Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2

by Don Bassingthwaite

  Midian was pale, with crusted blood on his mouth and one eye swollen, but his voice was bold. “We had a deal.”

  Rage burned in Makka’s gut. He squeezed and Midian squirmed. He squeezed harder, and the gnome gasped.

  Pradoor, seated again on the spindly carved table she favored as a perch, gave him a poke with her stick. He glared at her, then at Tariic. Pradoor might not have been able to see him, but Tariic could—and the lhesh didn’t even blink. Makka eased his grip. Midian slumped a little but Makka held him upright. “I swore an oath of vengeance,” he growled. “Will you ever let me keep it?”

  “My needs come before yours. Let the royal historian go.”

  Daavn started at the title and his mouth dropped open. Makka gave Midian another hard squeeze, then lifted his hand. For a moment, the gnome stood like a startled deer, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Then his little pink slip of a tongue darted out and licked his bloodied lips. “Thank you, lhesh. I promise, you won’t regret this.”

  “You betrayed me and then your friends, Midian,” Tariic said coolly. “You’re an opportunistic little rodent, but don’t think you can dig your burrow a third time.”

  Midian gave a wretched, scraping bow. “Never. Lhesh, when you came to me and said you were looking for a scholar to join your uncle’s search for the Rod of Kings—”

  “Strange,” said Tariic, “I seem to recall that you came to me looking for a way to get into Darguun so you could pursue your research.” He rose so that he towered over the gnome. “I’ll be watching you. Remember that you’ve already had your chance to run but that you chose to bargain for a chance to stay.”

  “I’m yours, lhesh!” He scuttled out of the room.

  Daavn found his voice. “Tariic, I don’t like this.”

  “It’s my decision, Daavn. Midian didn’t let Ashi slip out of Khaar Mbar’ost.” Tariic turned his eyes on Makka. “Or allow her to escape a trap he promised was inescapable. Pradoor, will Ko recover?”

  “I have prayed over him.” Her wrinkled face hardened. “The Dark Six speak to me, Tariic. I agree with Daavn and Makka. Don’t trust the gnome.”

  “I don’t.” The lhesh seated himself again. “But, like Ko, he’s useful. Both have their price. Ko loves money. Midian loves history—and himself.” His ears flicked and he looked at Makka again. “You have the watching of him. If he turns against us, fulfill your oath.”

  “What about Ashi and Geth?”

  “If I don’t find the Rod of Kings at the tiefling’s workshop, I’ll ask them. And when they’ve answered me, you can have what’s left.”

  Makka’s lips drew back from his teeth. “That’s a bad trade.”

  “It’s the only one you’re getting.”

  There was a tentative rap at the door of the chamber and one of the guards of Khaar Mbar’ost entered. He bent his head diffidently, not raising his eyes to Tariic. “Lhesh, you asked not to be disturbed, but this has arrived. The falcon carrying it was delayed by the storm.”

  He held out a metal tube smaller than a goblin’s finger. A band of copper sealed it. Tariic took the thing and gestured for the guard to leave. When the door was closed, he examined the copper band and the design stamped into it, so small Makka saw it only as a darker dent.

  “Dagii,” he said. He broke the seal, pulled the tube apart, and extracted a tightly wound bit of paper. He spread it out. His eyes narrowed and his ears went flat. “Daavn, all warriors in Rhukaan Draal are to be drafted in the city’s defense. Warriors of all clans within a day’s ride are to be summoned.” Tariic flung the paper down. “The Valaes Tairn have brought an entire warclan into Darguun. Dagii will meet them at Zarrthec.”

  Daavn’s ears rose. “An entire warclan? Dagii’s army can’t face that. We’ll reinforce him?”

  “We’ll defend Rhukaan Draal.” A wolf’s smile spread across Tariic’s face. “And Dagii of Mur Talaan will find muut and his death at Zarrthec.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  1 Aryth

  Dawn turned the horizon gray. Cold air trapped smoke and steam from quenched fires close to the ground. Ordered chaos stretched around Ekhaas as Dagii’s army broke camp. The commands of officers were sharp but unnecessary. Every soldier knew what to do. She watched, making note of the expressions on the faces of goblins, hobgoblins, and bugbears as they pulled down tents and packed away gear. Grim. Determined. Excited. Eager.

