Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2

by Don Bassingthwaite

  Dagii turned to face Tariic, lifting his sword again, and the applause slowly died. “Lhesh,” said Dagii, “I go to meet the enemies of Darguun at your command.”

  Some of the rage at Keraal’s defiance faded from Tariic’s face. He drew his sword as well and touched the blade to Dagii’s. “Swift travel and great glory, Dagii of Mur Talaan. Show the Valaes Tairn that Darguun fears no invader!”

  They let their swords fall, the blades sliding against each other with the slow ring of metal on metal, then Dagii bent his head and turned away without looking back. Tariic turned to face the arena and thrust his sword into the air. “The games are over! Lhesh Haruuc is remembered with honor and Darguun is strong!”

  The cheer that rose in the arena was the loudest one yet, so loud it seemed to shake the stands. Tariic simply stood and soaked it all in. The clawfoots hunched and stared around in fear.

  Ekhaas turned at looked at Ashi. “That’s my sign too,” she said over the noise. “Dagii will be waiting for me. Great glory, Ashi.”

  The human woman’s mouth tightened for a moment, then she spread her arms and threw them around her. Ekhaas stiffened, shame at the public embrace spreading through her, then she relaxed and returned it—very briefly. “Warriors in victory are permitted such displays,” she said in Ashi’s ear.

  “I feel like we’ve won a victory,” Ashi answered. “Two days to the coronation. Come back as soon as you can.”

  She released her and Ekhaas turned to Senen. The ambassador nodded to her. “Swift travel and great glory, Ekhaas duur’kala. Craft your tale carefully—I have a feeling it will be one for the ages.”

  Ekhaas returned her nod and, like Dagii, walked to the exit from the stands without looking back.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  25 Sypheros

  The next visitor Geth had to his chamber didn’t arrive with the same stealth as Chetiin. There was a knock at the door and Ashi entered. Midian slipped in after her and Geth caught a glimpse of Aruget speaking with the guards before the gnome closed the door again. Both wore tense expressions. Geth was certain Ashi’s was genuine; he wasn’t so sure about Midian’s.

  “I ran into Midian in the entrance courtyard,” said Ashi.

  “Ran into, nothing. I was looking for you,” Midian said with the kind of desperate cheerfulness people used to cover up stress. “This is the day, isn’t it? I would have waited in the hall outside Geth’s door if his guards didn’t look at me funny every time I walk by.” He turned to Geth. “Sage’s quill, you’re dressed up like kings and queens are coming to call. No, wait—they are. Or at least one is.”

  “Shut it, Midian,” Geth told the gnome. He knew how he looked. The mirror in his chamber told him that. During his time fighting in the Last War, he’d gotten into the habit of preparing early on the days that he would see battle. Sometimes very early. His comrades had mocked him for it until they’d realized that the earlier Geth rose, the worse his temper before the battle was likely to be. Tariic’s coronation was a kind of battle and Geth had risen very early. His thick hair was washed and brushed and tied back. His clothes—fine trousers and a crimson shirt, a close-fitting vest of black leather stitched with polished bronze plates in the hobgoblin style—were all new, chosen by Razu and tailored to fit him. The great gauntlet on his right arm was as polished and bright as the black steel could ever be. Wrath hung at his side. He’d been ready since before dawn, and the coronation wouldn’t take place until the sun had passed noon.

  Unlike human courts, ghaal’dar tradition not only permitted but required that arms and armor be worn in the presence of rulers as a sign of service and respect. Wrath and the gauntlet were a comforting weight, even if they weren’t the weapons he would need today. He looked to Ashi.

  He didn’t need to say anything. She held out an innocent-seeming bundle wrapped in coarse sackcloth and tied with rough cords. Geth took it and laid it on the table beside the chest that held the Rod of Kings. The cords were intricately knotted. Geth simply cut them. More sackcloth had been wadded up around an inner wrapping of fine linen that reminded him disturbingly of a shroud. He folded it back.

  Purple byeshk forged into a shaft as long as his forearm, as thick as his wrist, and traced with strange symbols winked up at him. The rod that lay among linen and sackcloth might have been the true rod instead of the false.

