She pressed her lips together as she considered the patterns, then said, “I’m a diplomat, not a strategist, lhesh, but I would say this shows the Gan’duur attacks.”
“The attacks, my response, and sightings of Gan’duur raiders.” Haruuc swept his hand through the air above the map. “They move quickly, staying ahead of my men. They strike, split up, and move on. And this concerns me—” He pointed to the northeast and southwest extremes of the activity represented on the map, to white markers that stood off on their own with neither red nor black markers around them. “We received word by messenger falcons this morning of these positions. No attacks, just riders. They displayed no banners, so we can only assume they’re Gan’duur, but it seemed they were riding here—and here.” His fingers moved to indicate the river west and east of Rhukaan Draal. “An old Cyran bridge across the upper river. A ferry crossing on the lower.”
“They mean to cross the Ghaal.”
“Cho,” said Haruuc. “Boats have been dispatched downstream and riders upstream. Perhaps we can catch them, but it may be too late.” He fell back into a chair and pressed his knuckles together. “The patterns of clan warfare. You see now what I hope to forestall. Maabet. I thought my people were past this.”
“A philosopher of Karrnath once wrote ‘A farmer may sow wheat, but nature had the field before him,’” Vounn said.
Haruuc looked at her over his fists. “Falko Gergus in The Battle Called Life.”
“You know it.”
“ ‘If you want fine wool, better to befriend the shepherd than the wolf,’” the lhesh quoted back to her with a thin smile. “Gergus’s metaphors have never found favor among goblins, but his principles are sound.” He lowered his hands and sat up. “But I doubt that you came here either to discuss military philosophy or to hear my complaints. What do you want, Vounn?”
She bent her head. “I would be grateful if you could arrange a meeting between Senen Dhakaan and I. There are things I would like to discuss with her.”
“But that she doesn’t seem interested in discussing with you.”
Vounn nodded.
Haruuc grunted. “I know that feeling too well. The Dhakaani clans could teach stubborn to the sea.” He rose. “Let’s go talk to Senen together.”
“Now?” asked Vounn in surprise.
“ ‘The smith who knows his iron doesn’t let it cool on the anvil,’” said Haruuc, quoting once more from Falko Gergus. “You’ve obviously waited too long on Senen already, and I’ve spent too much time looking at field positions that are out of date.” He motioned for Aruget, standing at the back of the room. “Run to Senen’s quarters and see if she is there.”
“Mazo.” Aruget left. He was back quickly. “She is in the hall of honor, lhesh.”
“I might have guessed,” Haruuc said. “Wait at the Deneith quarters, Aruget. Lady Vounn is safe with me.” He held out his arm and Vounn took it.
The hall of honor ran the full length of one of Khaar Mbar’ost’s upper floors. Vounn knew the hall—it served much the same function that gardens did in other royal palaces, giving courtiers and councilors a place to stroll and converse. To be honest, however, she could never have pictured goblins, hobgoblins, and bugbears wandering among potted plants and flower beds. The long hall seemed much more appropriate, with statues of famous heroes lining its walls and intricate windows of stained glass capping the distant ends. The windows showed scenes of famous battles, but the colorful panels could also pivot to allow a flow of air.
As she and Haruuc mounted the stairs to the hall, a voice drifted down from above. Vounn’s eyebrows rose. The murmur of speech typically filled the hall, sometimes punctuated by an exclamation or a curse, but always mingled. Now there was only one voice, a storyteller’s voice, chanting a tale of ancient heroism with all the zeal of a enthusiastic priest delivering a sermon to the faithful. She glanced at Haruuc.
He gave her a faint smile and his ears flicked. “That would be Senen,” he said. “The tales of the empire are a religion to the Dhakaani clans. I let her speak when she wishes. Her stories are good.”
They emerged into the hall. Some distance away, before one of the great stained glass windows, Senen stood in front of an audience that would have only sparsely filled the hall had it been spread out. Packed into one end of the hall, though, it made for an appreciable crowd. Curiously, it was one of the most diverse groups Vounn had ever seen in Khaar Mbar’ost: Warlords and councilors formed the core of the audience, but ordinary warriors and servants stood at the fringes as well.
