The Doom of Kings: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 1

by Don Bassingthwaite

  There wasn’t one. The man he had tossed aside was hobbling away, supporting a friend whose smashed nose bore the imprint of Geth’s knuckles. The other patrons of the tavern had pulled back from the fight and stood in an uneasy circle around Geth, each of them looking nervously at the others, none of them willing to make the first move.

  “Get out,” said a voice behind Geth. He turned around. The tavernkeeper stood at his bar, one hand below the top of its well-scrubbed surface. The bend of an arm tattooed with the dragonhawk crest of Aundair hinted that his hidden hand grasped a club or a knife—maybe even a wand. The thick hair that covered Geth’s forearms and the back of his neck bristled and lifted slightly. The nation of Aundair had more than its share of mage-trained veterans of the Last War.

  Keeping an eye on the tavernkeeper’s hidden hand, Geth stood straight and opened his fists. “Easy there,” he said. “I was defending myself. They started this. Did you hear what they said to me? Boar’s snout, they accused me of stealing sheep and raiding vineyards!”

  The tavernkeeper’s face was hard. “I’d believe them before I believe you. They come from Lathleer. They belong here. Where do you belong, shifter? We’ve seen enough of your kind since the end of the war. Just another war-torn wanderer. Get out of my tavern and get out of Lathleer!”

  Geth stiffened. “I’m not a wanderer. I’m on my way back to Fairhaven. I just want a—”

  “Get out,” the tavernkeeper said again, and this time he raised his hand from below the bar. Geth had been right. It was a wand, an unpleasant-looking black stick bound with dull rings of lead and capped with something that might have been rune-inscribed ivory but was more likely bone. A wizard or an artificer might have been able to guess what magic was contained within such an ugly device. Geth couldn’t, but he had a strong feeling that it was nothing gentle.

  The crowd of patrons must have known. A murmur of eagerness swept through the room, and from the corner of his eye, Geth saw the circle around him tighten slightly. His hands clenched. Armed with a sword to keep them back, he might have been able to face the crowd, but not unarmed. They wouldn’t make the same mistake as the first three men. They’d rush him all at once and bring him down through the sheer weight of their numbers. Assuming the tavernkeeper’s wand didn’t bring him down first.

  “I’m going,” he said. Keeping his eyes on the tavernkeeper, he backed toward the door. The man gave a quick jerk of his head and Geth heard murmurs of disappointment and the shuffling of feet as the circle opened to let him out.

  Beside the door was a niche lined with cubbyholes where patrons left bags and packs—and, more importantly, weapons—while they were in the tavern. Crouched on a stool inside the niche was a wizened little goblin in a shabby dress. The creatures weren’t as common in Aundair as they were in the cities of the south, where they formed a menial underclass, but even in a town like Lathleer they were far from unknown. Standing, the top of the goblin’s head would have been below Geth’s waist, but the commotion in the tavern had left her curled up into a tight ball, as if she could fold herself up and disappear. Small dark eyes stared at him in fear from a face that looked like it had been pressed flat, lips squeezed so tight her wide mouth was barely a crease in the wrinkled yellow parchment of her skin.

  “Give me my pack!” Geth snapped at her, not wanting the distraction of groping among the cubbyholes himself. The circle of tavern patrons had closed again, folding in on itself to follow him to the door.

  The goblin didn’t move. Geth’s breath hissed between his teeth and he repeated himself—this time in the Goblin language. “Roo! Piiroto kaana!”

  He was still learning Goblin, and he knew that he spoke the language like a child, but at least the goblin woman blinked and uncurled a bit, her large pointed ears twitching. “Piiroto!” said Geth again. He dug in a pouch, groping blindly for a coin, and flicked what he found at her. “Kaana kaana!”

  A thin copper crown flashed on the air. Uncertainty crossed the goblin’s face, but it lasted only as long as it took for her to stick out an arm and snatch the coin. The rest of her body uncoiled as well, and she hopped to one of the cubbies. Pulling out a pack that was almost as big as she was, she shoved it at Geth.

