Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2

by Don Bassingthwaite

  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.

  Ten days earlier—9 Sypheros

  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. “W
hich 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?”

  Dar—the ancient term for the goblin races. Ekhaas had heard the word—and the Goblin words for the three races—more frequently in recent days than she ever had before, as if Haruuc had woken a new pride in the triple races before his death and the people were throwing off names pressed on them by human domination. Bugbears were once again guul’dar, the strong people; goblins were golin’dar, the quick people; hobgoblins, ghaal’dar. The mighty people. But in uncertain times, maybe it was good to have such things to cling to.

  “Geth is shava to Haruuc,” Ekhaas said. “He bears the Sword of Heroes.” She shrugged. “He has a respect for tradition.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He is my friend.”

  “You also counted Chetiin as one of your friends.” Senen’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know, Ekhaas?”

  A knock on the door of the chamber and a call from the corridor beyond saved her from a lie. “Senen Dhakaan! Are you there? I’m looking for Ekhaas.”

  It was Dagii. Senen’s ears twitched and her hard eyes took on a knowing, triumphant gleam. She turned away from Ekhaas to open the door. “Saa’atcha, lord of the Mur Talaan.”

  Dagii didn’t enter the room. He stood in the doorway, his gray eyes moving from her to Senen and back again as if he could sense the brewing tension between them. Those pale eyes, combined with shadow-gray hair and a naturally somber face, made him look older than he really was. In fact, he was no older than Ekhaas herself, and young for a warlord. “Geth sent me,” he said. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Worse words couldn’t have been spoken. Senen’s ears rose sharply. Ekhaas walked past her without saying anything. Once the door was closed and Dagii was ushering her along the corridor, she said, “Senen suspects something.”

  Dagii gave her a grim smile. “This is a time for suspicion.”

  The halls of Khaar Mbar’ost were quiet. In the moments after Haruuc’s death, they had been chaotic, but Ekhaas guessed that as the shock of the assassination had ebbed, people had stumbled back to their rooms or out into the city, seeking reflection or mindless violence, as they preferred. She glanced at Dagii. The aged metal of his ancestral armor carried shiny, fresh scrapes and dents. In attempting to drive off Chetiin, he had come within reach of the grieving tree Haruuc had erected in his throne room. The lhesh’s final words had stilled the tree and forced it to release Dagii. His face bore the beginnings of bruises and the limp in his walk—the result of a broken ankle healed in a rush by her magic during the quest for the Rod of Kings—was even more pronounced than usual.

  “Did the tree hurt you?” she asked.

  “No. It wasn’t able to get past my armor. Falling out of it hurt more.” His face tightened. “Keraal is worse off.”

  Ekhaas’s ears rose. In the madness of Haruuc’s death, she had forgotten the rebel lord. The command that had released Dagii had also released Keraal. “He’s alive?”

  “For now.”

  There was noise ahead, noise that grew louder as they approached the antechamber outside of the throne room. It seemed that not everyone had retreated to grieve. A final turn in the passage revealed the antechamber—and Geth, along with two old hobgoblins, under siege by a small mob of shouting warlords. The two old hobgoblins looked to be in their element.

  One, a thin woman, met the shouts of the warlords with calm, firm answers. “It is tradition! Would you do it differently in your clan hold? The period of mourning is dedicated to the dead—there will be no discussion of succession until Haruuc is in his tomb. Ten days of mourning Haruuc’s death, five days of games to celebrate his life, and then an heir will be selected. Until then the shava holds Haruuc’s power.”

  The other, a vastly old, rotund, yet vigorous man who wore the ceremonial armor of a warlord himself, replied to shouts as if he were on the battlefield. “The assembly will meet, Garaad! Tomorrow. Maabet, decide for yourself, Iizan! Honor him as you choose.”

  The thin woman was Razu, who had been Haruuc’s mistress of rituals. The fat old warlord was Munta the Gray, Haruuc’s closest ally for more than thirty years. Between them, shielded by them, stood Geth. The shifter gripped the Rod of Kings with one hand and the hilt of Wrath, the Sword of Heroes, with the other. Wrath was still sheathed but Geth looked ready to draw it. Ekhaas knew that animal instincts ran strong in Geth’s veins. His large eyes were wide and fever-bright, and his thick, coarse hair was almost standing on end. He looked like a wild thing backed into a corner.

  His expression brightened slightly when he saw Ekhaas and Dagii. He nodded toward a door across the antechamber, then turned to face the warlords. “Enough!” he said, his voice a snarl that cut through the clamor. He spoke the human language but many of the warlords in the antechamber had fought in the mercenary armies of House Deneith during the Last War and understood the tongue. They fell silent. Geth glared at them all. “Leave. You heard Razu. I’m not going to talk about the succession.”