Standing right next to Senen was Tariic, listening closely to the duur’kala’s story. Or at least appearing to listen closely. Vounn had seen junior members of House Deneith watching plays and performances with just such a slightly-too-rapt expression, attending events for the sake of being seen to attend events, conspicuously demonstrating an appreciation for cultural forms because it was expected of them. She smiled and looked to Haruuc, but the lhesh’s eyes were already on his nephew.
“He takes up the sword without testing the weight,” he said softly.
“Lhesh?” asked Vounn.
Haruuc’s ears flicked again, almost regretfully Vounn thought. He drew her to one side, almost into the shadow of one of the statues in the hall. No one had noticed the appearance of the lhesh—all of their attention was on Senen. “In many ways,” Haruuc said, “Tariic takes after his father, my brother Haluun. Stories, even the stories of a duur’kala, never really caught Haluun’s interest. Tariic is the same, but he makes a show of interest so that others see it.”
“Many people do the same thing, lhesh,” Vounn said. “They do what is expected of them.”
Haruuc looked down at her. “That is a difference in our ideas of honor, Vounn. To do what is expected, to do your duty and do it well—yes, that is a part of honor. That is muut, something you do for yourself. But it is no one’s duty to appreciate a story. Appreciating a story, to be seen to appreciate a story, is a sign of personal sophistication. When others see it, they may think of you as having honor, but it is atcha, honor achieved through deeds.”
“Is that wrong?”
“No.” Haruuc shook his head. “There is atcha in more than fighting, and many people seek out its lower forms. Honor begets honor. But for some …” He spread his hands. “Tariic understands muut, but he is drawn to atcha.”
“Atcha shouldn’t be forced,” said Vounn, trying to grasp what Haruuc’s meaning. Muut and atcha weren’t new concepts to her, but no one had tried before to explain them in quite the same terms.
“It is more complicated than that, but you begin to understand,” Haruuc said. His ears sagged slightly, then twitched and rose again. “But I insult Tariic. He is a good man, and the lure of atcha is hard to resist. Without ambition, there would be no Darguun. Come—Senen is finishing her story. We will talk with her.”
In front of the window, Senen pronounced the formulaic ending to hobgoblin stories—Raat shan gath’kal dor—and her audience broke out in applause. As the applause died down and the audience drifted apart, Haruuc escorted Vounn forward.
Bowing heads made a wave as the lhesh was finally seen and recognized. Tariic, offering his personal appreciation to Senen, turned with a start. “Uncle!”
Senen’s response was more composed. She bent her head. “Saa’atcha, lhesh,” She glanced at Vounn and her eyes went flat.
Haruuc seemed to take no notice. “Saa, Senen Dhakaan. Nephew.” He nodded to Senen. “An excellent story. Ta muut.”
The ambassador of the Kech Volaar twitched her ears in acknowledgment. “I will leave you to speak with Tariic,” she said.
“Actually, Senen, we came looking for you,” Haruuc said in a tone that was both casual and commanding. “Lady Vounn expressed an interest in speaking with you. I would like to think that two of my greatest allies—the Kech Volaar and House Deneith—might come to be friends.”
Senen’s ears pulled back and she bared her teeth. “Lhesh, she wants t
o hire us and nothing more.”
Vounn made a swift decision—if the duur’kala could be blunt, so could she. “I do want to hire you,” she said. “The military discipline of the Dhakaani clans is legendary. Deneith and the Kech Volaar would both find profit in selling your service.”
Surprise and perhaps outrage at such honesty flickered in Senen’s face, silencing her for a moment. Vounn stepped into the breach she had made. “But I’ve come to see that renowned discipline before that can happen, Deneith needs to know the Kech Volaar. How can we understand your people without understanding your traditions?” She bent her head to Senen. “Will you tell me your stories, Senen Dhakaan? Will you let me visit Volaar Draal and show me the glories of the Empire of Dhakaan that the Kech Volaar keep alive?”