  Geth grabbed the pack so quickly he almost pulled her off her feet. As she jumped away from him again, he raised the pack, putting it between himself and the small mob of tavern patrons. The men he had actually fought had made their way to the front of the crowd now, and if the other patrons looked unfriendly, these three looked outright hostile. Geth took three steps back and felt the wood of the door against his shoulders. He pulled the door open with one hand, keeping his eyes on the mob. Warm night air blew inside, a breeze that ruffled his hair and made the lanterns that lit the tavern dance slightly. Geth slid a foot over the threshold, then deliberately caught the gaze of the most aggressive of his attackers, the one who had started it all.

  “If you want to keep this going,” he told him in a growl, “you come after me. I’ll be ready for you.”

  He stepped back through the door, pulled it shut after him, and darted down the night-empty street, running not for the outskirts of Lathleer, but deeper into the town. The instant a hiding place presented itself, Geth dove into it. The hiding place happened to be a narrow, wet shadow between a public fountain and a wall, but he was in no position to be particular. Indeed, no sooner was he under cover than he heard the shouts of men spilling out of the tavern. He froze.

  “Nowhere in sight!” Geth recognized the voice of the man who had first picked the fight with him. “Bloody full of wind, shifters are! Cowards, just like I told you. Won’t stand up to a fight.”

  “He stood up pretty good inside, Urik,” said someone else. “Let him go.”

  “When did you turn into your wife, saal? He asked me if I wanted to keep this going and I do. He can’t have much of a head start. Follow me!”

  A chorus of cheers met the command, and boots hit the packed surface of the street in a heavy rhythm—heading the other way. Geth released his breath and risked a slow glance up over the rim of the fountain. The men from the tavern had done just what he’d hoped they would and assumed that a stranger and a fugitive would try to escape the town by the shortest possible route.

  Geth had some experience in running, though. At one point in his life, he’d lived on the run for the better part of two years and he still remembered most of the tricks he’d learned back then. Lathleer was no village, but it wasn’t exactly a metropolis, either. He ought to be able to find his way out of town as easily one way as another. Although it would have been nice if that hadn’t been necessary. “Rat,” Geth cursed and let his head sag back against the fountain.

  The movement almost brought another curse from him. The stones were cold, slick, and slimy. Clenching his teeth, Geth rose, shouldered his pack, and hurried through the shadows of the street. Outside and away from the mob, he could have taken Urik and his friends, but brawling in a tavern was one thing and fighting in the street was another.

  If Singe and Dandra had been with him, things wouldn’t have gotten out of hand. Either the swordsman-wizard or the kalashtar psion would have had the words to ease the situation. And if they didn’t at least there would have been three of them to stand together. But no, his friends were still several days’ travel away in the city of Fairhaven. The pair’s recently kindled relationship reflected the fiery magical energies that fascinated them both: burning with passion, occasionally flaring in anger, always uncomfortable for those around them. All three of them had been quietly happy when he suggested that he’d enjoy exploring the Aundairian countryside for a few months—by himself.

  Singe’s last words as they parted had been, “Stay out of trouble.”

  Geth turned down the first corner he came to, getting out of sight of Urik and his cronies in case one of them chanced to look back, then slowed his pace and exhaled. He couldn’t say that he regretted the weeks spent traveling around Aundair on his own. The trans
ition from spring to summer was a pleasant time to be outdoors—although he would have preferred the countryside even in winter to staying in Fairhaven. It took a certain kind of shifter to enjoy life in a city, and Geth wasn’t that kind. The crowded, noisy conditions kept him constantly on edge, his instincts reacting to nonexistent threats. The countryside and small villages were better, and most of them had been far more welcoming than Lathleer. He’d traveled south, following the line of the lightning rail across Aundair to Lake Galifar, then wandering around the shores of the lake into the south of the country before turning back north again. In most places, he’d been welcomed, if not with open arms then at least with an open palm and hospitality. In a few places, he’d even found a couple of days’ work doing odd jobs. On the whole, it had been much better than lingering in Fairhaven.