  Her own belly trembled with anticipation, the bloodlust of the dar rising in her. Fear was a distant emotion. Battle was coming.

  Footsteps, muffled by ground still wet from the previous evening’s storm, emphasized by the rattle of armor, approached from behind her. “No word from Khaar Mbar’ost,” said Dagii.

  “Did you expect any?” She turned around—and stared for a moment.

  Dagii wore the ancestral armor of the warlords of Mur Talaan once more, but it had been cleaned and polished until it flashed even in dawn’s half light. The dents and scratches in the heavy plates were scars of honor. The three tall tribex horns mounted behind his head and shoulders could have been banners.

  Dagii’s ears flicked under her gaze, and he bent his head before he answered. “Time is short. Tariic will do better to prepare Rhukaan Draal. Where will you watch the battle?”

  “From the command hill. If the lhevk’rhu permits it.”

  “He will if the duur’kala of Kech Volaar promises to retreat to safer ground when the battle turns against us.”

  Ekhaas scowled at him. “Duur’kala of the Kech Volaar can take care of themselves. You don’t have to worry about me, Dagii.”

  “I’m not worried about you.” Dagii’s ears flicked again and his face tightened as he heard his own words. He lowered his voice. “I am worried about you, Ekhaas, but I’m worried about what you’ll carry as well. Senen asked you to record the story of our fight against the Valaes Tairn when we thought there were only warbands in Darguun. Now we’re facing a warclan. You have to survive to carry the tale of what happens today.”

  She looked into his eyes, amber meeting gray. “When the time comes,” she said, “I’ll retreat with a sword in my hand and elf blood on my teeth.”

  Dagii’s lips twitched, though he managed to keep a stern face. “Ban,” he said, but Ekhaas could hear a fierce pride in his voice. Her belly trembled again.

  The sun climbed two handspans into the sky.

  Below the low hill Dagii had chosen for his command, below the earthen ramparts thrown up to give a measure of cover, warriors waited in close lines. Ekhaas could pick out the individual companies by their crests and their colors, simple strips of cloth tied to armor or polearms. Seven companies of infantry. Two more companies of cavalry, some mounted on horses, others—in the ancient dar tradition—on battle-trained great cats. Leopards for goblins, tigers for hobgoblins. The cats were the only things that moved, pacing back and forth under the guidance of their riders, always kept carefully distant from the horses.

  “They’re good and hungry,” said one of the handful of warlords Dagii had picked to stand with him on the hill. “Always go into battle on a hungry cat.”

  “Hungry enough to keep them keen,” said another, “but not so hungry they stop to tear into prey. That’s one good thing about horses.”

  Beyond the lines of the army stretched the rolling grassy plain that would be the battlefield. Short grass waved—except where it had been trampled down in a broad swathe before the army—like a long green carpet running for leagues into the east between hills on the north and a low ridge to the south. A well-worn dirt track along its center, passing right under the feet of the waiting army. The plain was a natural passage through this part of the land; both it and the track ended at Zarrthec, and together they were much of the reason for the village’s existence.

  Tii’ator lay at the far end of the track. Ekhaas’s shoulders itched at the memory of the retreat along the plain after the skirmish with the Valaes Tairn and their discovery in the Mournland. The
entire way, she’d expected to feel an elven arrow in her back, though none had come. “They’ll know we’ve found them out,” Dagii had said. “They won’t bother trying to catch us. They’ll launch their attack—and this is the path they’ll travel to reach Rhukaan Draal. They won’t try to hide themselves. They’ll just move fast.”

  “We won’t have much time to prepare,” Chetiin had commented.

  “No. We won’t.”

  Some time later, Ekhaas had realized that Chetiin and Marrow were no longer with them. She hadn’t seen the shaarat’khesh elder or the worg since.

  Scouts left behind had confirmed Dagii’s prediction. If it hadn’t been for the storm that had rolled through, the warclan that rode under the swallow-tailed banner of stars would have been on top of them in the night.

  On the track far out in front of the army, on the very edge of the trampled area, a solitary figure waited on a fine bay horse. Keraal.

  The clear sound of a horn broke the air—and ended in a discordant honk as if the scout who’d blown it had succumbed to a sudden, fatal wound. The first death of the day, thought Ekhaas.

