Ashi didn’t understand his words, but she watched in amazement as the high warlord of Darguun wrapped his arms around Vounn and hugged her.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Honored greetings, Vounn d’Deneith. As your people greet friends, I welcome you.”
Ekhaas stared as Haruuc pulled Vounn into a rough embrace. Among the goblin races, hugs were reserved for immediate family—and even then, only in private. Humans were far more casual about such close contact, and she’d grown accustomed to seeing human friends put their arms around each other. For Haruuc to do so with Vounn before the assembly of warlords was both more than the situation called for and spectacularly awkward. However well-intended the gesture might have been, the embrace would have been out of place even in a human court. Haruuc was lhesh, though, and it wasn’t the first time he’d unexpectedly adopted a new custom.
Still, Ekhaas found somewhere else to look as Vounn stiffened in surprise, and she was fairly certain that all of the warlords would be having some kind of similar and silent reaction. Tariic abruptly saw great interest in his boots. The thin hobgoblin—a mistress of rituals named Razu if she remembered correctly—went pale and actually turned away, most likely hoping that the custom wasn’t one the court was expected to follow.
If Ekhaas been any farther away from Haruuc and Vounn, though, she would have completely missed the words that the lhesh whispered, in the human tongue, into the lady seneschal’s ear. “Complain about the mercenaries from the Pin Galaac clan. Say they pick fights.”
She fought down her shock and glanced back just in time to see Vounn nod very slightly. Haruuc stepped back from her, his ears folding. “I trust I haven’t offended you, Lady Vounn,” he said, speaking out loud and in Goblin once more. “It has been too long since our great friends in House Deneith have sent someone of such prestige to us.”
Vounn smiled graciously. “Your welcome is accepted in the spirit in which it was offered, lhesh.” She touched a fist to her chest. “Honored greetings.”
Haruuc matched her smile. “I hope your time as envoy to my court will be enjoyable and profitable for both Deneith and Darguun,” he said, returning to his throne. “Tell me, do our fine warriors continue to please the lords of Deneith?” He looked out upon the assembled warlords as he spoke, including them in his pride and in his jovial mood.
“They please us and those who take their contracts,” said Vounn. She paused for a moment, then added, “although I have heard complaints about mercenaries from the Pin Galaac clan causing trouble.”
From the corner of her eye, Ekhaas saw one of the warlords flinch. His ears rose, and he turned to glare at another warlord. Ekhaas assumed that the first man was the chief of the Pin Galaac. She recognized the second from the broken hammer crest he wore on his armor—Daavn of the Marhaan. Confusion spread across his face and he tried to say something to the chief of the Pin Galaac, but the other warlord just turned away.
“Cause for concern,” said Haruuc, all of his attention on Vounn. “We will discuss it, but not tonight.” He picked up the red sword from the side of the throne, turned back to face the warlords, and slid the sword into its scabbard. “The assembly of the warlords is ended,” he said formally. “Think on what we have spoken of.”
“Mazo, lhesh,” answered the warlords. Fists struck chests in a unified salute, but Haruuc was already walking to a door at one side of the dais. He paused and spoke a few words to Razu, then left.
Beside Ekhaas, Chetiin’s eyes lit with a smile that he kept from his face. “What is it?” she asked him.
“Haruuc sows dissent,” he said. “Pin Galaac depends on its mercenaries to bring wealth to the clan, but it trains them with Marhaan. Haruuc has put a knife between two allies with that trick.”
Some of the warlords—the chief of Pin Galaac among them— looked like they were trying to get in close enough to exchange a few words with the new envoy of House Deneith, but Razu beat them to it. “Lhesh Haruuc wishes to speak with you privately,” she said. “Come with me.”
Razu led them through another door from the hall, this one below the dais, into a smaller audience chamber, then into a corridor beyond. Unlike ancient strongholds, such as Deneith’s Sentinel Tower, which had grown over centuries, Khaar Mbar’ost had been built all at once by House Cannith. The passages and rooms followed an orderly plan, but Razu led them quickly along so many hallways and up so many stairs that when they stopped, Ekhaas had only the most general idea of where they were. Razu exchanged words with two hobgoblins standing guard before an unassuming door. She gestured for Aruget, Thuun, and Krakuul to remain outside, then opened the door and escorted the others through.
