“I follow one whom death has claimed. I seek passage for him.”
Balinor’s priest came forward as well. His face was stained with ochre, red as the blood spilled during the hunt. “For whom do you seek passage? Who will enter the gates of death?”
“I seek passage for Haruuc of Rhukaan Taash, who was son of Tiraan, who was Haruuc Shaarat’kor, Lhesh of Darguun. He will enter the gates of death.”
“By what right do you seek passage for him?” The priest’s voice was deliberately disdainful.
Geth met his eyes in ritual defiance. “I was shava to him.”
Balinor’s priest paused before responding solemnly, “You have the right.”
Dol Arrah’s priest put out his hand. “Bring forward the treasures that will pass with Haruuc through the gates of death!”
There was movement behind Ashi, and she stepped aside as those who had walked through Rhukaan Draal at the end of the funeral procession came forward. Bearers representing all three races of the dar passed among ambassadors, envoys, and warlords, the sun’s light gleaming on what they carried in their arms. Caskets full of gold and jewelry. Chests packed with bright weapons and armor. Fine goods from across Khorvaire, from exotic Xen’drik, and from distant Sarlona as well. If Ashi hadn’t known better, she would have thought that Khaar Mbar’ost had been stripped to fill Haruuc’s tomb, but this was only a fraction of the treasures that Haruuc had amassed and some of what would follow Haruuc were offerings from other clans—even from dragonmarked houses. She saw the crest of Deneith on a polished shield and the sign of Orien on a small but exquisite sculpture of a horse cast in silver. There was also a bearer who walked apart from the others with nothing more than a small open chest in his hands. A single dagger rested inside the chest, the deadly weapon, left behind by Chetiin, that had struck the fatal blow. By dar custom, it would rest with its victim.
One by one, the bearers climbed the ridge, bowed once before the priests and twice before Haruuc’s corpse, then vanished briefly into the tomb before reappearing without their burdens. It took a long time, but when all of the bearers had returned to the field below, the priest of Dol Dorn spoke again.
“Traditions tell that the People were born in caverns and lived there before we emerged to fight beneath the sun and the sky. When we pass through the gates of death, we return to caverns, the womb and the grave. Life continues. Tradition continues.”
He gestured for the bugbears holding Haruuc’s throne to kneel. When they had, he reached up and pulled free Haruuc’s sword, then turned to Geth. “The People have mourned Haruuc’s passing. Free them to continue their lives.”
Geth nodded. Tucking the Rod of Kings between his arm and his body, he knelt before the priest and the sword. The other two priests came forward. Balinor’s priest now carried a broad tray. Dol Arrah’s stood close with an unlit torch.
From the tray, Geth took a copper bowl lined with thick shreds of fiber and a flint, laying the Rod of Kings in their place. He set the bowl on the ground. The priest of Dol Dorn grounded Haruuc’s sword in it. Carefully angled so that all could see what he did, Geth leaned forward and struck the flint on the blade of the sword.
Sparks jumped from the sword into the tinder. Smoke curled up in a fine wisp, growing thick as Geth bent close to blow gently onto the bowl. When he sat back, the torch was ready for him. He took it and touched it to the burning tinder. Flames leaped into life. Geth lifted the torch and stood to face the warlords.
“From this will fire return to Rhukaan Draal,” he said. “From this will life continue.”
He took back the rod. The priest of Dol Dorn returned the sword to Haruuc’s grasp, then looked out over the crowd.
“This was Haruuc!” the priest shouted, his ears high and quivering. “Haruuc who founded Darguun and Rhukaan Draal, whose boldness made a new homeland for the People. He will never be forgotten! He will live in stories and legends as long as mighty, quick, and strong people draw breath. He will inspire us as long as the Ghaal and Torlaac Rivers flow from mountain to sea. Let all who would be great follow in the path that his red sword has carved!”
The roar that rose from the gathered warlords was as loud as anything Ashi had heard in the city. Weapons were drawn and flashed against the sky. Ashi felt the fervor of the moment sweep her up—she drew the sword at her side and raised it high as well. “Haruuc!” she shouted along with the Darguuls. “Haruuc!”