  “They’re close,” said Dagii. “Drummers and pipers, as I ordered.”

  A drum just behind Ekhaas began a low, slow beat. Warpipes droned. More drums and pipes scattered through the companies below joined in.

  The first elves appeared over a rise in the distance, slim red-robed forms on white horses.

  Some paused to stare at the Darguuls gathered before them. Others turned and raced back, maybe to alert their leaders. Still others continued to ride on until Ekhaas could see eyes above veils and arrows nocked on bows, but even they stopped just out of bow range of the waiting army.

  The Valaes Tairn rode in clusters or alone. They had no structure, no formations, no discipline. As increasing numbers appeared and rode up to the edge of range, their lines remained ragged and shifting. If there were officers among them, Ekhaas couldn’t pick them out—or even detect their influence. When the lord of the warclan finally appeared, it was almost a surprise. Only the large, dark crystal that sparkled in his helmet set him apart from other warriors. Even the bearer of the swallow-tailed starry banner seemed more to linger near him than to ride at his side. Ekhaas saw the lord of the warclan speak to one, then another, of the elves close to him, then for a long time, he simply sat and watched the dar.

  Drummers and pipers played on.

  “I have heard that one of the most difficult things about fighting the Valaes Tairn,” Dagii had said the previous night, “is drawing them into a battle. They fall back before a charge. They ride around a stand. They come to a fight on their own terms. Victory is victory.”

  “How do you intend to engage them, then?” a warlord had asked.

  “We make them curious,” Dagii had said, ears flicking. “Then we give them a reason to fight.”

  On the battlefield, Keraal shook out and raised a banner. Tall and narrow, it had until last night been the red silk lining of a warlord’s fine cloak. Now it carried a crest of three black rings, one above the other, each with three stretched slashes along the outside, like a sword blade bent into a circle with the notched edge out. Ekhaas’s heart soared, not just because she’d been the one to supply the design, but for sheer awe at the sight of a banner that had not been raised over a dar army since the beginning of the Desperate Times. Atop the command hill and on the battlefield, she saw warlords and warriors alike stand straighter as they gazed on the crest, ears rising proudly, as instinct stirred in them.

  Words rose in her, and her voice rang over the sound of pipes and drums. “As the armies of the Dhakaani emperor fought, so shall we! Behold the Riis Shaarii’mal! Behold the Three Tearing Wheels of Dhakaan!”

  “Give honor!” shouted Dagii from her side.

  Nine companies of disciplined dar warriors responded in unison, fists striking chests in a single salute sharp as a crack of thunder.

  The Valaes Tairn shifted warily. Ekhaas bared her teeth. The elves knew their ancient enemy—and they knew the symbols of Dhakaan. The Riis Shaarii’mal had flown above countless battles between dar and elves in the time of the empire. To bring it forth again was a challenge, a declaration of rivalry. The leader of the warclan leaned over and spoke with one of the elves beside him. The rider nodded and urged his horse down to meet Keraal.

  “Only one?” growled a warlord on the hill.

  “Patience,” said Dagii.

  Drums and pipes fell silent. The elf reined in his horse a few paces from Keraal. The hobgoblin raised the red banner. “I speak for Dagii of Mur Talaan, lhevk-rhu of these warriors!” he roared in Goblin.

  Behind his veil, the elf’s eyes narrowed in disdain. He answered in the musical tones of Elven, lilting nonsense to many of the dar on the battlefield but clear to Ekhaas. “I speak for Seach Torainar, high warleader of the Sulliel warclan—”

  “Now,” said Dagii.

  The drummer behind Ekhaas brought a stick down hard on the skin of his instrument.

  On either side of Keraal, the trampled sod rose and flew back. Goblins hidden in camouflaged pockets popped up onto their knees, raised compact crossbows, and sighted. The waiting elves jerked in surprise. The elf who had ridden forward cried out and started to wheel his horse, but he was too slow. Ten bowstrings sang and ten bolts flew—

  —and ten scarlet flowers blossomed on the white hide of the elf’s horse. The animal wore light barding, but it wasn’t armored everywhere and the goblin bolts sought any exposed flesh. The horse screamed and bucked at the pain, fighting its rider’s attempts at control. The goblins were up and running from their hiding places, racing up the dirt track to join the army. Keraal turned his horse and retreated as well, but slowly, mockingly. Bows rose among the waiting elves and arrows buzzed but they were too far and their own man, struggling with his horse, blocked true aim.