Haruuc was waiting for them in a chair by a window that opened onto the night. They were high in the fortress, but the sounds of Rhukaan Draal still drifted up to them. Haruuc had set aside his sword and some pieces of his armor. He looked tired and surprisingly old—he looked his age, Ekhaas realized.
Tiredness vanished as he rose, though. “Ta muut, Razu. Va,” he said. Razu nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her. Haruuc went directly to Vounn and took her hands in a gesture of greeting that, while still distinctly human, would have been far less scandalous in court. “Lady Vounn,” he said, speaking in her language, “I apologize for dragging you into our intrigues from the first moment of your arrival, but you’ve rendered me aid. I’m grateful.”
“Words from a friend are a gift given freely,” said Vounn. “But I understand this isn’t the only time you intend to involve House Deneith in your politics.”
Her words were light but direct. Haruuc’s ears bent forward. “Never intentionally. As I recall, the Korth Edicts forbid the dragonmarked houses from engaging in the dirty game of politics. Your presence in my court is based entirely on the importance of our trade with Deneith.”
Vounn smiled and nodded.
Haruuc smiled back and released Vounn’s hands. “I see that you have already spoken with Tariic about the reason I wanted to bring you here.”
“I’ve said nothing you didn’t want me to say, Uncle,” Tariic said quickly. Haruuc waved his hand dismissively.
“Don’t be concerned, Tariic. You’ve done well. I’m pleased.” He looked over the rest of the group standing beside the door. “Saa, Ekhaas duur’kala,” he said. “Mo’saa, Chetiin, old friend. I’m pleased with you both as well.”
Unlike the others who had greeted them, however, Haruuc examined Ashi and Midian. Tariic turned to introduce them. “Uncle, this is—”
“—my charge, Ashi d’Deneith,” said Vounn. She gave a little gesture, and Ashi stepped forward and bowed deeply to the lhesh. Ekhaas found herself holding her breath. If Haruuc questioned Ashi’s presence, their lie to Vounn in Sentinel Tower would be uncovered.
But all that Haruuc revealed was pleasure. “Ashi d’Deneith, bearer of the Siberys Mark of Sentinel. Saa’atcha! We must speak at another time.”
Ekhaas let her breath out and caught a glimpse of similar relief on Ashi’s face. If Haruuc suspected something—and she was certain the canny warlord did—he said nothing. Ashi’s decision to remove her scarf had been a blessing. Haruuc must have recognized the mark, remembered Ekhaas’s tale of the Shadow Marches, and guessed who Ashi was. Tariic looked relieved, too. He turned to introduce Midian.
And a curious thought stirred in Ekhaas’s mind. She knew why Haruuc hadn’t expected Ashi’s presence. Why didn’t he recognize Midian when the gnome was there at his request?
Both her curiosity and Tariic’s introduction were cut short as the door opened again and four more hobgoblins entered. Two of them were Munta the Gray and Dagii. The third was an older hobgoblin she didn’t recognize. The fourth, however, she knew well.
Senen Dhakaan, ambassador of the Kech Volaar to the court of Haruuc, pointed a finger at Midian and, in a voice that rang with the trained tones of the senior duur’kala that she was, said, “What is he doing here?”
She spoke in Goblin, bu
t Ekhaas was certain that everyone understood her tone. Senen’s eyes fell on her, demanding an answer, and Ekhaas said, “Haruuc hired him, chib.”
Haruuc’s ears rose. Senen turned on him. “You risk your alliance with our clan, Haruuc,” she said, her voice seething. “This gnome is Midian Mit Davandi. He’s known to the Kech Volaar and among the worst of the thieves and grave robbers who hide behind the mantle of the Library of Korranberg. He’s no better than a chaat’oor!”
Midian’s eyes and expression showed that he’d followed her accusations. “Now wait—” he said in the same language, but Haruuc cut him off.
“Be silent!” the lhesh growled. He stood tall and years seemed to drop from his scowling face. “Senen Dhakaan, control your anger! You forget your place. I wouldn’t jeopardize our alliance. I didn’t hire him!”
“I did,” said Tariic. All of them stared at him—Senen in anger, Haruuc in amazement, Midian in utter surprise. Tariic’s face flushed with guilt. “I hired him in your name, Uncle. We need more than legends. We need history, and Midian was recommended to me as the Library of Korranberg’s best field researcher.”