  A slip of paper had been wrapped around it. He pulled it free and read the crisp, flowing script upon it. Balance owing: Kech Volaar tales of the daashor, Geth to bring the sword for my examination. You hold an exceptional piece of work. I should charge you more. Don’t tell anyone else my name!

  Geth smiled at an image of Tenquis writing the brief note. Midian tried to peer at the message. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.” Geth folded the paper and tucked it inside his vest, then glanced at Ashi. “Did you have any trouble getting it from him?” he asked, taking care not to mention Tenquis by name.

  Ashi was just as cautious. She shook her head. “He wasn’t expecting Aruget, though. He made him wait outside.” She looked down at the false rod. “It looks perfect, doesn’t it?”

  “Put them together,” urged Midian.

  Geth nodded and drew the keys to the chest up from inside his shirt. The three locks made heavy clicks as they opened. The true Rod of Kings lay like a slug among folds of black silk. Geth picked it out and held it next to the false rod. Tenquis’s work really was exceptional. The two rods were identical.

  Midian whistled, his blue eyes wide. “You wouldn’t want to get those mixed up.”

  “Our man thought of that,” Ashi said. “There’s an extra mark carved on the end of the false rod so it’s possible to tell them apart.”

  Geth pushed the linen and sackcloth down so he could inspect the end of the rod. A faint spiral marked the byeshk, unmatched on the true rod. “What about the magic?” he asked.

  Ashi grinned, reached down, and picked up the false rod.

  Something about her changed almost instantly. Geth couldn’t have said exactly what it was. She seemed taller somehow. The blue-green colors of her dragonmark seemed brighter, the dark gold of her hair richer. Something stirred in him—he felt like he was in the presence of greatness. The effect was subtle but strong. Her words, when she spoke, were as stirring as one of Ekhaas’s stories.

  “Concentrate,” she said, “and you can fight it. It’s not as powerful as you think.”

  Geth blinked and pushed back. The illusion of glory and greatness slipped away and Ashi was herself again. He whistled. “Grandfather Rat! Even Haruuc would have been satisfied with that.”

  “You could never feel the effect of the rod when Haruuc held it, but it was almost exactly like that.” Ashi handed the false rod to Geth. It felt no different in his hand than the true rod, a heavy bar of cold metal, but Ashi and Midian’s eyes turned to him like a needle to lodestone. Midian’s smile faded, however. “That’s bad,” he said. “The true rod doesn’t have that effect when you hold it. People might be suspicious.”

  “Rat.” He was surprised Tenquis hadn’t thought of that.

  Or maybe he had. Geth replaced the true rod in the chest and moved the false rod to his gauntleted hand. Ashi’s eyes refocused. Midian shook his head. Geth nodded in satisfaction at Tenquis’s work and a lightness he hadn’t felt since before Haruuc’s death settled over him. Their plan was going to work! “Just like the true rod,” he said. “You need to touch it with bare skin.”

  “Brilliant,” said Midian. “Now, what about the true rod?”

  Geth reached out and closed the lid of the chest. The triple locks snapped closed. “It will be safe here for now,” he said. “We’ll find another place for it after the coronation. And after that—”

  “Ekhaas and Dagii’s return?” Midian asked. He made a pinched face. “We’re putting an awful lot of faith in their survival.”

  “I’d rather assume their survival than count on their deaths,” Ashi said hotly. “If th
ey don’t come back, we’ll deal with the rod on our own—until then, I’m happy knowing that the danger is past.” Her lips twitched and curled. “Rond betch, we did it. Tariic will take the throne with the symbol of rulership that Haruuc wanted his successor to have. Is there a better tribute than that?”

  “Maybe not going to war with Valenar?” asked Midian. But he sighed and his face unwound into a smile as innocent as if he hadn’t plotted Haruuc’s death. “Lords of the Host, I guess it could be worse, couldn’t it? Haruuc wanted Darguuls to be united and they are. Maybe Dagii will spank the elves hard enough that they’ll ride home with pillows on their saddles.”

  Geth forced a smile onto his face. Maybe they still had to deal with the gnome’s treachery and maybe Ekhaas and Dagii were still at risk—even if they did have Chetiin to back them up—but Midian and Ashi were right about one thing. Darguun was safe from the danger that had brought down Haruuc. He closed his armored fist around the false rod and felt a little pulse from Wrath.

