“Geth,” Makka growled. “But not Geth.”
Tariic frowned. “Perceptive.” He looked at Geth. “Well?”
“I only met him once,” Geth muttered. “I don’t have much to go on. It would be best if I stayed away from people who know him well. You think this is easy?”
“It’s easier than dying in a corner of my dungeon,” Tariic said. “Show them.”
Geth wrinkled his nose—then his face flowed and changed, becoming dusky-skinned and softly formed with wide eyes milkier than Pradoor’s. Makka’s lips pulled back from his teeth. “Wax baby,” he spat and Pradoor cackled.
The changeling looked more uncomfortable now than he had as Geth. He didn’t look any more uncomfortable, however, than Daavn. The hobgoblin’s ears flicked furiously, almost pulling back flat. He stepped in close to Tariic and tried to whisper in his ear. Makka caught some of his words. “You can’t trust a changeling, Tariic. They’re treacherous—”
Tariic pushed him back. “Daavn,” he said coldly, “this is Ko. Have you ever met before?”
Daavn drew a breath, then spread his hands. “If we have, I didn’t know it. You know what they say about changelings: they all look the same or else completely different—”
The lhesh cut him off. “Ko, have you ever met Daavn of Marhaan before?”
“Not as such,” Ko said without hesitation. “But I met a masked hobgoblin named Wuud once who sounded a lot like him. He hired me to do a job. That job landed me in your dungeon.”
Daavn’s ears flattened. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“I do,” said Tariic. “You tried to undermine my uncle by having Vounn d’Deneith kidnapped, Daavn. Somehow Vounn guessed it. She told Geth. Geth tried to warn me about you.”
The warlord of the Marhaan was still and silent for a long moment. Finally, he bowed his head. “I schemed against Haruuc, lhesh. But remember that I also guided you to power.”
“You guided me as a boatman without oars or rudder guides his boat down the Ghaal—I brought you with me.” Even without crown or rod, it seemed to Makka that Tariic radiated command. “The relationship between us is changed, Daavn. Remember that.” He turned his head. “Have you learned from this, Pradoor?”
Pradoor sat for the space of five heartbeats, as if listening to some distant voice only she heard, then ducked her head as well. “I have, lhesh.”
“I am pleased.” He gestured to Ko. Makka watched, his skin creeping, as the changeling’s features once again shifted into those of Geth. Tariic spread his arms on the arms of the chair, sitting as if it were the blocky throne of Darguul. “Now,” he said, “the real Geth could possibly be hiding anywhere in Rhukaan Draal. Our chances of finding him are slim. However, I’m certain that there must be someone who knows where he is.”
He rose and strode to the false rod, plucking it from its velvet resting place and turning it in his hands. “There could be several reasons Geth might want the rod. Perhaps to sell to another nation. Perhaps as some remembrance of Haruuc. In any case, the scheme isn’t something he could have created on his own.” His smile exposed his teeth. “He’s brave and stubborn, a good fighter, but not a schemer. He must have had help.”
“Ashi d’Deneith,” Daavn said.
“Ekhaas of Kech Volaar. Dagii of Mur Talaan. Munta the Gray. Any of those close to him.” Tariic seated himself again, holding the rod at an angle against one outstretched knee. “However, Ekhaas and Dagii are beyond our reach—for now. Munta, if he is involved, is nothing. An old man with fading power. Ashi … Ashi is of interest.” He flicked his ears. “And protected by House Deneith.”
“You’ve declared that the gods are not above you, Tariic,” said Pradoor. “Why should the dragonmarked houses be?”
Tariic smiled and contemplated the false rod again. “They’ll fall in time,” he said, “but not yet. We need another way to reach Ashi.”
“Or we forget her,” Daavn suggested. “What about Midian Mit Davandi? He’s only here because you hired him. You’re his only protector.”
Blood seemed to thunder in Makka’s skull, driven by the recitation of the hated names—and an abrupt understanding of what Pradoor meant when she talked about the turning of ages. Fate seemed to focus on him at that moment, as if it was the will of the Fury that he should be here, in this room, at this moment. He stepped forward, feeling like he walked through water. “I can reach Ashi,” he said. “I can reach any of them. I hunt them already—the Fury knows my oath.”