  Just about the time he began his journey back north, though, Geth had realized that he did miss his companions. Not just Singe and Dandra, but all of his friends: Natrac, the half-orc merchant who had once been a crime lord; Ashi, the scion of House Deneith who had once been a marsh hunter; Orshok, the young orc druid; Ekhaas, the hobgoblin storyteller; even Benti Morren, agent of the King’s Citadel of Breland. He’d gotten used to their presence. It had been almost a year since they’d come together, a year of massive change and adventure for all of them. For Geth, it had been the end of seven years of hiding from his past and an enforced confrontation with an ignominy he had taken on himself. The events of the year had shown him that he didn’t have to be the grim, solitary warrior he had been for so long—that he could, if he chose, take on the role of a hero. And that felt good.

  Of course, it also felt good to know that he had killed a dragon—with help—and stopped the rise of an ancient force of dark madness. That in the distant swamps of the Shadow Marches, orc tribes were already telling stories about him, Singe, Dandra, and the others who had stood with them.

  He missed having people around who believed him about the dragon. It wasn’t the kind of story that was easily brought up in casual bragging over ale. Or anywhere, really.

  It was going to be good, he thought, to see Singe and Dandra again. Maybe he could convince them to go looking for some of the others. Ashi was lost to the clutches of House Deneith—for a time at least. But the city of Zarash’ak wasn’t so far away that they couldn’t visit Natrac—

  Something moved ahead of him.

  Geth’s pace faltered for an instant, but only for an instant. He forced himself to keep walking. Several of Eberron’s twelve moons had risen, and their combined light cast a confusion of shadows onto the streets. A shifter needed very little light to see, and the moons gave more than enough of it for Geth to see clearly that the street ahead was empty.

  He had seen something move, but it hadn’t been ahead of him. The movement had been a shadow, as something broke the moonlight over the peak of a roof. The movement had actually been behind him.

  A bird? A cat? A bat? He kept walking, eyes on the shadows, ears alert. Not likely a bird—they would all be roosting for the night. A bat would still have been visible as it flapped its wings. A cat—possibly, but surely he would have seen its shadow again, yet there was nothing.

  Could it be Urik and his friends, back on his trail? Geth couldn’t believe they could be so stealthy.

  He walked a little farther, taking the measure of the street ahead and the town around him. He’d wandered into an area of Lathleer that seemed a little more down on its luck than other areas. The streets were narrow and twisting, the windows on the buildings tightly shuttered. He had a strong feeling that if a fight broke out here, no one would be rushing to see what was happening.

  A short distance ahead, the street split into two lanes that passed on each side of a closed-up shop before meandering on through the town. Geth made a rough guess at how long it would take him to reach the intersection—then took a firm hold on his pack and broke into a sprint.

  The slapping of his steps echoed from the walls and wrapped him in noise. If there were any sounds of surprise from whatever—or whoever—was behind him, he couldn’t hear them. Maybe his own footsteps were too loud. Maybe his pursuers were even more subtle than he thought. He put his head down and ran fast, veering slightly toward the lane that looked most likely to lead out of Lathleer.

  Did something move against the moonlight? More shadows, breaking concealment to give chase? At his running pace, it was difficult to tell. Still no sound of pursuit. The intersection and the closed shop drew closer, and the lane opened before him.

  At the last instant, Geth turned aside and whirled. His shoulders and pack slammed against the wooden shutters of the storefront with a loud crack, and Geth stared back along the street.

  His pursuers—still racing after him—stared back, caught by surprise at the move. Geth caught a glimpse of black-clad figures moving like shadows along the street and the rooftops. A glimpse was all he caught, however. As soon as they saw that he had stopped, the figures froze and vanished. Their disappearance was so sudden and complete that Geth could almost believe what he had just seen had been his imagination.

  He knew better though. Caught, the figures weren’t quite so subtle now as they had been before. If he looked closely, Geth could see the bulge of a shadow where one sought to hide. A roof tile clicked as another, unseen, shifted its weight.

  Alarm rose in his throat. Grandmother Wolf, he thought, who were they?