“Volaar Draal is not open for casual visitors,” Senen said slowly, as if trying to find refuge in the words. “Especially chaat’oor.”
Quick as thought, Vounn turned the rejection around on her. “Then you must visit House Deneith in Karrlakton to see our memorials and understand our traditions.” She raised her head. “The Mark of Sentinel was the first of the dragonmarks to manifest in humans, and long before Deneith was a House, we were proud warlords. Our history isn’t so old as yours, but it is good. I offer you the chance to learn our story.”
“And a generous offer it is, Senen,” said Haruuc. “An invitation to the seat of power of a dragonmarked house is not extended lightly.” His mouth was curved in a barely suppressed smile, and Vounn knew he had followed her strategy: the exchange of stories, irresistible to a duur’kala, between two groups with a common interest in the accomplishments of a martial past.
She could tell from Senen’s expression that she understood as well that there was no graceful way to decline the offer entirely. The Kech Volaar ambassador’s ears quivered, then bent. “I cannot accept on my own, and certainly I cannot leave my post in Rhukaan Draal, but I will relay your invitation to the leaders of my clan,” she said.
“What about your stories?” Vounn asked her. “Surely you don’t need to consult with the leaders of your clan before you share stories.”
Interest flashed in Senen’s eyes. “You are clever, Vounn d’Deneith. Call on me again and perhaps I will have a story to tell you.” She nodded to Haruuc and walked away.
“Nicely done, Vounn,” said Tariic quietly, watching Senen go. “Paatcha! I couldn’t have done better.”
Vounn thought she saw regret flit again across Haruuc’s face but she couldn’t be sure—one moment he was looking at his nephew, the next at a goblin messenger wearing the red-cord armband of Khaar Mbar’ost and hurrying along the hall of honor. The goblin clutched a loosely rolled scroll that he passed to Haruuc as if eager to be rid of it. Haruuc’s face darkened as he scanned the message.
“The Gan’duur have crossed the Ghaal at the eastern ferry,” he said. “They attacked wagons on their way to market in Rhukaan Draal this morning.” He glanced at the messenger. “Tell Munta and Vanii I’m on my way.” The goblin nodded and dashed away. Haruuc looked to Vounn. “Iron should not cool on the anvil, nor should it be left in the forge. I appreciate the distraction you offer me.”
Vounn bent her head. “You helped me, lhesh. Ta muut.”
Haruuc turned to go. Tariic sprang to his side. “Wait,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”
Vounn thought she saw Haruuc’s shoulders stiffen before he nodded to his nephew.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Following Wrath through the mountains was like fighting a battle from sunrise to sunset. In a time years ago—a time that felt like another life—Geth had fought just such a battle along the border between Cyre and Karrnath. In the end, he hadn’t been able to tell whether any ground had been gained, only that he would have laid down among the corpses on the battlefield if it meant a chance to rest.
He and the others felt the same way at the end of every day now. Their pace slowed even more as they crept up toward, then climbed among, the Seawalls. Distances they should have covered in a few hours took an entire day as they went around canyons and sought out gentler inclines to follow. The weather turned colder as they pushed higher. Occasionally, they saw signs of habitation, of the rare goblins who lived in the mountains, but they made no effort to seek shelter with them. As Chetiin pointed out, if someone chose to live in the wilderness, they probably wanted to be left alone.
One night Midian pulled out a map and some shiny brass instruments. He made observations of several stars, worked out calculations in chalk, traced a line across his map, and cursed. “Sage’s shadow! We’re traveling on a line with Paluur Draal and Korranberg.”
“What’s Paluur Draal?” asked Ashi.
“It was a shining jewel of the Empire of Dhakaan,” said Ekhaas. “A great city, now ruined, overrun in the past by gnomes and kobolds— even humans tried to live there for a time. The rod couldn’t be there, though. The ruins have been thoroughly explored.”
“Don’t be sure of that,” Midian said, stowing his instruments back into his pack. “The last time I was there, the expedition I was with found evidence that the roots of the city extended deeper than anyone expec—” He caught Ekhaas’s glare and quickly changed the subject. “The point is that Paluur Draal is quite close to Korranberg. We could have ridden back to Sterngate, caught the lightning rail into Zilargo, and been there already.”
