Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2

by Don Bassingthwaite

  “Stories,” said Dagii. “I need to fight them myself.”

  “You approve of this?” she asked Chetiin. The old goblin frowned.

  “I didn’t know about it until now. It’s not the shaarat’khesh way.” His frown became thoughtful. “It makes some sense—if the Valenar don’t decide to overwhelm you in numbers. Their idea of honor is not atcha or muut. To them, a victory is a victory, no matter how it’s achieved. The only things they hold sacred are their ancestors and their horses. You can’t count on a fair fight.”

  Dagii’s face was calm, his voice assured. “They respond to the same challenge Haruuc put to the warlords of Darguun. Dar and elves are ancient enemies. I am told the Valenar venerate their ancestors by testing themselves. Their ancestors fought our ancestors. This will be a matter of honor—such as their honor is—for them. They won’t try to crush us, I think, but only send a force equivalent in strength to ours. Just enough to best us.” A spark entered his voice and his ears stood up straight. “I want to see how many they consider ‘enough.’”

  Chetiin’s expression tightened. “Geth was right to send me to protect you. You’re mad.” He flicked the elf ears to Marrow, who snapped them out of the air and began to chew at the tough cartilage.

  A chill passed through Ekhaas. “If their force is evenly matched to ours, both sides could suffer heavy losses.”

  “Then it will be a test of strategy and will. If we can’t beat them here, how will we beat them if they come against the main army?”

  “The main army is bigger,” Ekhaas said.

  Dagii smiled—and put his hand on her knee. The touch was hesitant but it wasn’t fleeting or accidental. It lingered and Ekhaas could feel it even through the stout steel-studded leather she wore. It took her breath away. Dagii’s face had turned a little dark, but he kept his voice steady. “We’ll beat them, Ekhaas. I promise you.” When he moved his hand, he slipped it away as if reluctant to break the moment of contact.

  Ekhaas tried to find words. Chetiin had looked away, politely ignoring the awkward, intimate moment.

  “What about the scouts?” Ekhaas managed to say.

  Dagii’s smile faded. “They have orders to go back to the main army if they return and we’re not here,” he said. “Not all of them are truly scouting either—a few have stayed and concealed themselves to watch Tii’ator. They’ll carry word back to the army if we’re defeated.”

  Ekhaas’s ears flicked. “I begin to doubt your promise of victory. If we’re defeated, will the scouts be able to evade the Valenar?”

  “I sent out the best available. Only taarka’khesh of the Silent Clans would have been better,” he said.

  Chetiin looked back at that and even Marrow perked up in the midst of her chewing. Ekhaas recalled what Chetiin had once told her, that the worg’s pack had an ancient alliance with the legendary scouts of the taarka’khesh and that she traveled with him as a favor.

  Dagii nodded at them both. “I tried to make contact with the taarka’khesh,” he said. “I had no response in either Rhukaan Draal or Zarrthec.”

  “The Silent Wolves stay away from Rhukaan Draal at the best of times,” said Chetiin. “They’ve abandoned the city altogether in the wake of Haruuc’s assassination. It isn’t safe for any of the Silent Clans. In Zarrthec, they avoided you because your ties to Haruuc and to Tariic stain you. You’ll have to convince the taarka’khesh of your good will before they’ll work for you.”

  “I thought that might be the case,” Dagii said. “I have faith in those I’ve chosen, though. How we proceed will depend on what information they bring back.” He scraped a patch of dirt clear and leaned forward to draw in it with a stick. “The border of the Mournland, the Ghaal River, Zarrthec, Tii’ator, Ketkeet, Lyrenton, the Orien trade road”—the stick made two crooked lines, one straight line, and four dots in the black soil—“these mark the limits of Valenar raids so far as we know. A worst-case scenario is that the raiding warbands are operating independently, forcing us to chase them down separately.”

  “The Gan’duur did the same thing in their rebellion against Haruuc,” said Ekhaas. “Could Keraal give you insight into that tactic?”

  “I asked him. The Gan’duur sought to starve Rhukaan Draal, It’s not clear what the Valenar are trying to accomplish by burning fields and clanholds in an isolated area.” Dagii tapped his crude map. “Ideally, the scouts will find some kind of central staging area and uncover some clue of the elves’ plans.”