  “Maybe not about the succession.” Ekhaas recognized the warlord who spoke—Aguus of Traakuum. “But what about the war?”

  “The war?” asked Geth.

  Aguus grunted. “It is as Haruuc said. We should turn our blades against the Valenar. If we must wait ten days or more before we make a decision, the Valenar will have an advantage over us.”

  “There is no war. How can there be a war when the man who spoke of it was cut down moments later?” Geth swept his gaze across the silent warlords. “Think about that during the period of mourning.”

  Aguus wasn’t finished. “Haruuc would have wanted it!”

  Geth froze for a moment, then growled, “You’re wrong.” He turned away from them, gesturing with the rod. “Leave now. A shava needs to mourn, too.”

  He pushed away from them without waiting for a response. Munta followed for a few moments, exchanging words with him, then turned back to block any of the more aggressive warlords from following. Geth came to join Ekhaas and Dagii at the door.

  “How are you?” Ekhaas asked him.

  “How do you think I am?” He opened the door and led them through into a short corridor.

  Along the corridor was another door and a hobgoblin warrior wearing the red corded armband that signified service to Khaar Mbar’ost standing outside it. Aruget, one of the loyal warriors assigned by Haruuc to act as a personal guard to Vounn and Ashi d’Deneith. No one would interrupt them as long as he stood guard.

  The chamber beyond was the same luxurious waiting room for dignitaries where they—she, Dagii, Geth, Ashi, the gnome scholar Midian Mit Davandi, and Chetiin—had been deposited on their return to Khaar Mbar’ost bearing the Rod of Kings. Ashi was waiting for them, pacing the room like a cat. Her dark gold hair had been drawn back, revealing the intricate lines of the powerful dragonmark, a rare Siberys Mark, that patterned her neck—and her shoulders, back, arms, her entire body save the palms of her hands and a narrow strip between her cheeks and her brow. Two small gold rings that pierced her lower lip were the only sign that less than a year ago, Ashi had been a savage hunter of the Shadow Marches before discovering her heritage in House Deneith, and before the manifestation of the mark that allowed her to shield minds and block powerful divinations.

  At the opening of the door, she looked up, her mouth framing a greeting. Geth didn’t give any of them time to speak. With a snarl of frustration, the shifter twisted his torso and hurled the Rod of Kings into a large, ornately framed mirror that hung above a sideboard.

  The glass exploded out in a shower of sharp fragments. The rod bounced off the thin wooden backing, hit the sideboard hard enough to gouge it, and fell to the floor with the heavy clang of solid metal. Ashi’s words turned into a yell of surprise and the door slammed open as Aruget charged in.

  Geth turned on him. “Out!”


  The guard stepped back and closed the door without a word. Ekhaas went over and looked down at the rod. The rune-carved shaft was unmarked. She would have picked it up, but Geth stopped her.

  “Don’t touch it,” he said. “Don’t anybody touch it.” Feet crunching on the broken mirror, he retrieved the rod, handling it as if it were a snake. Geth grimaced and dropped back into one of the room’s chairs. His voice was a growl. “Chetiin said something to me after he killed Haruuc, just before he escaped. He said, ‘We swore we would do what we had to.’”

  “He thought Haruuc had discovered the power of the rod,” said Ekhaas. Memory of the rod’s hold over her mind brought her ears low. There had been as much hope of resisting it as of holding back a flood with a leaking bucket.

  “He should have talked to the rest of us.” Dagii’s face was grim.

  “I wish he had,” said Geth. “Because if that’s what he was thinking, he was wrong.” He turned the rod in his hands, and for a moment Ekhaas thought he might throw it again, but then he stood and drew Wrath. Forged from the same twilight-purple byeshk as the rod, the sword was massive and heavy, sharp on one edge and deeply notched on the other, a dar design that hadn’t changed much in thousands of years. “Wrath … talks to me. In a way. Sometimes it gives me a nudge, pushing me to act the way a hero would. Occasionally it puts heroic words in my mouth. It’s not just the Sword of Heroes. It’s a sword that makes heroes.”

  In the other hand, he hefted the Rod of Kings. “The rod is the same. Just before Keraal’s punishment, Haruuc and I had an argument. All the time that we were carrying the rod back to Rhukaan Draal, I was the only one to touch it. Wrath doesn’t just protect me from the rod’s power of command—it shields me from all of the rod’s power. When Haruuc took up the rod, he didn’t have that protection. A hero inspires. A king rules.” He bared his teeth. “From the moment he first held the rod, it fed him the memories of the Dhakaani emperors.”