In the small camp ahead, four blanket-wrapped forms lay around the dim coals of a fire. The loudest sound in the night was the gentle snoring that came from one of those forms.
The patrol’s leader, a hobgoblin with the ceremonial scars of the Rhukaan Taash clan across his forehead, raised a hand, and the patrol halted beside a thick fir tree. The leader studied the camp ahead, then gestured. As the patrol resumed its stealthy approach, two pairs of soldiers split off to come at the camp from south and north.
Hidden among the thick boughs of the fir, Geth saw the patrol leader’s ears stand tall and his sharp teeth flash in a grin. The shifter knew what he was thinking: there would be honor and glory in Khaar Mbar’ost for the hero who brought back the heads of the would-be assassins of Lhesh Tariic Kurar’taarn.
Geth could have told the hobgoblin that honor and glory weren’t always the rewards of heroes. For the two days since they’d fled the city of Rhukaan Draal, rage and anguish had festered in him. Anguish for the murders of Ashi and Vounn. Rage at Makka for having killed them. Rage at Tariic and at Pradoor. Rage at Midian Mit Davandi for betraying them yet again. Rage at Aruget—or whatever the changeling Dark Lantern of Breland chose to call himself—for abandoning them.
Rage at himself for thinking he could try to save Haruuc’s dream of Darguun as a homeland for the dar, the three related races of hobgoblins, goblins, and bugbears. The disaster in Rhukaan Draal was his making.
As the last hobgoblin passed, he tightened his grip on his sword, tensed his muscles—and exploded out of hiding, his roar shattering the silence.
Already on edge, the patrol whirled, and Geth buried Wrath deep in the gut of the first of Tariic’s soldiers. The hobgoblin’s falling body trapped the sword for a moment. Geth whipped his right arm up to catch on the armored sleeve of his great gauntlet the swift blow of a second soldier. The soldier’s blade skittered across black, magewrought steel, then Geth had Wrath free. With a grunt, he sliced at the soldier’s legs. The hobgoblin hopped back just in time.
At the fire, Ekhaas and Tenquis rose from their position as decoys. Out of the corner of his eye, Geth saw Chetiin, wrinkled face stained dark for stealth in the night, drop from the shadowed branches of a tree onto a bugbear. The goblin’s arm went around the soldier’s head, the unexpected weight dragging it back and exposing his throat. A dagger flashed—the ordinary dagger Chetiin sheathed on his left forearm, not the soul-stealing weapon that he kept on his right and that Midian had used to kill Haruuc—and the bugbear groped at the gaping, bubbling wound that opened across his neck. Chetiin kicked away as the sword of another soldier skimmed past him to plunge into the back of his already dying comrade. The dagger flashed again and the second soldier fell with a shriek, clutching at a crippled leg.
Geth didn’t see the killing blow that ended the shriek. Two of his opponents came at him together and he whirled aside. He blocked one sword with his gauntlet, turned Wrath in his grip, and caught the second in the jagged teeth that formed the back of the ancient blade. A twist of his wrist locked the weapons together. Geth kicked underneath them, driving a foot hard into the belly of the soldier and sending him reeling away. The other soldier tried to catch him off balance with a sweeping blow. Geth threw himself away—or tried to. The blood of the first hobgoblin slid under his feet. He fell to his knees, hand slamming into the gory muck to keep him from pitching forward onto his face. The soldier of Darguun loomed over him and raised his sword high—
—and jerked back as a crossbow bolt punched through his armor to bury itself in his chest. Geth reared up and slashed out with Wrath, shearing through chain mail, thick padding, and flesh. More blood soaked the ground. Geth rose and spared a glance for the source of the bolt. Tenquis cranked back the string of a crossbow for another shot while Ekhaas, sword out, moved to meet two more soldiers.
The hobgoblin who had led the patrol snarled and lunged for Geth. Most dar swords were forged in the same traditional style, millennia old, as Wrath—heavy blades sharp on one side and deeply serrated on the other, their broad ends slightly forked but not pointed. They were weapons for hacking and chopping and slashing but not for thrusting. The patrol leader, however, carried a human sword, narrow tip ground sharp. Geth jerked to one side as the sword darted at him, stepped inside the hobgoblin’s extended reach, and punched him hard in his flat-nosed, sharp-boned face. The hobgoblin’s ears sagged, his eyes rolled up, and he toppled backward.