The priest of Dol Arrah nodded and the bugbears lifted the throne again. Turning underneath it, they reversed their positions so that they could walk forward. With his warlords shouting his name, Haruuc was borne into his tomb facing outward and the shadows of the grave closed over his face like dark water.
The three priests followed him in. Geth moved to stand before the doorway and the shouts of the warlords died away. In the silence, the noise of the cataract seemed louder than ever.
After a moment, Pater spoke softly. “The first time I met Haruuc, I expected him to talk about taxes or tolls. Instead he asked me if the trade roads were in good enough condition to allow easy trade between Darguun and Breland.”
The humble memory startled Ashi, but then she realized that throughout the crowd, warlords and ambassadors were whispering, sharing quiet reminiscences.
“He asked me about distant ports,” said Sindra. “He knew what was happening across Khorvaire.”
The Zil ambassador, Esmyssa Entar ir’Korran, stood nearby. “He always spoke to me as if I was as tall as he was.”
“We discussed philosophy,” said Vounn.
Ashi tried to find her own most significant memory of Haruuc. It took her a moment—his presence, even before he held the rod, had been inspiring and it was hard to pick out just one memory. She finally found the one she sought. Something that probably would have seemed small to anyone else but made a great difference to her. “He saw me as more than my dragonmark.”
Vounn raised a slim eyebrow at the statement, but said nothing.
The throne-bearers were the first to return to the surface, followed by the three priests. The priest of Balinor stepped around to the side of the tomb and, straining hard, pushed. The massive door swung shut. Stone as thick as a dagger’s length moved ponderously but, once set in motion, smoothly. The dark doorway became a narrow gap, then a sliver. Then the great door closed with a solid boom—and a hollow crack as the pivots that had allowed it to swing broke as they had been designed to do. The tomb of Haruuc Shaarat’kor was sealed. From the front of the door, an effigy of Haruuc glared down, a fierce warrior and a mighty king at the height of his power, the guardian of his own grave.
Standing under that gaze, Geth raised the torch and the rod high above his head. “The time for mourning is done. We remember Haruuc’s death—but now we celebrate his life. Now the games begin!”
The cheer that rose from the warlords was not as powerful as that which had honored Haruuc, but it was joyful and enthusiastic. Ashi was certain that she even heard an echo of it from the common people who waited beyond the arch.
Geth began the descent of the ridge, new fire for the city held out before him, and warlords shifted in an attempt to be among the first to accompany him back into Rhukaan Draal. Ashi tried to catch his eye, to give him a simple gesture of encouragement and show him he had done well, but it was no good. There were too many people vying for his attention. She started to turn back to Vounn—
—and felt the back of her neck prickle with the sensation of being watched. An old hunter’s instinct. She glanced around. This wasn’t like it had been while the funeral procession moved through Rhukaan Draal. No crowd watched her here.
No crowd except the one beyond the arch. Ashi spun sharply.
And the feeling was gone. The crowd was already breaking up and streaming back into the city, eager for the start. If someone had been watching her, they’d needed only to turn away to lose themselves in the crowd. Ashi found her hand was back on the hilt of her sword. She trusted her instincts. Someone had
been watching her. Who?
Her hand tightened on the sword. Chetiin?
“Ashi?”
The sound of her own name made her whirl. Her sword was halfway out of its sheath before she realized it was Ekhaas. The duur’kala’s ears rose at the sight of her blade. “Is something wrong?”
Ashi felt blood rush to her face and she shoved the blade back. “No.”
Ekhaas’s ears didn’t drop but she nodded. “Would you like to watch the start of the games together?”
The thought of a fight after the long period of mourning was good—it certainly seemed like a fitting tribute to Haruuc. Ashi looked back to the tomb, then nodded. “I’ll tell Vounn.”
She glanced at the arch and the moving crowd beyond one last time. Someone had been watching her. That didn’t mean it was Chetiin. With such a large crowd, it could have been anyone.