  Even if no one else would ever know the truth of what they had accomplished, the Sword of Heroes approved.

  The plain little room that opened onto one side of the dais in the throne room had memories attached to it—not good ones. Here Geth had witnessed the argument that had broken the friendship between Haruuc and Chetiin. From here and out onto the dais, Geth had followed Haruuc in the wake of that argument and discovered the terrible influence that rod held over its wielder. Into this room, he had led Ashi in a desperate effort to reach Haruuc and use her dragonmark to break the rod’s hold on him, only to watch as he was struck down.

  It was still too easy to think of the assassin as Chetiin. Another of the shaarat’khesh, Geth reminded himself, services paid for by Midian.

  He also tried to remind himself that the small room would soon also have a more triumphant memory attached to it. From here, Tariic’s reign as lhesh of Darguun would begin—although it was hard to be optimistic when the air in the room was stifling from the bodies crowded into it. Tariic, wearing bright armor of brass-chased steel, the chestplates worked into the pattern of a skull, the helmet riveted with rows of sharp blades. Razu, staff in hand, fussing as she awaited the arrival of the priests of Dol Arrah, Dol Dorn, and Balinor. A hobgoblin servant, likewise awaiting the appearance of the priests, held the spiked crown of Darguun on a velvet cushion. Daavn of Marhaan, grasping Tariic’s sword. Aguus of Traakuum, carrying a heavy cape of tiger skin edged in the soft white fur of a tiger’s belly. Munta the Gray, balancing a tray holding a pitcher of water and a silver basin.

  And Geth, holding the false Rod of Kings. The shifter who had claimed—for nearly three weeks—the throne of a goblin nation and in doing so had saved it. His mouth curved into a grin.

  “You look pleased with yourself,” said Munta. “Ready to give up the rod?”

  “More than you know.”

  Munta laughed. “I’ll tell you something Haruuc told me,” the old hobgoblin said. “Sometimes he wanted to leave the throne behind and go back to being the warlord of Rhukaan Taash or even just a warrior of the clan. He couldn’t, though. The throne held him tight.”

  “He told me something like that once, too.”

  Munta’s ears flicked and he smiled. “You’re luckier than most warriors who leave the battlefield to take a throne, Geth. You’ve tasted power but you have the chance to walk away—and without anybody trying to kill you!” He laughed again.

  Geth laughed with him. Heads around the room turned to look at the pair of them. The stares didn’t bother Geth. He felt a flush of confidence. Beyond one of the room’s two doors, the throne room was full of all the warlords of Darguun and all the ambassadors and envoys in Rhukaan Draal. He could hear them. Soon the responsibility for Darguun would be in Tariic’s hands. All he had to do was keep the true rod hidden for a little longer. For a moment, he even dared to dream about what he’d do after they’d found a way to deal with the true rod. He had friends in Fairhaven in Aundair and in Zarash’ak in the Shadow Marches that he could trust to keep a secret. The stories he’d be able to tell them …

  Across the room, Daavn said something to Tariic. The new lhesh laughed at it, but Daavn’s eyes darted toward Munta. The old warlord didn’t seem to notice, but there was something in Daavn’s gaze that Geth didn’t like. Something cunning. Something scheming.

  The confidence he felt coalesced into a need to act. He’d held off telling Tariic about Vounn d’Deneith’s suspicions of Daavn for lack of any hard evidence. He’d never gotten the chance to bring Daavn and Ko the changeling face-to-face to see if there was any recognition between the two of them. Maybe there was one last thing he could do before he passed power on to Tariic.

  He left Munta and crossed the room to the two warlords. “Tariic,” he said, ignoring Daavn, “I need to talk to you for a moment. Alone.”

  He tipped his head to the door that opened into a corridor beyond the little room.

  Under his helmet, Tariic smiled. “Of course.” He nodded to Daavn—who shot Geth an angry glare—and led the way out the door. Once they were in the corridor, he sighed extravagantly. “Maabet, if you think it’s hot in there, you should try wearing this.” He rapped his helmet. “What did you need to talk about?”

