Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2

by Don Bassingthwaite

  The Valenar who flowed between the squares fared no better. They found themselves in broad aisles between the forward and back formations with nowhere to go except out to the sides where branches grabbed hooves or onward through narrower aisles between the three rear squares.

  So they raced on—directly into the arrows of the two companies that had stayed behind. More elves fell, but others escaped the trap of the squares.

  “Cavalry!” Dagii ordered and the command drum changed its beat. The rain of arrows stopped and the Darguul cavalry took the field, sweeping in front of the standing companies to meet the elves that had made it through the gauntlet. The Darguul horse thundered across the plain, a moving wedge composed of lances, but now the elves had room to move. They melted away before the charge and answered in kind. They streamed along the sides of the horse formation, scimitars slashing, and where they passed, hobgoblins died.

  But behind the horse cavalry, they met the cats.

  There were no formations for them to evade. The tiger and leopard riders fought as the Valenar did, alone and in clusters. The already-trampled grass became a mass of green and brown as hooves and paws chewed into the ground underneath. Ekhaas watched an elf rider dart close to a hobgoblin, lash out with a scimitar, and wheel away out of sword’s reach. The hobgoblin nudged his tiger mount. The great cat coiled and sprang. Massive claws seized the haunches of fleeing horse and bore it down. The impact flung the elf out of her saddle. A goblin-ridden leopard pounced on her before she could even regain her feet.

  The beat of the drums changed again. The infantry companies pressed forward once more, squares altering shape to become blunt-nosed wedges with the brute strength of bugbears at their head. The horse company reformed and drove in behind them.

  “We have command of the field!” cried one of the warlords on the hill.

  Dagii’s ears pressed flat back against his head. “A blow has been struck,” he growled, “but the battle continues.”

  Beyond the foremost of the charging companies, Ekhaas saw one of the Valaes Tairn raise his hand. An orb of violet glass flashed in his grip.

  Purple-tinged flames exploded at the head of the nearest Darguul company. Bugbears became writhing torches an instant before dropping. Hobgoblins scattered. The marching wedge cracked like a bone thrown into a fire. With a wild cheer, elves wheeled their horses into the broken company as drums sounded and the Darguuls fought to recover their formation.

  Other wizards rode with the elves. Yellow vapors engulfed trees where goblin snipers perched. When they faded, dry leaves and goblins alike lay on the ground beneath. The tiger that Ekhaas had watched bring down a horse fell at the touch of an icy blue ray. Lightning crackled and arced among the spear points of another company. Across the battlefield, flame and frost and lightning ravaged the Darguuls, tearing openings for the Valenar to exploit. Here and there, hobgoblin warcasters responded with blasts of rippling force, but their spells were weak and few—dar were born to war, but elves were born to magic. Lightning-scorched shields parted and a warcaster thrust his staff at an elf wizard. The air shimmered between them, tearing at the elf’s red robes, but he held his ground and responded with a golden bolt that spun the warcaster around and sent him sprawling.

  Arrows followed like a swarm of bees, tearing a hole in the Darguul company. Shields closed again, but the damage had been done and the formation was left with a gouge in its side. The company drew itself together, leaving the corpses of the warcaster and half a dozen warriors behind.

  The early triumph of dar discipline over elven disarray was gone. In the moments when the battle shifted, Ekhaas could count more Darguul bodies on the churned ground than she could Valenar. Elven skill reasserted itself. Many of the Valaes Tairn had abandoned their horses to engage the hobgoblins on foot. The bristling spears of the surviving squares, so effective in warding off cavalry attacks, were little use against lithe foot soldiers who weaved between the shafts and wedged shields apart with scimitars. Armored squares dissolved into thick knots of hobgoblins fighting back-to-back, sword and shield against whirling scimitars. Though the great cats still stalked the battlefield, the remains of the Darguul horse cavalry had been reduced to a handful of mounted units fighting in shrinking clusters.

  At the far edge of the battle, the starry banner of the Sulliel warclan moved into the thick of the fighting.

  Dagii bared his teeth and retrieved his helmet, polished as bright as the rest of his armor. “There is no more command,” he said. “When war calls, all fight.” He scanned the three warlords who had stood with him on the command hill, then thumped his chest with his fists.