Ko and Daavn flinched back. Pradoor smiled, her ears twitching. Tariic’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you hunt them?” he asked. “Who are you?”
“They destroyed my tribe’s camp and turned my tribe against me. I have taken an oath of vengeance. The Fury guides me. She blesses this hunt.” He crossed his arms over the bat-winged serpent on his chest. “I am Makka.”
The lhesh’s ears pricked up. “Makka?” His eyes went to the sword at Makka’s side and the bugbear knew he recognized it now. A thoughtful expression passed over Tariic’s face, then he smiled. “I have heard of you, Makka, though the stories I’ve heard are from another point of view.”
Daavn moved closer to him. “Tariic, you can’t let him—”
Tariic waved him to silence, gaze still on Makka. “Priests of the Fury aren’t known for their subtlety,” he said.
“I’m no priest,” said Makka, showing his teeth. “I am the Fury’s warrior. When I fight, I fight. When I stalk, I stalk. I can reach Ashi of Deneith for you—and her house will know nothing of it.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
25 Sypheros
The healing song took only moments to work through Marrow’s flesh, but they were moments in which Ekhaas could hear commands, screams, and curses from beyond the trees. The instant the deep puncture closed, leaving a hairless patch the size of her thumb among Marrow’s dense fur, Ekhaas rose and crept cautiously up the game trail that led out of the grove. Chetiin and Marrow came after her—or at least she thought they did. Goblin and worg vanished in the shadows. Ekhaas had a sense that they were still close, but she couldn’t see or hear them.
At the edge of the trees, she paused, sword ready, and looked out.
The tall grass of the hillside had been trampled by a fight. The sentry who had been so confused by Dagii’s curt nod lay dead a little way up the slope. Blood from a slashed throat soaked the ground, but his bell-covered wrist remained outstretched.
Lithe forms in red garb and veils flowed over the hill like cats racing across a field. At the edge of the camp, hobgoblins and bugbears formed up into a perimeter two ranks deep. Shields and spear points flashed in the firelight. Ekhaas recognized the voices of Keraal and the two lhurusk who commanded the soldiers shouting orders—contradictory orders, she thought. The surprise of their attack spoiled by Dagii’s strategy of bells, the Valaes Tairn prowled just beyond spear’s reach, looking for an opening.
“The ranks are too thin,” said Chetiin. “They’ll crumble.” His scarred voice seemed to come from right beside her, but she had to look twice to find him and Marrow.
“At least the elves aren’t riding.”
His ears twitched. “Not all of the Valaes Tairn fight from horseback. It doesn’t make them any less deadly.”
Ekhaas scanned the hillside for Dagii and found him hugging the wall of the ruined clanhold. A hobgoblin on his own—the elves would turn on him as soon as they spotted him. He needed a distraction to give him the chance he needed to join his soldiers.
He looked down the hill and saw her. As if he guessed her thoughts, his ears went back and he shook his head. She raised her ears in response and bared her teeth. Then she focused her attention on a point of the hillside below the camp and behind the prowling elves. A breath drew up her song.
The magic passed her lips as a whisper, but burst out behind the elves with the roar of a tiger.
The attackers whirled. Whatever misgivings Dagii might have had about her causing a di
version, he took advantage of the moment’s confusion. He charged, howling a battle cry. His sword slashed one elf across the back of the leg, taking him down, then cut deep into the belly of another who spun to meet him. Realizing they been tricked, more elves turned to him. The ranks of Darguul soldiers strained as warriors took an unthinking step, ready to defend their commander.
“Hold position!” Dagii roared. “Archers, give cover!”
From high up in the ruins of Tii’ator clanhold, arrows spat down on the ground between Dagii and the elves. One took an elf warrior, pinning veil to throat. Another struck a shoulder, but most only forced the elves to check their advance. A few arrows hissed up from the base of the hill—the Valaes Tairn had archers in concealment as well—but they fell short. The ranks of hobgoblins opened like a parting curtain and Dagii plunged through. He disappeared, but his voice rose. “Archers, loose!”