  In one way, at least, it didn’t matter who they were. Fists might have been fine against brawlers like Urik, but he’d be damned if he was going to face these mysterious figures with empty hands. Geth shrugged and his pack slid from his shoulder. In one swift movement, he freed the long, wrapped object that had been loosely lashed to the side of the pack. A twist and a shake sent the wrappings slithering to the ground. Holding the hilt of his sword in one hand and the wide scabbard in the other, Geth stepped clear of the discarded pack and wrappings. Then he drew a deep breath, reached down inside himself—and shifted.

  Long, long ago, the gift—some said curse—of lycanthropy had risen among humans. By day men and women might have been as normal as their neighbors, but by night, when any one of Eberron’s twelve moons shone full, they became beasts. Werewolves. Werebears. Rats. Tigers. Boars. Sometimes they had managed to escape the anger and fear of their neighbors and live out their lives hidden in the wilderness. And as they lived, they had children, sometimes with others like them, sometimes with those who did not carry their gift. The children born of such unions weren’t fully human, but neither were they lycanthropes. Over time a new race was born, neither human nor lycanthrope nor animal, but something of each. Shifters were strong, they were fast, and they were marked by the blood of beasts. Thick hair, sharp teeth, eyes that could see as well by night as by day—and a touch of their ancestors’ shapechanging abilities. Each shifter’s connection to his or her ancient heritage was different. Some, when they shifted, gained a bear’s claws or a wolf’s fanged bite. Others gained speed or heightened senses.

  Geth’s gift was sheer toughness.

  The breath he had drawn hissed out between his teeth as the shifting passed through his body. His skin became tougher, his hair even thicker than it normally was. A sense of invincibility burned like hot steel in his veins and muscles, lending a sharp clarity to the night. With a grim smile, he sank back into a defensive posture, ready for the attack.

  His black-clad pursuers must have recognized that their quarry was through running. They reappeared, the first dropping like a spider from high on a wall into the street below. The others followed until there were eight of them, silently watching Geth, every one crouched and as ready to fight as he was.

  And not one of them stood any taller than his waist. Tiny dark eyes watched him from parchment-skinned faces that had been stained as black as their clothes.

  His pursuers were goblins.

  Another warrior might have forgotten his fear and fallen on the goblins with a foolhardy bravado, but Geth had s
een what groups of the little creatures working together were capable of. Numbers always gave an advantage. Some of the goblins also had daggers drawn, the short blades smeared with something dark. Poison. Another advantage. The first goblin to reappear gestured, and all of the goblins began to creep forward.

  But Geth had an advantage, too. His grim smile tightened. He raised his sword above his head so the goblins could see it, then snapped his arms wide, drawing the blade in a sharp, fluid motion. “Behold!” he shouted. “Aram!”

  The word meant “wrath” in Goblin, and it was the name of the sword. Geth had carried the weapon out of the ghostly fortress of Jhegesh Dol where it had been lost for thousands of years. It was broader and heavier than any human sword, with one edge sharp and the other notched with deep serrations, the end not pointed but instead forked like a serpent’s tongue. The blade, forged from the rare metal byeshk, carried a deep purple sheen that almost seemed to consume the moonlight rather than reflect it. Wrath was a hobgoblin sword, created in the time of the ancient Empire of Dhakaan by one of the empire’s greatest wizard-smiths. It was the sword with which Geth had slain Dah’mir, the mad dragon who had given his soul to the terrible Master of Silence.

  And it was a lhesh shaarat, a warlord’s blade, a weapon of kings and heroes. He’d been told that any descendant of Dhakaan—goblin, hobgoblin, or bugbear—recognized such a sword, and that anyone who dared to draw a lhesh shaarat proclaimed his power. Geth had drawn Wrath once to fight off a gang of goblins. The mere sight of the twilight blade had sent the whole lot of them fleeing in startled terror.

  The black-clad goblins stopped their advance and stared at the ancient weapon—then looked back to Geth without any change in their harsh expressions. They continued their slow advance, four moving to flank the shifter on one side, three on another. Their leader, still facing him, wore daggers in sheaths on the inside of each forearm. He slid one arm across the other and, from the left sheath, drew an ugly curved blade that looked very nearly as nasty as Wrath.