  The warlords straightened like junior warriors on parade and saluted in return, then turned and hurried down the back of the hill. Keraal moved to retrieve the Riis Shaarii’mal, but Dagii shook his head. “No.” He looked at Ekhaas. “Take it when you leave.”

  Ekhaas nodded and forced her ears to stand high as she met his gray-eyed gaze. He nodded to her, then slid his helmet over his head. A visor of brass hid the upper half of his face, as if in reverse of veils worn by the Valaes Tairn, and gave him a cold, merciless look.

  He turned to the final four warriors on the hill: the command drummer, the command piper, and Biiri and Uukam, the lhurusk who had accompanied them to Tii’ator. “You will protect Ekhaas duur’kala with your lives. Our muut survives with her.”

  All four answered together. “Mazo, lhevk’rhu!”

  Then Dagii and Keraal were gone, following the warlords down the hill. Ekhaas looked up at the sun. Somehow it had already climbed another handspan and stood now at its zenith, an unblinking witness to the battle.

  A voice shouted below. Ekhaas leaned past the earthworks and gazed down. The two companies that had been held in reserve stood straight. The one on the left, marching beneath the standard of an iron fox, moved forward, ready to take to the field. The lines of the other shifted and spread out, a frail bulwark to protect the command hill. From around the side of the hill came the three warlords, Keraal, and Dagii. The warlords were mounted on good horses and Keraal was on his bay once more, but Dagii rode on one of the finest tigers Ekhaas had ever seen. It was enormous, large even for a tiger. Its striped fur shone like fire and brass flashed from the high-cantled saddle strapped across its back. Its eyes didn’t hold the sinister intelligence of Marrow’s, but there was cunning there and a lust for blood. Under Dagii’s guidance, it loped out to take a place at the head of the company.

  Dagii raised his sword—then whirled it around his head and let loose a battle cry. “Bring honor to Darguun! Attack! Attack!”

  The roar of his tiger nearly drowned out the cry. In an instant, the beast was racing across the battlefield for the nearest cluster of elves. Keraal followed close behind, chain whistling around his head. The warlords and the warriors of the company followed, too, warriors trotting at a pace that ate up the ground, yet kept them in formation. The elves that Dagii had chosen as a target were still just turning when the lhevk’rhu reached them. His sword cut the head from one. The tiger’s claws tore another from his saddle. The weighted end of Keraal’s chain cracked the skull of a third.

  Then they were through and plunging on. The dazed survivors they left behind lived only a few moments longer as the company of the Iron Fox rolled over them. Elves turned to meet the new charge like ants drawn to a dollop of honey. In the midst of them came the swallow-tailed banner of stars, and Ekhaas picked out the crystal-set helmet of the high warleader, Seach Torainar. Dagii must have seen the banner, too. He leveled his sword and shouted again, urging his tiger and his followers on.

  The cheer that answered him came not just from the Iron Fox Company, but from all the Darguuls surviving on the field. New vigor seemed to flow into them, and they struck back at the elves. Formations drew back together. One piper, then another, and another, then even the command piper beside Ekhaas, began to play a fierce, determined tune.

  Ekhaas looked down on the battlefield and clenched h
er teeth tight. The resurgence was glorious—and almost certainly doomed. Slim scimitars outnumbered heavy swords now. For every two elves that Dagii struck down, three more were ready to meet him.

  “He turns muut into atcha,” said Biiri in awe. “If I survive, I will praise him before Lhesh Tariic!”

  “Storytellers will chant his name,” said Uukam. He looked at Ekhaas, his ears high. “Stay as long as you can, Ekhaas duur’kala. Witness the end of a hero!”

  She wasn’t certain she trusted herself to speak. She nodded silently instead—a nod that froze as a slow wind stirred, and the ghost of a song touched her ears. At first it was thin, so thin it could have been an echo, but then it swelled with Senen Dhakaan’s voice, as full and distinct as if the ambassador of the Kech Volaar stood beside her.

  The ghaal’dar Aruget brings news. Ashi d’Deneith has been arrested at Tariic’s orders. A changeling takes Geth’s place. Makka hunts. Beware, daughter of the dirge!