Arrows fell again, this time carefully aimed. The elf who had taken an arrow in his shoulder took a second in his chest. Other elves danced back, some struck, others simply avoiding the deadly rain. They were on all sides of the camp though, and the archers in the ruins were forced to divide their efforts. Ekhaas saw one of the hobgoblins silhouetted for a moment against the starry sky; the heavy bow he carried seemed too thick to bend, yet bend it he did, and another elf died.
“Form up—double fortress!”
The thin lines of the Darguul perimeter dissolved and reformed into two solid rectangles of soldiers parallel to each other with camp and campfires between them. Ekhaas caught another glimpse of Dagii. He’d claimed a helmet and a shield. Three other hobgoblins clustered around him for a moment: Keraal with his chain and the two lhurusk. Keraal and one of the lhurusk were nodding, but the other one seemed inclined to argue. His hand thrust toward the second formation of soldiers.
Dagii’s fist, still wrapped around the hilt of his sword, punched out and cracked him in the jaw. The struck hobgoblin staggered, then ducked his head and joined the distant column. Dagii sent the other lhurusk with him, then he and Keraal melted into the first formation.
“Archers, hold!”
The arrows stopped. For a moment, the night was still, the Valenar waiting for the Darguuls to move, the Darguuls waiting for the Valenar.
Then a scimitar flashed up, whirling around the head of its wielder as she let out a high, musical war cry—and abruptly the night was filled with war cries. The elves ran at the defenders, not as disciplined dar might, but singly, each elf fighting alone. They darted and cut and dodged, their red garb like dancing flames in the night.
“Hold position!” Dagii commanded. “Hold!”
The wave of elves broke and receded for a moment, and Ekhaas saw that for all its apparent ferocity, that attack had been a show. She couldn’t see the faces of the veiled elves, but their posture was stiff and their weapons trembling. They were disappointed, she guessed. The mock attack had been intended to break the enemy formation and draw them out. The Darguuls had resisted.
An elf voice screamed. The wave crashed forward again.
This time, the scimitars flashed out in earnest. “Forward ranks, attack! Archers, loose!” roared Dagii.
Spears thrust at the elves. A few found flesh, but the elves were clearly used to this tactic and many slid or ducked to come up inside the reach of the first rank—only to encounter spears jabbed forward by the second rank underneath the arms of their comrades. At the same time, the first rank of Darguuls dropped their now useless spears and drew swords. Arrows rained down on those elves who hung back or tried to pull away, making retreat almost as dangerous as staying close.
And yet a band of elves had leaped into the gap between the two rectangles of dar, leaping bedrolls and campfires. They didn’t, however, attack the defenders, and Ekhaas knew immediately what they were up to. They were going for the gaping charred doors of Tii’ator. They would try to take the ruined clanhold and seize the high ground from the hobgoblin archers.
She started to rise, to shout a warning, but Chetiin grabbed her hand and pulled her back down. “Dagii knows!” he rasped—just as the warlord of the Mur Talaan shouted out, “Rear ranks, close!”
The rear ranks of each rectangle spun around and slammed together like the jaws of a vise. The running elves found themselves trapped. Scimitars turned against heavy dar swords as they tried to fight their way clear.
Chetiin drew breath through his teeth. “The elves will call for their archers soon. Marrow, with me.” He turned black eyes on Ekhaas. “Stay hidden! The elves will be looking for a spellcaster now. Hopefully they’ll think you’re fighting among the ranks in the camp.”
He turned and disappeared without another sound into the shadows. Marrow padded along with him, cold vengeance in her eyes. Ekhaas looked after them for an instant, then up at the struggling elves and dar, and made her decision. She wasn’t going to stay out of the fight like a coward.
She rose to her knees, watching the battle and at the same time listening to the darkness. After a long moment, she heard a muffled thump, like a falling body, from the direction Chetiin had gone. At least one of the unseen elf archers was no longer a danger. She crept forward in the long grass, then stood, singing as she moved. Magic danced along her skin. She felt it as a tingling, a kind of scraping as if her flesh were being gently drawn apart; then, like a soap bubble, the feeling burst. The song flicked away from her and took on another form.
Three more Ekhaases rose out of the grass alongside her. Thin echoes of song tied them to her—what she did, they imitated. She strode up the slope of the hill, closer to the battle. Elves who had managed to escape the close fighting and retreat for the moment cried out as they saw her. Or rather, as they saw them.