CHAPTER
THREE
When the bugbears of the White Stone tribe, savaged in the dark woods by a huge wolf that could only have been part demon, returned to their camp to find every hut ablaze, their children alive only by the dark gods’ whim, and the prisoners who had started it all escaped, their only choice was to flee. The wolf-demon had settled for the moment to feast on the bodies of fallen warriors. Their camp was on fire. The trolls that lived in the cursed valley below, that had for years kept to themselves in return for carcasses thrown down from the bugbear camp, were raging. Overnight, their haven in the Seawall Mountains had become too dangerous to hold.
So they fled, slipping away down the western approach to their high vale with the flames of their burning camp leaping high into the sky behind them. Then they started looking for someone to blame.
Makka, who had been the chib, the leader, found himself on the other side of their anger.
“Makka kept the lowlanders that the trolls were chasing!” said Guun, who had been his closest friend. “He should have sent them back, but he kept them! He was greedy for the treasure they sought in the valley!”
“When the lowlanders’ friends challenged us from the woods, Makka led us out,” said Utaa, whose skill in a fight was a close second to Makka’s. “The human woman had a dragonmark—her magic must have summoned the wolf. Now our camp is gone, seven warriors are dead, and we have nothing!”
In the tradition of the Marguul tribes of the Seawall Mountains, Makka could have defended his honor in combat against Guun and Utaa, but the wolf had torn into his right arm. It would heal, but until it did all he had were threats. “Guun and Utaa are cowards! They are foxes circling an injured lion. I am Makka! I am your chib! I am—”
The first stone struck him between the shoulders. Roaring, Makka whirled to lash out with his trident at the one who dared attack him from behind, but the blow was weak. More stones, mud, and branches pelted him, splattering the bear hide vest that he wore. The White Stone tribe howled its rage, Tuneer and Wiraar, the mothers of his children, among them. Guun hefted his big mace, Utaa his sword. The two warriors came forward through the rain of debris.
Marguul tradition valued honor, but not so much as it valued staying alive. Followed by the jeers of his tribe, Makka fled for the second time that night.
For three days he hid, thoughts of vengeance festering in his mind just as his wounded arm festered. On the fourth day, he went to a brook upstream from the White Stone’s new camp and washed the pus from his arm, praying to the Dark Six that the sluggish water would carry the infection to his former tribe. Then he packed the burning wound with moss and spiderwebs and made his way back to the burned-out camp. Down the mountainside, he found tracks. The footprints of humans and hobgoblins, the hoofprints of horses, the pawprints of wolves, all leading out of the mountains and back to the lowlands.
The ones responsible for his shame were the three prisoners, two hobgoblins and a human that he had rescued from the trolls—and whatever allies had appeared to help them to escape and lay waste to the White Stone camp. He had learned something about the three prisoners while they were his captives. The hobgoblin warrior had named himself Dagii of Mur Talaan and claimed the hobgoblin woman as a follower, though Makka doubted the claim. The human woman carried the dragonmark of Deneith across her face and arms, and the bright sword that now hung at Makka’s side like an oversize dagger had been hers until he had taken it.
His shame had been begun by the three. On a mountain side during a thunderstorm, Makka swore by the passion of the Fury, dark goddess of rage, that his vengeance would start with them.
Where would he find them? They had tried to bargain for their safety by invoking the name of the lowland king, Haruuc. Whether they had his favor or not was questionable, but if they’d known to try invoking his name, there was only one place to begin his search.
Makka turned his footsteps toward Rhukaan Draal.
19 Sypheros
He arrived just before dawn on a fine cool day to find the entrances to Haruuc’s city clogged with lowlanders, all dressed as if for a festival. Makka waded into the throng, shouldering past hobgoblins, goblins, and bugbears alike. There were only dar present, he noticed. That was strange. Usually humans forced their way into everything.
As he got closer to the front of the crowd, he saw what was holding it back: guards wearing armbands fashioned of red cords stood at makeshift barricades. He grabbed the nearest goblin and spun the little creature around, forcing him to look up into his face. “What’s happening here, taat?”
The goblin stared at him with wide eyes. “The end of mourning,” he said, his voice cracking. “Haruuc goes to his tomb today.”
