honorable thing. It confused me at first, but then I realized that if you hadn’t claimed the duty of a
shava
, Darguun might have fallen into civil war. And after the chaos of the Gan’duur raids, with just one clan in rebellion, I don’t know if we could have survived. You’ve given us a chance to calm down.” Tariic considered him with a serious expression. “You think quickly.”

“Not quickly enough.” The words slipped out and Geth tried not to wince. “This isn’t my place,” he said. “I’m a fighter, not a talker.”

“That’s to be expected. You wield the Sword of Heroes, not the Rod of Kings.” On Tariic’s other side, another hobgoblin leaned forward so he could look at Geth. “But seizing control was the act of a hero. You’ll be remembered after you leave us.”

The first time Geth had encountered Daavn of Marhaan, the warlord had been trying to persuade Haruuc to allow his clan to raid into Breland. Haruuc had embarrassed him before his allies with a clever ruse, but since then, Daavn had found new favor with Tariic. Even before Haruuc’s death, the two had become close, as Tariic, confident his uncle would eventually name him as heir, looked for supporters. Vounn d’Deneith had suspicions that Daavn was even more ambitious than Tariic—and more ruthless. She believed Daavn might have been behind an attempt to kidnap her from Khaar Mbar’ost—an attempt that had been widely blamed on Keraal of the Gan’duur and that would have shamed Haruuc had it succeeded. They had no proof to confront Daavn with, however, and so Vounn’s suspicions remained just that.

Whenever Daavn spoke, though, his words left Geth with a sense that he was up to something. The shifter had fallen into a habit of turning them over in his mind, trying to find the hidden danger. “I … hadn’t thought about leaving yet,” he said cautiously.

“You hadn’t?” Daavn asked. “Then you’re a true friend to Darguun. A lesser man would have left at the first opportunity. But when your duty as a
shava
ends, what reason will there be for you to stay?”

“Don’t pressure him, Daavn,” said Tariic. His ears twitched as he smiled again. “As you say, Geth is a hero. He’ll always have a place of honor in Khaar Mbar’ost.” He rose. “But you have other duties to see to, don’t you, Geth?”

He did, but he raised his eyebrows and looked at Tariic. “How did you know—?”

“I asked Razu. These games honor my uncle. I want to know what’s happening. Lead on. I’ll come with you.” He gestured for Geth to go ahead of him.

“You’re not going to stay for the games?” asked Geth. “I thought you’d want to be seen.”

Tariic bent his head. “My presence isn’t strictly necessary. Daavn will be here.”

The gates of the arena opened and two bugbears advanced across the sands in the second bout of the games. “Pesh of Ghaal Cave and Riil of Thunder Gap fight open-handed,” called the
announcer. “To the victor of this match, Tariic of Rhukaan Taash promises a chalice of gold from his own table! Hail to Tariic, nephew of Haruuc Shaarat’kor!”

The crowd bellowed its approval as Daavn produced a shining goblet. Tariic turned and waved. The bugbears looked up at him, then at each other—then roared and came together like twin juggernauts.

Khaar Mbar’ost was less than thirty years old. Built by the humans of House Cannith under commission from Haruuc, it was a blend of human and
dar
styles. It was also the tallest building in Rhukaan Draal. A mighty fist of a structure, it rose against the sky in a demonstration, to both Darguun and other nations, of the strength of the lhesh.

It also still felt almost new when compared to any other fortress Geth had been in. Most were many decades—or even many centuries—old, their stones worn and stained. The stones of Khaar Mbar’ost, however, still had the sharp corners put on them by masons’ chisels. Their surfaces were dry and clean. In places where the odor of living hadn’t permeated the air, Geth sometimes thought he could still smell the dusty, fresh-cut stone.

Even the dungeons sunk into the rock beneath the fortress still had a crisp new feel to them, though they smelled nearly as bad as Geth had expected. It felt strange to step into an almost pristine corridor lit by everbright lanterns while grubby faces peered through the barred windows cut into the cell doors on either side, the interiors of the cells lost in stinking darkness.

The noise that the prisoners made was startling as well, echoing in the closed space until it seemed as loud as the crowd in the arena. Prisoners yelped and cursed as they fought to get a look out at those who had descended to their world: Geth, Munta the Gray, Tariic, and a large number of guards. Geth had left the Rod of Kings in his chamber, locked safely away and with guards posted outside the door. It felt good to be rid of it for a time. He looked back at the prisoners and tried to guess how many were packed into each cell. “It’s crowded,” he said in halting Goblin.

The dungeon keeper, a big hobgoblin with numerous scars and only one ear, looked at him blankly. Geth had to repeat himself twice more, speaking carefully, until he was understood and the scarred hobgoblin grumbled a response that Wrath’s magic translated perfectly and instantly.

“We’ve been keeping them for a while instead of enacting punishment. Bringing them in from across the city.” He strode up to one of the cells. The prisoners inside backed away as the keeper ran through a catalogue of crimes. “The usual thieves and murderers stupid enough to get caught. Cheats. Profiteers who tried to get rich when the Gan’duur raids starved the city. Rioters.
Taat
caught violating the terms of mourning—”