  The wounded horse shrieked again. It stumbled once and its hindquarters collapsed as the strandpine sap that had coated the goblins’ crossbow bolts burned into its blood. The elf leaped from the saddle and stared in horror at his crippled mount trying to drag itself with its forelegs. Its hind legs kicked uselessly. Then the elf wailed nearly as loudly as his horse, drew his scimitar and leaped forward to slash the beast’s throat. Blood sprayed him, dark against scarlet robes. The horse’s screams fell silent, but the elf’s did not. Still wailing like a madman, he turned and raced after Keraal.

  His cries were joined by others as the ragged lines of the Valenar broke and elves streamed into battle.

  The only things they hold sacred, Chetiin had once said, are their ancestors and their horses.

  Keraal put spurs to his horse and galloped up the track, the Riis Shaarii’mal snapping in the wind of his passage. Arrows loosed by the charging Valenar traced a dark line behind him. Ekhaas stole a glance at Dagii. The young warlord’s face was hard, his eyes intent. He held his left hand in the air, waiting … waiting …

  He brought it down. The piercing voice of the warpipes rose.

  And out at the edge of the battlefield, just behind the holes left by the emergence of the goblin snipers, long ropes snapped up from among the grass, pulled tight by teams of bugbears lurking in the thin woods on either side of the plain. Shards of broken glass worked in among the fibers glittered in the sunlight.

  Charging horses hit the ropes hard. The trees to which they had been lashed thrashed violently, and the heavy stakes that anchored them on the battlefield leaped. The long ropes sagged and snapped, but their damage was done. Horses whinnied and fell, tumbling like toys. They screamed at broken and slashed legs, and their struggling bodies brought down more horses that weren’t quick enough to turn sharply or jump high. Some struggled back to their feet. Others didn’t rise at all. The first charge of the Valaes Tairn had been broken. But there would be another.

  An outraged voice roared in Elvish for an attack, and those elves who had held back surged forward.

  “Form up!” ordered Dagii and the great
drum beat the signal. Lesser drums took it up and the Darguul lines folded and split. Seven squares formed up on the battlefield, shields locked together. Dagii snapped more commands, and five of the squares moved to meet the oncoming elves, warpipes wailing in their midst. Archers among the two companies that remained in the rear sent clouds of arrows arcing down ahead of the marching companies. The elves answered with arrows of their own—arrows that rattled as harmlessly as hail on the locked shields.

  Above the din of battle, Ekhaas didn’t hear Keraal approach, but suddenly he was there. In his hand was clenched the Riis Shaarii’mal. He dropped to one knee and held it out to Dagii. The warlord clapped a fist to his chest.

  “Ta muut,” he said.

  Keraal’s ears flicked. He rose and stabbed the banner’s shaft into the soft ground of the earthworks at the brow of the hill.

  The first wave of Valaes Tairn closed on the Darguuls. The beat of the drum changed, and the squares stopped, two ahead, three behind. Shields parted slightly and spears thrust through. The armored turtles of the squares abruptly became bristling porcupines. Charging elves screamed and howled, demons in their flying red robes. They slashed at the air with their scimitars. Even on the hill, Ekhaas thought she could feel the earth trembling beneath the driving hooves of their horses. She had heard stories that during the Last War, human armies that had faced a Valenar charge had often crumbled before a blow was struck, their lines broken by sheer terror.

  The Darguul lines stood strong. Valenar wheeled away, forced aside by the unyielding spear points. Crowded by the rush behind them, though, they had little room to turn. Many were forced around the two leading squares, splitting like a stream around stones.

  The charge of those who swung too wide to the outside foundered as their horses’ hooves found the third trap hidden under the trampled grass: all of the baskets in Zarrthec and all of the cages of willow switches that an army could weave, hidden under all the loose branches that the forest could provide. Sticks and switches and baskets closed around hooves and legs, doing no damage but fouling the charge as surely as pits of mud. And as the charge slowed, more goblin crossbowmen concealed among the autumn-brown trees at the edge of the plain loosed their bolts—not poisoned this time, but enough to bloody the elves and drop them in their saddles.