  “An attack on Zarrthec.” Chetiin touched one of the points on the map.

  Dagii nodded. “Maybe, but it seems wrong to me. It’s too obvious.” He made a new mark on the ground, extending the Orien trade road and poking a hole into the middle of it. “The Gathering Stone,” he said. “House Deneith’s primary enclave in Darguun. All of our trade in mercenaries with Deneith flows through there. It would be a difficult target, but a strike against it would be incredibly disruptive.”

  “You think they would attack a Deneith holding?” asked Ekhaas. “They contract mercenaries to Deneith, too.”

  “Attacking the Gathering Stone would hurt us far more than it would hurt them. I’m expecting anything of the Valaes Tairn. Chetiin is right. To them, a victory is a vic—”

  Marrow’s head rose suddenly, her nostrils flaring. She gave a low growl that could almost have been a word and climbed to her feet. Chetiin stiffened and turned around. “Elves!” he said.

  Dagii twisted around. Ekhaas’s head snapped up.

  She was just in time to see a flash of color among the trees and to catch the blur of motion as arrows flew from singing bowstrings. Chetiin twisted and seemed to vanish into the shadows. With a solid thunk, an arrow sprouted from the trunk of the fallen tree. Dagii grunted and turned his twist into a dive in front of Marrow. A second arrow rang on the plates of his armor, bunched up across his shoulders. A third sank into Marrow’s hindquarters, bringing out a yelp of pain, but at least the one meant for her chest had been deflected by Dagii’s actions.

  At almost the same moment, bells jangled loudly up the slope of the hill and closer to the camp. There were other bells as well and voices raised in alarm. “Toh! Toh! Itaa!”

  Someone cried out orders but all of Ekhaas’s attention was on the small clearing and the wood around it. Three arrows. At least three elves, trying to take down their unarmored enemies first. She had to make sure they didn’t get another opportunity. Surging to her feet, Ekhaas focused her will, drew song up from inside of her, and flung it at the trees where color had flashed.

  Sound burst outward in a wave of dissonance. Leaves stiffened and fluttered as if struck by a strong wind, some of them tearing free to dance on the air. For an instant, she caught a glimpse of two elves still clutching short bows as hands covered ears, dark red leggings and short, close-fitting robes worn over light armor fluttering as the leaves fluttered.

  Only two. Where was the third?

  A figure leaped out of the trees to her left. Somewhat shorter than a hobgoblin but far more slender, the elf moved with a grace that made Ekhaas feel heavy and slow. Violet eyes blazed beneath a cloth-swaddled, cap-like helm and above a concealing veil. It was difficult to tell if the elf was male or female beneath the veil and the wrapped robes, but there was a delicacy to the brow above the fierce eyes that made Ekhaas guess female.

  She held a curved scimitar, broad, but elegant as a hawk’s wing, already raised.

  Ekhaas dragged at her own sword, trying to free the blade and knowing she was already too late.

  Then Chetiin leaped out of the shadows, launching himself at the elf’s shoulders and head. He tackled her from the left, where she could not easily bring her scimitar around, and swung across to her back. The dagger he carried flashed—and screeched across a metal gorget hidden beneath the veil. The elf ducked and whirled like a dancer. Chetiin’s legs swung free. He jerked his dagger up. Flesh and fabric tore, then Chetiin leaped clear to land in a cat’s crouch.

  The elf stra
ightened. Her veil hung askew and blood ran from a wound that sliced across jaw and cheek to a pointed ear. She swung her curved sword at Chetiin and missed but continued around in a scything strike at Ekhaas.

  But the shaarat’khesh’s attack had given Ekhaas the moment she needed to draw her own sword. The elven blade met the deep-toothed edge of the heavy hobgoblin blade with a crash that jolted Ekhaas’s arm. She wouldn’t last long in a fight against this warrior! Twisting her sword, she locked the two weapons for an instant and kicked out under them desperately. Her boot sank into the elf’s stomach. The elf staggered back. Chetiin leaped again, this time catching the elf around her neck from behind and using his weight to drag her off balance and backward.