Near the fire, the soldiers who faced Ekhaas hesitated. Half of their patrol was dead, and their leader was down. Geth saw them glance at each other, weighing the option of retreat.
Ekhaas didn’t let them decide. She thrust out her free hand and sang a burst of song that cracked and popped with wild energy. Brilliant light flared from her palm, bright at a distance, blinding close up. As the soldiers yelped and squinted, Ekhaas struck. One soldier went down with a bloody gash from shoulder to navel. The other got his sword up, parrying Ekhaas’s in a clang of metal. The two hobgoblins traded blows back and forth—until Ekhaas suddenly jumped clear. The soldier held his next strike, confused.
Then Chetiin slipped in front of him and thrust his dagger up under the soldier’s ribs. The soldier’s confusion drained away into the shock of death. Chetiin pulled his dagger free, and the hobgoblin sank to the ground.
The soldier Geth had kicked in the stomach, the last one standing, stared in dismay at the devastation inflicted so swiftly on his patrol. Still wheezing and hunched over, he turned and fled.
Tenquis raised his crossbow and whispered a word. Blue light flared, lighting the dark skin of his face. He pulled the trigger of the crossbow, and the bolt leaped away in a hissing blue streak—
—that missed. It hit the trunk of a tree and stuck there, crackling and spitting sparks. The soldier ducked and kept running.
He took perhaps six more strides before a shadow seemed to separate itself from the night and leap on him with a terrible snarl. Teeth flashed as they closed on the back of the hobgoblin’s neck. Powerful muscles bunched and shook the soldier like a toy. The snap of his neck was loud. Marrow tossed the soldier away, then sat back on her haunches and licked her bloody muzzle. Chetiin’s big, black, wolflike mount had caught up to them on the first day of their flight. Chetiin had been evasive about whether the worg had found them on her own or if he had somehow summoned her. Geth hadn’t pressed the question. One more ally was one more ally. Silence returned to the night.
“Better?” Ekhaas asked Geth as she wiped her sword.
“Not really, no,” he said as he straddled the unconscious leader of the patrol, and slapped the hobgoblin.
His eyelids fluttered open. Geth put Wrath across the hobgoblin’s throat, steadying the blade with his gauntleted hand. “How many patrols are in the hills?” he asked in Goblin. The words were awkward, his accent thick—Wrath’s magic might allow him to understand the language of the dar, but it didn’t enable him to speak it.
The soldier’s ears flicked as the others gathered around. His eyes darted between Geth and Ekhaas, with side trips to Chetiin and the dagger still in his hand, and to Tenquis, running fingers along his crossbow. Geth pressed down a little on Wrath to encourage a swift response. The soldier’s eyes widened and came back to him.
“Lhesh Tariic ordered the Gold Hand battalion into the foothills under the command of Daavn of Marhaan.”
Geth glanced up at Chetiin. The goblin gave a nod of approval.
Senen Dhakaan had told them to seek refuge in Volaar Draal, stronghold of the Kech Volaar—southwest of Rhukaan Draal. But Tariic, whatever else he might be, was no fool. Traveling south with a duur’kala of the Kech Volaar among them would have given away their destination. So they’d turned their flight from Rhukaan Draal to the northwest instead, hoping that the lhesh would believe they sought to reach Marguul Pass and Breland beyond it.
If Tariic had ordered one of his most trusted advisors into the mountains, their ruse had worked—maybe too well. A battalion’s w
orth of patrols searching the hills …
Geth looked back down at his prisoner. “Did you signal another patrol that you’d found us?” he asked.
Desperate guile stirred in the soldier’s face as he tried to think of an answer that would save his life. Geth pressed a little harder with Wrath. “Doovol,” he said. Truth.
“Daavn commanded it.”
Fresh anger twisted in Geth. He leaned hard on Wrath’s blade.
Sharp metal with the weight of a shifter behind it sliced through the hobgoblin’s throat. The patrol leader barely had time to look surprised before the sword crunched through bone and his head separated from his body.
It wasn’t as good as killing Tariic, but it was good enough. Geth rose. “More patrols coming,” he said.
“Khaavolaar,” Ekhaas said between her teeth. “I should have finished Daavn when I had the chance at Haruuc’s tomb.”
“Regret is the blade that wounds over and over again,” said Chetiin. “We haven’t come to the end yet.”
“The farther we go, the longer the journey back to Volaar Draal will be.”