  He seemed more relaxed than Geth had seen him since Haruuc’s death, but then Geth felt more relaxed, too. It almost seemed wrong to spoil that. He did it anyway. “It’s Daavn,” he said. “I think he’s been getting close to you so that he comes into power when you take the throne. Some of us think it may actually have been him, not Keraal, behind the attempt to kidnap Vounn. We don’t have anything more than guesses right now, but the changeling in the dungeon who made the attempt might be able to—”

  “Wait.” Tariic held up his hand and Geth stopped with the explanation still on his tongue. Tariic smiled. “I know.”

  Geth almost choked. “You … knew?”

  “I’m not stupid, Geth. I grew up in Haruuc’s court. I’ve known politics all my life.” He lowered his hand. “I didn’t know about the kidnapping, but I’ll ask him about it after the coronation.”

  “But why let him get close?” Geth asked. “He’s using you.”

  “No. I’m using him.” Tariic’s ears, poking out through holes in the helmet, twitched. “A king—a lhesh—needs someone he can trust. My uncle had Munta, then his three shava, and then you. I’d never take Daavn as shava, but as the saying goes in Sharn, you can always trust a greedy man to watch out for himself. It’s handy to have someone like Daavn around.”

  “Oh.” Geth’s confidence fell as limp as an empty wineskin.

  Tariic knocked his knuckles against the steel of his great gauntlet. “Don’t worry, Geth. I keep an eye on him. I know what he’s doing and I won’t let him get beyond my control. I appreciate that you tried to warn me.” He nodded at the rod. “I appreciate that you took care of that for me, too.”

  Geth forced a smile. “It might not have been you that the warlords chose as lhesh.”

  Tariic’s ears stiffened and his eyes turned hard. “No,” he said. “It was always going to be me. I was always going to be lhesh.”

  The hair on Geth’s arms and on the back of his neck rose. He didn’t have a chance to say anything, though. Tariic’s eyes shifted to look past him and the new lhesh said, “Finally. You’re here.”

  “Your guards wouldn’t let us in,” answered a thin, shrill voice that struck Geth as strangely familiar.

  “That won’t be a problem again.” Tariic opened the door into the little room and called, “Razu, join us.”

  Geth turned around—and stared in shock at the bugbear who filled the corridor and the old, blind goblin woman who sat on his shoulder. The hair on his arms and neck rose even higher. Pradoor still wore the same ragged dress she had when he’d set her free from the dungeons of Khaar Mbar’ost, but now she was wrapped in a fine, dark green mantle as well. Makka wore the bear hide vest Geth remembered from the Marguul camp in the mountains. Apparently he�
�d survived the mortal wound Ashi had dealt him after all. The thick hair of his chest had recently been gashed in a savage design: a serpent with the outstretched wings of a bat.

  Makka looked at him and his black eyes narrowed. His hand moved to the sword—Ashi’s bright Deneith honor blade!—that hung from his belt but Pradoor slapped the back of his head and his hand dropped.

  Geth heard the tap of Razu’s staff on the floor, then he heard the mistress of rituals gasp.

  “Razu,” said Tariic, “there’s been a change of plan. The priests of the Sovereign Host won’t be participating in the coronation. This is Pradoor. She’ll be taking their place. If everything else is ready, we can proceed.”

  Ashi shifted her weight from foot to foot in an almost imperceptible movement. Vounn had tried to teach her the technique as an indispensable skill of courtly manners, a way to make standing through long speeches and parties bearable. At the time, Ashi had been amused—it was the same trick she had learned as a hunter, a way to keep legs and feet from aching as she waited for prey. Now, after months as a part of House Deneith, she knew better. Hunting and attending court weren’t so very different after all.

  The throne room of Khaar Mbar’ost was filled and everyone was standing. The carved wood benches that provided seating for the assembly of warlords had been moved out. Dust had been shaken from the clan banners that covered the walls. Braziers had been heaped with incense that gave off the resinous smell of cedar. The tall windows behind the blocky throne showed a blue sky and a city at peace, though Ashi knew that the streets around and the plaza before Khaar Mbar’ost were actually packed with a lively crowd. The common people of Rhukaan Draal didn’t attend the coronation except in the form of a delegation of nine individuals plucked from the street and deposited in a corner of the throne room to gawk at the power gathered around them.