  Ekhaas stepped back, turned her sword, and swung the weapon in a flat arc. She felt the sharp edge of the blade shear through mail, into the flesh underneath, and back out through mail again. The elf wailed—the first sound she had made—then fell back, letting her scimitar drop and groping feebly for the terrible wound in her torso before sliding to the ground, eyes wide in death. Ekhaas spun to face the remaining elves.

  The powerful burst of song had shaken them, but they were pressing in now, bows abandoned for scimitars in the close fight. Lacking the shield he usually carried in combat, Dagii had drawn his sword and waited for their attack. Marrow snarled and circled to their side, limping on three legs, but still moving like a deadly shadow. One of the elves turned to face her.

  Dagii roared and charged, sweeping his sword out and driving the two elves apart. Marrow darted in at one, teeth snapping, to force him back. Chetiin jumped atop the fallen tree and ran along its mossy trunk, joining Marrow. Ekhaas moved to fight at Dagii’s side. The warlord’s sword was swinging and hacking in deadly blows, but the elf managed to parry each one, his curved sword a blur of bright metal. He’d learned from the dead elf’s mistake and was careful not to put his blade in a position where Dagii could bind it. Dagii, however, gave him no room to return his blows. They turned around and around each other, locked in a deadly dance.

  As Ekhaas joined in, however, the elf’s eyes darted at her, then his free hand dipped into his close-fitting robes and emerged holding a rough ceramic flask no bigger than her fist. Ekhaas’s ears rose sharply and Chetiin’s words came back to her. To them, a victory is a victory, no matter how it is achieved.

  She whipped up with her sword, aiming for the elf’s wrist.

  Dagii did the same, striking down.

  The elf, perhaps thinking to seize this opening, thrust his blade forward.

  Dagii’s blow struck first, slashing through the elf’s forearm—and driving down the hand that held the flask. A fraction of a heartbeat later, Ekhaas’s blow caught the severed limb and spun it up. Dagii twisted in close and the elf’s thrust skimmed past his back, shock only just registering on the elf’s face. Dagii shoved him hard with his elbow and sent him reeling back half a dozen paces.

  The ceramic flask fell free of the spinning hand. Hardly thinking, Ekhaas snatched at it in midair and flung it after the dazed elf.

  It hit his armored chest and shattered. Green smoke burst out, writhing up around his shoulders and head. The elf wheezed, shuddered once, and collapsed. The green smoke dissipated, leaving only thin threads of gray drifting from smoldering hair, robes, and veil.

  A snarl and a broken wail brought Ekhaas’s attention back to the last of the elves. Marrow had her jaws around the elf’s sword arm and was shaking her shaggy head. Sword already lost, the elf jerked back and forth—then, with a wet tearing, the arm pulled free of its socket. Armor held the limb in place, but the elf’s face went white and his body limp. Marrow shook her head once more and flung him away

  Chetiin was on him instantly, drawing his knife expertly across an exposed throat.

  The sounds of combat from the camp were growing. Dagii turned for the game trail they had followed into the wood, pushing his way through tree branches and undergrowth. For the first time, Ekhaas saw the arrow—meant for Marrow—that protruded from high on his shoulder, lodged in armor and flesh. “Dagii!” she called after him. “You’re wounded. Let me heal you.”

  He glanced back at her, then reached over his shoulder and snapped the shaft of the arrow between his fingers, breaking it off short. He threw the fletched wood to the ground. “Heal Marrow,” he said. “Follow when you’re able. Chetiin, stay with Ekhaas. Watch for more ambushers.” Then he turned again and plunged on through the trees.

  Ekhaas looked at Chetiin, but the goblin elder only jerked his head at Marrow. Her ears laid back flat, Ekhaas turned to the panting worg, pressed her hand against the beast’s wounded flank and sang as she tugged on the arrow embedded there.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  25 Sypheros

  There’s no sign of the rod,” said Daavn. “And no sign of Geth. Maabet, Tariic, he shouldn’t have been able to walk away from the fall he took, but he did. The guards I have searching haven’t found him. No one has seen him. The streets were practically empty this afternoon—anyone who was out had gathered to see you after your coronation.” He pursed his lips and added, “If we could be more specific in our description, it might help. ‘A wounded shifter wearing a black steel gauntlet’ might jog more memories than just ‘a wounded shifter.’”

  “No,” Tariic said.