Makka grunted and looked back to the guards. The goblin, he noticed, took the opportunity to shrink back into the crowd. Makka didn’t try to stop him.
He’d heard about Haruuc’s death during his journey. A goblin in the southland had squeaked out the news, not that it had meant much to Makka. The end of a warrior—may the Keeper treasure his soul—but also a fitting end for a lowland sop who had turned dog for the humans. Makka had his vengeance to think about. Other goblins and hobgoblins along the way had confirmed the passage of the three he sought. Yes, two hobgoblins and a human with a dragonmark across her face had traveled that way. Yes, they had been going toward Rhukaan Draal. Yes, they had traveled with others: a shifter, a gnome, and a goblin who rode on a great black wolf. Makka had added three more deaths to his oath of vengeance.
Names had come later—those who had passed were heroes, acclaimed by Haruuc. Dagii of Mur Talaan, Ekhaas of Kech Volaar, Chetiin of the shaarat’khesh, Ashi of Deneith, Midian the gnome, Geth the shifter and shava to Haruuc. Later still, the news that Chetiin was Haruuc’s assassin and Geth now held the throne of Darguun. That had made Makka smile. His targets were chib. Killing them would bring him much honor.
And the Fury, it seemed, approved of his vengeance, because he found four of his targets with an ease that could only be an omen.
They were out in the open, marching in Haruuc’s funeral procession, unsuspecting of the death that had come for them. Dagii of Mur Talaan and a shifter that could only be Geth walked directly behind Haruuc—the lowland king made a wrinkled, pathetic corpse. Ekhaas of Kech Volaar was further back, and Ashi of Deneith walked with humans and other races near the rear of the procession. The riches borne at the very end of the parade of mourners gave Makka pause. So much wealth! He ground his teeth, closing out greed inspired by the Keeper, and turned back to his targets in the procession. They were the reason he had come.
They were well-protected. He would have to wait, but he had waited for prey many times. Makka chose his target. The human woman would be first. He would slay her with her own sword and leave the weapon in her steaming guts, letting the others know who was hunting them.
He shadowed the procession through the stinking crowds of Rhukaan Draal. When the city ended, he pushed forward until he was right against the wall beyond which the procession had passed. Heaving himself up against the iron fence atop the wall, Makka could see the marchers,
but not Ashi in particular. That didn’t bother him. He’d pick up her trail again.
He had a good view of the tomb along the ridge and of the three hobgoblins standing alongside it. Only when the ceremony had started did he realize they were priests. The tips of his ears curled and a growl rumbled out of his belly. He’d heard that Haruuc had abandoned the Dark Six and the old ways of the dar to follow the Sovereign Host, but to bury a warlord or a chief without the sanction of the Keeper, god of death? As Haruuc’s throne-bearers descended into the tomb, Makka thought maybe the priests would at least make a sacrifice of them, but all of the bugbears returned to the surface and the tomb was sealed without blood being shed. Makka’s hand went to the muu’kron, the talisman of six knotted cords on his belt, and his fingers closed around the fang that was the token of the Keeper.
Along the wall, he could see a few others doing the same thing, though furtively. Makka felt a surge of disgust—Haruuc hadn’t turned all lowlanders to the worship of gentle gods, but he’d forced those who’d kept to the old traditions to hide their beliefs. He caught the token of the Fury, a bit of wood carved like a snake and polished smooth by his touch, in his fingers and prayed for a swift resolution to his vengeance so that he could return to the freedom of the mountains.
His prayer was answered. As the blasphemous ceremony ended and the crowd below the tomb broke up, he caught sight of Ashi again. He smiled.
The human woman stiffened, as if catching his scent, and turned.
Makka dropped away from the wall, slipping into the sea of people turning away from the tomb to rush on to the games. He didn’t want Ashi to know he was here. Not yet.
From behind a moving screen of dar, he watched Ekhaas of Kech Volaar distract Ashi. The two women spoke together, then to an old human woman, then they moved back to the road that led away from the tomb and joined the crowd streaming into the city. Alone.
Makka hadn’t considered taking two of his victims at once, but when the Six gave a sign, only a fool ignored it.
Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2 Page 4