  Breath caught in Ekhaas’s throat. Ashi arrested? A changeling replacing Geth? What was happening in Rhukaan Draal? Her gut twisted. Dagii rode to his doom. The friends she had left behind were in trouble. Chetiin had vanished once more. For the first time since they had found the Rod of Kings and discovered the dangerous secrets it held, she felt very, very alone.

  “Ekhaas?” Uukam asked. “Is something wrong?”

  She raised her head—and shook it. She’d been alone before. She’d traveled and fought alone for years before she’d met Geth, Ashi, and the others. Dagii faced his death. She could do nothing less. Whatever had happened to Ashi and Geth, she might be their only hope. Ekhaas pushed out the knots in her belly and forced herself to breathe again. She could still hear Senen’s song. As long as it lingered, the magic would carry back a reply. She looked down at the struggle on the battlefield, gathered her thoughts, and opened her mouth to sing—

  Behind her, the music of the warpipes ended with a sudden moan from the pipes and a gasp from the piper. She whirled around, Biiri and Uukam moving with her.

  The piper, throat slashed, hung in the arms of an elf. The drummer stood with the scimitar of a second elf at his chest. Six more of the Valaes Tairn crouched on the back edge of the hill, weapons ready.

  Senen’s song faded.

  The elves screamed and charged.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  1 Aryth

  Uukam and Biiri drew their swords and moved in front of her with the reflexes of trained soldiers. Strategy flickered in Ekhaas’s mind. The elves must have made their way through the woods to the back of the hill. They were already too close to blast them with sound or sing fear into their souls. There would be no disabling all of them. This fight would be toe-to-toe and they’d need every sword at hand.

  The elf whose scimitar hovered over the drummer’s chest drew back his blade, ready to strike, as the other elves charged. Ekhaas focused her will on him, drew on her magic, and let loose a wail like a ghost rising from the grave. The elf’s head snapped around, eyes wide. His scimitar paused, trembled.

  And the hobgoblin drummer struck back. The short thick rods of brass that had beaten the great drum knocked the scimitar out of the elf’s hand, and cracked across his face. The elf reeled back but the hobgoblin stayed with him, raining blows with lethal rhythm.

  Then the other elves were on her, Biiri, and Uukam. Curved blades crashed on the warriors’ shields. Two couldn’t hold back six—seven, as the elf who had killed the piper dropped his victim and joined the attack. Ekhaas snatched her sword from its sheath and thrust her free hand into the face of the first Valenar to come at her. Song burst from her throat, and light as bright as a sliver of the noon sun flared from her palm. Dazzled, the elf fell back a pace. Ekhaas stepped after him, chopping down with her sword. It screeched off of armor beneath the red robes, but the elf cried out and retreated.

  Another took his place, swinging backhand as he whirled past. Ekhaas twisted her sword and the scimitar caught among the heavy teeth on the back of the blade. Biiri struck past her in a blow that sheared through metal and flesh. One elf down.

  Two—Uukam cut through the torso of another, leaving her grasping at a terrible wound. Three—the drummer’s opponent didn’t rise as the hobgoblin straightened, drumsticks red with blood, chest heaving with exhilaration.

  “Call for aid!” Ekhaas shouted at him. He dashed for his drum, but jerked and spun around between one step and the next. Two arrows sprouted from his back.

  Where eight Valenar could go, more could surely follow.

  Clenching her teeth, Ekhaas threw herself across the hilltop. Uukam and Biiri shifted instantly to protect their own backs. Four elves still faced them. One went after Ekhaas and hooked her foot with his. Ekhaas sprawled face first into grass and dirt. The impact knocked the wind out of her, but she forced herself to roll.

  A scimitar gouged the soil a handspan behind her. She kicked blindly and felt her boot connect. The elf staggered back. Ekhaas got up on her hands and knees and scuttled to look over the back edge of the hill.

  Six more of the Valaes Tairn were climbing the slope, two covering the ascent with arrows nocked. One swung his bow toward her. Ekhaas sucked air into her lungs, swept her free hand through the air, and forced out a thin, liquid song. The ground beneath and around the elves turned dark and shiny as greased leather. Their feet slipped out from under them, and they went tumbling back down the hill in a flurry of robes, scimitars, and wildly-loosed arrows. Ekhaas grinned—

  —and pain like fire seared down her back with a force that knocked her to the ground. Gasping, she twisted. The Valenar she had kicked stood over her, raising his scimitar for another strike. Ekhaas kicked again, but he avoided her easily this time and shifted to get a better blow.