“Best thief!” said Senen.
“I am not a thief!” Midian snapped.
“Silence!” Haruuc’s glare swept between his nephew, the gnome, and the Kech Volaar ambassador. “Tariic, how much does your researcher know?”
“As much as anyone else,” Tariic answered. Haruuc’s eyes narrowed and he twitched a finger to indicate Vounn and Ashi. Tariic nodded. “They know, but Ashi is Geth’s friend and Vounn forced—”
Haruuc bared his teeth. “We will speak of it later.” He looked at Vounn. “You know more than you were meant to, Lady Vounn. I trust you will be discreet.” He turned back to Midian. “And you know far more than you should.”
“Kill him,” Senen said. “The leaders of Kech Volaar will thank you.”
Midian’s sun-browned face turned a sickly shade of gray. Haruuc glanced at Munta and the hobgoblin Ekhaas didn’t recognize. The unknown hobgoblin’s hands fell to twin fighting axes that hung from his belt. “It would be simplest to kill him,” he said.
Munta shook his head. “He may be useful, Haruuc. If the Kech Volaar hate him, he must be good.” Senen whirled to glare at the fat old warlord, but Munta met her gaze without flinching. “Your leaders have already agreed to what must happen, Senen. Accepting extra help makes no difference.”
“Does it matter what I think?”
Everyone looked to Geth. The shifter spoke in the human tongue, but he stood with his hand on Aram, which meant that he had followed every word of the conversation. He faced Haruuc and Senen boldly, his jaw set firmly.
“I’ve been brought halfway across Khorvaire to perform a task I’m told is necessary for the survival of Darguun. I still don’t know what that task is—I haven’t even been acknowledged. But I do know that Midian can fight, and if this task of yours is as dangerous as I think it might be, I want good fighters beside me.” He pointed at Midian. “He lives. Or I take Wrath and leave Darguun.”
An icy chill plunged into Ekhaas’s gut. Senen’s face flushed with new anger. “You wouldn’t—”
“I think he would,” said Haruuc, and the room went quiet. Haruuc looked down at Geth—he was a good two handspans taller than the shifter—and Geth raised his chin to look back up at him. After a long moment, Haruuc bent his head.
“Shii marhu polto huuntad ka ruuska atchot,” he said in Goblin, then spoke in the human language as Geth had. “Even an emperor must think twice when looking a tiger in the eye. You will rarely hear me say this, Geth, but you are right and I apologize. You’ve waited too long to hear what needs to be said. You and Munta have persuaded me. Midian will live.” Senen made a noise of objection, but Haruuc silenced her with a gesture before turning to Midian. “What you do for me, you do in secret. Your library will not hear of it.”
Midian’s features twisted in a kind of agony. “Surely a paper of some kind?” he said. “Maybe with some details altered? I could show it to you before I submitted it to the library.”
“Your life or your silence,” Haruuc said with a heavy finality, and Ekhaas saw Midian’s throat bob as he swallowed.
“No papers,” he agreed.
It was enough for Haruuc. He put his back to the gnome and returned his attention to Geth. “Of the welcomes I’ve made tonight, this is the one that I have anticipated the most. And I regret that it has been delayed. I would welcome you before my court, but I think you understand that I can’t. Still, know that you have my highest respect.” He put his fist to his chest and held it there. “Saa’atcha, Geth, bearer of Aram and hope of Darguun!”
“Saa’atcha,” repeated Munta, Dagii, the unknown hobgoblin, and even—after a sharp glance from Haruuc—Senen.
The self-assurance that Geth had displayed in defending Midian seemed to evaporate before the formal greeting. Or rather, Ekhaas suspected, before the prospect of being the hope of Darguun. “Uhh … twice tak,” Geth said, then thumped his gauntleted fist against his own chest. “Saa’atcha, lhesh.”
Haruuc smiled. “I prefer your bluntness, Geth. You may use my name.” He swept his arm around the room. “Within these walls, you may all use my name. Like thieves in a den, tonight we conspire to manipulate a nation.”