  The lhesh stared out of the window into the night. Unlike Tariic, Makka found more to look at inside the chamber than out. The final transition of power in Khaar Mbar’ost seemed to find a reflection here. What had been Haruuc’s royal quarters were now Tariic’s. Old trophies of war had been shuffled out and luxuries brought in. Makka couldn’t have guessed where the rich goods came from other than somewhere beyond Darguun’s borders. Thick carpets in strange patterns. Furniture carved with delicate vines and flowers. Small chests of hammered metal inlaid with bright stones. Sweet-scented candles of uncommonly smooth wax in stands of fine ironwork. All had been haphazardly placed or tumbled about the room, abandoned when Tariic had ordered the servants out.

  A grin of pleasure spread across Makka’s face. He belonged to the Fury. He knew the currents of vengeance. When Tariic had told Pradoor about Geth’s treacherous theft of the Rod of Kings, asking if she knew any prayers or divinations to locate lost objects, he’d recognized the hands of the Six. Pradoor knew no such prayers.

  As if sensing the smile, Tariic turned and met his eyes. His ears went back. “Pradoor, I permit your servant’s presence. I won’t suffer his insolence.”

  “He isn’t my servant, Tariic,” said the old goblin. Pradoor perched on top of a spindly little table, her fingers idly tracing the deep carvings of the dark wood. “He serves the Six. Surely his insolence is no greater than yours.”

  Tariic bared his teeth, speaking between them. “Have care, Pradoor!”

  “Or what?” Pradoor turned white eyes in the direction of Tariic’s voice. “Perhaps you don’t believe you need to humble yourself before the Six, but you need me. My words brought you the people. My words can take them away.” She smiled and her blind gaze softened. “But there is nothing in that for me, lhesh,” she added. “Continue to show favor to the Six as you promised and I will be your most loyal councilor.”

  Tariic’s eyes narrowed, but his ears and face relaxed a little. “You use me, Pradoor.”

  “As you use me, lhesh,” said Pradoor, inclining her head. “Consider this my best advice: why do you seek the Rod of Kings with such vigor when you possess what you need? The rod you hold has power even I can feel. All accept it as if it were the true rod. Rule with it and find Geth in your own time.”

  “The rod was a triumphant gift from my uncle to the nation. It is my duty to recover the true rod. It would be a shame upon him if I didn’t.” A harsher tone crept into his voice. “And as long as I don’t possess the true rod, there is the risk that the false rod will be revealed. I must have the Rod of Kings in my hands as quickly as possible.”

  If Makka hadn’t been looking direct
ly at Tariic—and if Tariic hadn’t been looking at Pradoor as he spoke, his reactions attuned more to her blindness than to anything else—he would have missed the momentary tightening of the lhesh’s face and the darting of his eyes to the false rod where it rested alongside the spiked crown of Darguun on a velvet covered sideboard.

  The grin on Makka’s face slipped away. Tariic’s glance had the look of greed, of a hunter who had made a good kill, but still wanted more. Makka felt a twinge of unease.

  Tariic seemed to regard the fading of his smile as nothing more than proper concern. The hobgoblin’s ears rose and he nodded to Makka. “Yes,” he said, “there’s nothing amusing in that, is there?” He gathered the tiger skin cloak that was still fastened around his shoulders and sat down in a nearby chair. “Until the rod has been retrieved, this matter is a secret. No one outside of this room is to know that Geth is being hunted. Daavn, find another explanation for the death of the guard he murdered on the stairs. The guards who were with you when he jumped—where are they?”

  “Out in the streets. Searching for him.”

  “Deal with them.”

  There was a hard finality in his words. “Mazo,” said Daavn. “But people will start to wonder what’s become of Geth.”

  Tariic sat back. “I have a solution ready,” he said, ears twitching. “One that Geth himself made possible and inspired.” He raised his voice. “You can come in now.”

  A door opened and Geth stepped into the room.

  Makka held back his rage, just as he had when he had faced the shifter before the coronation. To be so close to one of those he had sworn to kill and yet be forced to cooperate with him …

  Yet something was different. Geth looked nervous, but not startled or ready to attack as he had before. He looked at them all in turn before his eyes finally settled on Tariic and he gave a little bow. Pradoor slapped Makka’s thigh.

  “What’s this?” she demanded. “Who’s there?”