  His foot came down on the pipes dropped by the slain piper. The sagging leopard skin bag collapsed under his heel and the pipes released one final startling bleat of sound. The elf leaped in surprise. Ekhaas pushed herself away from the edge of the hill and back to her feet. She could feel blood running down her back underneath the leather armor. Her back burned with every movement, but she could still raise her sword. The elf moved around her, picking the moment of his next attack.

  “Ekhaas! With us!” shouted Biiri. From the corner of her eye, she saw him cut down one of the Valenar who menaced him and Uukam, just as Uukam struck out with his shield, forcing back the other two elves. The two soldiers turned as one, offering her a chance to reach their side.

  Ekhaas took it. She feinted at the elf, then dodged past him to join Biiri and Uukam. Three hobgoblins fighting together now—but four elves circling them, death in the eyes that shone above red veils.

  “We’ll force an opening,” Uukam rasped, his voice thick with exertion. “You run. Get to the woods.”

  Fierce determination rose from Ekhaas’s gut up into her throat. Her ears stiffened. There would be no escape through the woods, but she also felt no desire to flee. Eight Valenar had taken them by surprise and they had still brought half of them down. They could take the other four. They would take the other four. “No!” she spat. “No running. We fight! We fight as the Dhakaani fought! We fight and win!”

  Her voice rose in a song, harsh and martial, a song she’d heard Dagii’s soldiers chanting as they marched to the devastated clanhold of Tii’ator. It was no spell, but she wove magic into it, invoking the ferocity and discipline of an entire army prepared for battle. Biiri and Uukam stood straight as the song caught them up. New strength seemed to enter their arms, and Ekhaas’s as well. Her grip on her sword grew steady; the throbbing pain of her wounded back grew distant.

  The Valaes Tairn appeared to feel the song, too. They glanced at each other, scimitars wavering slightly. Then one of them cried out in Elven, “For the glory of Kaelan!” and leaped forward.

  Biiri’s shield snapped up to catch the falling scimitar—and Uukam’s sword cut beneath to tear open the elf’s belly. Without even a pause, he swung himself over the falling
body, slicing with the lower lip of his shield at the next Valenar. The elf ducked under the sudden blow, only to meet Biiri’s rising sword. Ekhaas stayed with them, her back to theirs. The two remaining elves shouted and plunged at her as if to end the song. She dropped down and struck back in a low, wide arc. They moved like dancers, evading her sweep with ease.

  Uukam and Biiri whirled, closed in on either side of Ekhaas, and brought their heavy swords around with a speed and force that turned elven grace into bloody tatters. Biiri’s blade cut the head from one elf. Uukam’s shattered the scimitar of the other and drove on into his chest. Red robes fluttered to the ground and torn flesh thumped down on top of them. Ekhaas’s song rose then faded away. For a moment, it seemed that the only sound was her and her companions’ breathing, the sound of triumph more certain and primal than any cheer.

  Then the sound of the battle that still raged below the hill burst over them. The clash of metal. The shrieks of horses, the roars of great cats, the screams of the dying. Biiri’s sword, still raised, dropped. “Now we run, Ekhaas duur’kala,” he said. “Dagii commands it. You carry our muut.”

  He moved to the earthworks at the brow of the hill to seize the crimson banner of the Riis Shaarii’mal, but when he reached it, he froze, staring down. Ekhaas rose from her crouch. Both she and Uukam went to stand beside him. Her ears flicked then went flat.

  While they had fought atop the hill, the battle had shifted and surrounded them.

  The reserve company that protected the bottom of the hill was a thin wall fighting raging opponents. The squares of the five companies that had first marched into battle were like sputtering flames, clinging to life. Even as she watched, two were extinguished completely as the elves surged and overwhelmed them. Bursts of lightning and fire flared here and there, wiping out more dar. What remained of the Darguul cavalry fought either with the reserve company or with the loose formation of the final company to enter battle, the Iron Fox. Maybe half of the Valaes Tairn warclan lay dead—but so did more than three-quarters of the Darguuls.