The warriors acted just as she’d hoped they would, in the heat of battle seeing four figures, lightly-armed scouts perhaps, instead of just one surrounded by magical illusions. Three of the elves broke off and came gliding toward her, eager for an easy kill to dishearten their opponents. Ekhaas smiled and eased sideways a little so the Valaes Tairn were across the hill from her rather than uphill with Darguuls at their back—
One of the elves brought up a bright throwing knife, hurling it with a snap of his arm.
She threw herself aside, a move that was both too slow and completely unnecessary. The knife flashed in the air and plunged through one of her illusory duplicates. Ekhaas felt as much as she saw her double wink out of existence.
Even if the knife hadn’t struck it, she’d given herself away. Not even the most coordinated troops would dive for cover with the same movement. She spoke a little Elven, more than enough to understand one of the elf warriors as he pieced together what had just happened. “Spellcaster!” he shouted. “She’s a spellcaster!”
No time now to draw them closer to her. Ekhaas cursed, rolled back to her feet—the elves were charging, bounding across the hill—and sang again. Not an illusion this time. Not a diversion. Not a stunning burst of sound. The song that rippled from her lips was dark and deep, a haunting song that played across hearts like footsteps in an empty room or the distant cry of carrion birds. The strides of the elves faltered. Above their veils, their eyes grew wide. One began to tremble, his scimitar falling from his hand.
They turned and fled, gripped in the terror inspired by her song. They weren’t the only ones—two more, caught by the edge of the magic, fled with them. Another two, perhaps sensing a shift in the tide of battle, went too.
Seven of the Valaes Tairn taken out of the fight. Perhaps not dead, but as good as until they stopped running. Her side of the hill was nearly empty of living elves. Only a handful were still on their feet. The fighting had shifted to the other side of the hill, beyond the remains of the Darguul camp, and even that sounded like it was growing less frantic.
The same commanding elf warrior whose whirling scimitar had signaled the Valenar attack seemed to realize the same thing. She thrust away from the hobgoblin she had been fighting, raised her scimitar again, and this t
ime Ekhaas heard distinctly the orders she cried. “Arrows! Feather me these dogs!”
But no arrows fell out of the darkness except those loosed from the ruined clanhold. The elf’s veil had been dragged aside in the fighting and Ekhaas saw her fine-featured face twist in rage. Her scimitar fell as the hobgoblin she’d thrust away came at her again and he went down with his shoulder half cut from his body. Ekhaas ran forward, but the elf was turning away, hand reaching into a pouch to produce a ceramic flask very much like the one the elf in the trees had carried.
With a swift motion, she hurled it into a campfire burning at the back of a knot of hobgoblins.
The fire erupted into a column of gold-white flame that blasted all those nearby, defenders and attackers alike, off their feet. The Darguul defenders took the worst of it though: their backs smoldered and two hobgoblins lay where they fell, unmoving.
The elf commander turned again, a second flask in her hand, and took aim at another fire. “Stop her!” Ekhaas shouted.
A chain hissed out of the battle and wrapped around the elf’s raised forearm. The whipping metal spun up her wrist and hand, hitting the flask—and shattering it. Shards and golden dust rained down over half of the elf’s face. Her eyes opened wide and she shrieked in agony. Red welts streaked her skin wherever the dust touched. She dropped her scimitar and groped at her face, but Keraal still held the end of his chain. With a tremendous heave, he yanked the elf off her feet to squirm on the ground. His free hand grabbed the fallen scimitar and drove it into her back.
Shrieks and squirms ended. Once again silence fell on the night as Valaes Tairn and Darguuls stared.
Then the dar were shouting in victory and the last of the elves were fighting to escape. Hobgoblins moved to pursue the red-garbed forms that darted into the night but Dagii’s stern voice called them back. “Let them go! The battle is ours!”
A cheer rose. A trio of bugbears grabbed Keraal where he stood, panting for breath, over the body of the elf commander, and hoisted him onto their shoulders. Keraal stared around in surprise and his eye fell on Ekhaas. He grabbed one of the bugbears and tried to point at her, but Ekhaas just shook her head and stepped back.
Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2 Page 22