“What if the rod has already been found?” Chetiin asked. “You said we’re also on a line with Korranberg. What if the rod rests in your famous library?”
Midian flushed. “Now see here! If the library held a Dhakaani artifact as significant as the Rod of Kings, I’d know about it!”
“I notice you don’t say that the library would give it back,” said Ekhaas.
“Maybe no one has asked for it!” Midian screwed up his face. “Not that we have it. I mean that if we did have it and Haruuc sent someone to explain why it was important that it be returned to Darguun, I’m sure the library would repatriate it immediately. Trust me, no nation wants to see Darguun remain peaceful more than Zilargo.”
“All those gnomes helpless before the threat of invading Darguul slavers?” asked Chetiin dryly.
“Exactly!” said Midian. “It’s in Zilargo’s best interest to support a stable leadership in Darguun.”
Chetiin scratched Marrow’s head. “You don’t have to worry,” he said. “I understand Zils make terrible slaves.”
Midian’s mouth opened, but no sound came out and his face turned an even deeper shade of red.
Geth sighed and put an end to it. “The rod can’t be in the library. Korranberg’s below the mountains and we”—he drew Wrath and held it out so that everyone could see the angle of the pointing blade—“are still going up.”
They caught a bit of luck the next day. During their time in the mountains, they’d passed a number of ancient ruins, some Dhakaani, some dating from the Desperate Times after the fall of the empire—Ekhaas and Midian generally agreed, surprisingly, on what belonged to which period. Most of the ruins had consisted of a wall or two, sometimes even less, emerging from the undergrowth or perched high on a bit of bare rock, but that day they rounded the shoulder of a hill to find themselves on a stretch of Dhakaani road.
The stone surface was washed with drifting soil, broken by weather and by the roots of trees that were themselves centuries old. It coiled across the landscape, running roughly northwest to southeast along the line of the mountains in that area. Both behind and ahead, it seemed to appear in stretches, then vanish among the trees before reappearing once more along the curve of a distant ridge.
Geth could guess at what they were all thinking: the curving road might take them out of their way, but it was still a road, and following it was easier than breaking their own trail. He lifted Wrath. The sword pointed in the same general direction as the road. “Grandfather Rat smiles for a change,” he said.
Even when the ancient road was under the canopy of trees that had g
rown up through it, they made good time. “Where do you think it goes?” Dagii asked as they paused to take some food.
“We’re not likely to follow it to the end,” Geth pointed out.
“No, but the Dhakaani must have. No one builds a road to nowhere.”
“We’re approaching the headwaters of the Torlaac River,” Ekhaas said. She pointed to a distinctive cleft peak far in the distance. “I think that’s the back of Giim Astraa. There are extensive ruins there.”
Midian’s eyebrows rose and he took a sudden interest in the hazy peak, but Ekhaas didn’t seem to notice.
Dagii nodded and said, “I think you’re right. Well done.”
Ekhaas flicked her ears casually in response, but Geth could see the expression of self-satisfaction she tried to hide.
His prediction that they wouldn’t see the end of the road seemed accurate, though. When they started on the road again, he checked their direction. Wrath didn’t point anywhere near Giim Astraa, but rather along the road and directly to the massive bulk of a much closer mountain. The road curved wide around the mountain’s flank. He grimaced. “It was nice while it lasted.”
“Follow the road around,” Ashi suggested. “It might curve back again.”
It didn’t. As they came around the mountain, a stray sunbeam, the last light of the day, fell on the road ahead. The way was remarkably clear, the road a pale ribbon—one that snaked off in the direction of Giim Astraa and away from where they needed to go. There was no chance it would curve back.
“Rat,” cursed Geth.
“We’ll make camp here for the night,” said Dagii. “We can carry on in the morning.”
“Aye,” Geth said. Out of habit, he drew Wrath and held it out to get a new sense of their bearings.
The Doom of Kings: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 1 Page 19