There were chairs in the room, and Haruuc indicated that they should sit. Wine had been left, and the lhesh poured it for them all as he made the final necessary introductions. Midian flinched at Senen Dhakaan’s name, either because, Ekhaas guessed, he knew her by reputation or because he recognized the prestige that the grant of the Dhakaan name—an homage to the great empire—carried among the Kech Volaar and the other modern Dhakaani clans.
The unknown hobgoblin was Vanii of the Ja’aram. “The last of my shava,” said Haruuc.
“Shava?” asked Ashi.
“A sword brother,” Haruuc told her. “Someone who is trusted to fight beside you in battle, to defend you, to take charge of your affairs and deliver news of your death if you die in battle. It is an ancient and highly honored tradition.” He sat down in his chair by the window. “Many warriors never trust anyone enough to have a shava. I was fortunate enough to have three.” He tilted his cup, letting a little wine fall to the floor. “To your father, Tariic—and yours, Dagii,” he said. “We owe tonight to his words.”
He drank deeply. The rest of them followed his example and Ekhaas found that the wine was excellent, deliciously tart after so long drinking wine made in the human fashion.
Haruuc lowered his cup. “Geth,” he said, “show us Aram.”
The shifter stood and drew the sword. The light in the room shimmered on the purple byeshk metal of the blade. Ekhaas felt the same thrill that she had felt when she’d first seen Geth draw it, before she’d even recognized the weapon’s name and history. It was the same thrill—or chill—that every descendant of the Dhakaani Empire should feel on seeing a true lhesh shaarat, a sword forged for warlords and heroes. A human might not have seen anything more than an ancient hobgoblin sword, somewhat heavier than most yet still perfectly balanced, still free from nicks and scratches in spite of its age. But to a goblin, to one of the dar, the sword spoke of the power of the warrior that dared to wield it.
“Ah,” sighed Haruuc, leaning closer. Munta, Vanii, Tariic, Dagii—all of them shifted in awe at the sight of Aram. Senen tried to retain her aloof and angry manner, but Ekhaas saw her ears stand and her face shine with excitement. Ekhaas understood her reaction. She’d experienced it herself at first. For one of the Kech Volaar, keepers of the history of Dhakaan, possession of such an artifact was beyond a dream. Under any other circumstances, the leaders of the Kech Volaar would have sent agents—like Ekhaas—to seize the sword and whisk it away into the safety of the great vaults of secrets beneath Volaar Draal. But Aram wasn’t any other sword, and she found her voice rising out of her.
“Behold Aram,” she said, her voice ringing. “Forged by Taruuzh dashoor in the age of Dhakaan
and given to Duulan, first of the name Kuun. The sword of heroes that will not suffer the grasp of a coward, held by the warrior who carried it in triumph from the ghostly fortress of Jhegesh Dol!”
Aram had accepted Geth’s touch. The shifter had earned the right to carry the blade. The Kech Volaar would not have taken it from him.
“Behold Aram,” Senen repeated like a soft echo.
“It’s true,” said Haruuc. “Everything you said about it, Ekhaas. If I had any doubts …” He sat back and looked around the room. When he spoke, his voice was hard once more.
“You all know that Darguun will face a crisis of succession when I die.” For a moment it looked as if Vanii might interrupt with some protest at this reminder of the lhesh’s mortality, but Haruuc held up his hand. “My death, like all our deaths, is inevitable. I don’t look forward to it, but I must plan for the day it comes. I must choose a successor and, for the sake of Darguun, I must do all I can to ensure that my successor’s reign does not see an end to what I built. Darguun is my legacy to our people, a nation that is our own. I want it to prosper. But I ask myself—why will our people follow my successor? Many warlords follow me because I am Haruuc. Will they transfer their loyalty to the one who comes after me?”
Haruuc curled his hands and rapped his knuckles together pensively as he continued. “If I’d listened long ago, I would have realized that the answer had already been given to me by Fenic of Mur Talaan. After the battle to capture the town that has become Rhukaan Draal—one of the most hard-fought battles of my life— he told me that the town had not stood by its lord, but that it had stood by the history embodied in the symbol of a feathery helmet. Only recently have those words come back to me. The lhesh of Darguun also needs a symbol of our people’s history, something to tie the present to the glorious past.”
Geth started and bared his teeth. His grip on the sword shifted and tightened. “You want Wrath?” he snarled.
The Doom of Kings: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 1 Page 15