“We don’t need to go farther.” Moonlight glittered on the golden orbs of Tenquis’s eyes, from the gold flecks in the polished horns that grew back from his brow, and on the short spikes that edged his chin like a goatee. “We can lay a false trail northward for a short distance from this spot and leave our fire smoldering in the morning. The smoke will draw other patrols here—the deaths will enrage them, and they’ll follow the most obvious trail. Vengeance blinds hobgoblins.”
Ekhaas’s grimace became a narrow glance, but Chetiin nodded. “It will work.” Ekhaas turned her glare on him. The old goblin just spread his hands. “He is right. It is how ghuul’dar will react. Tenquis would make a good golin’dar.”
Ghuul’dar and golin’dar—the ancient Goblin words for hobgoblins, the mighty people, and goblins, the quick people. Not just quick for their speed, but also their cunning. Geth was glad that Chetiin was on their side and not, as he’d thought after Haruuc’s death, an enemy. “That sounds like a plan,” he said, “but we should at least make a show of hiding the bodies. It would seem odd if we left them out in the open.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a gully back there. I’ll go find their horses—”
Marrow interrupted with a growl and a whuff. Her reddish eyes flashed in the firelight, and she turned to disappear into the night. “She says she’ll deal with the horses,” translated Chetiin.
Geth looked after the worg, then shrugged and sheathed Wrath. As Chetiin and Ekhaas moved to deal with the other fallen soldiers, he reached down and took hold of the patrol leader’s body by the ankles, ready to drag the decapitated corpse into the undergrowth.
Tenquis stayed close. “He died too easily,” he said. “You should have let me talk to him.”
Geth followed his gaze down to the head and body of the soldier, then glanced back up at the tiefling. His gut clenched, anger and sorrow coming back as if they would never leave him. The feeling almost choked him. “Maybe I should have.”
“Next time.” Tenquis seized the hobgoblin’s head by its lank black hair and held it up so that he could stare into the vacant eyes. Blood dripped from the severed neck, spattering fallen leaves at Tenquis’s feet. The tiefling stood looking at the head for a long moment, then spun around sharply and hurled it off into the darkness. It crashed through dry branches like some great clumsy bird before hitting an unseen tree with a solid thunk. Tenquis bent and hooked his arms under the dead soldier’s arms to help Geth carry the body.
Chetiin wasn’t the only one Geth was glad to have as a friend rather than as an enemy.
“Tenquis,” he said, “why are you doing this? Why are you still with us? You didn’t know Ashi. You met her—what? Three times? The only reason you even came to Tariic’s notice is because you created the false Rod of Kings for us.”
Tenquis, still bent over, hands under the soldier, twisted his neck to look up at Geth. “And because you came to me for help when your plan fell apart around you.”
Heat burned in Geth’s cheeks. “And that. I’m sorry.”
“Remember what Chetiin said about regret being the blade that wounds? Tieflings have a saying too: choices are a sword sharpened on both ends. I chose to help you. Apology accepted, but you’re not the one to blame.”
He heaved the soldier’s torso up off the ground, holding it away to avoid smearing himself with blood. Geth started walking backward, leading the way toward the brush-screened gully that would serve as an open grave. “You’re not a part of this.”
Tenquis showed needle-sharp teeth. “Tariic made me a part of it. Because of him, everything I had, all of my research, is gone except for what I managed to stuff in my pockets.” His breath wheezed from exertion as he spoke, but he managed to tap his chin against one shoulder, indicating the long, labyrinth-patterned vest that he wore. The garment was magical, its pockets unnaturally capacious. Geth had seen Tenquis slide a long iron pry bar into one pocket creating only a slight bulge in the fabric. “Because of him, my—”
His face hardened, and his mouth closed tight, cutting off the words, but Geth knew what he’d been about to say. In addition to sharp teeth, eyes of gold or black or red, and heavy horns, tieflings had another feature that betrayed the bargain that their sorcerous ancestors had struck with infernal powers in ages past—a thick, sinuous tail. Because of Tariic, Tenquis’s tail was only a scarred stump, a reminder of what Haruuc’s nephew had been willing to do to gain the Rod of Kings.
They pushed past bushes and reached the edge of the gully. Neither of them spoke as they swung the patrol leader’s body into the shadows. Geth listened to the snap and crash of branches below. It was like the crackling of fuel in the fire of his anger. Grim determination settled over him as they turned back to the scene of the ambush.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be going to Volaar Draal,” he said. “Maybe it’s time to stop running. If Tariic thinks we’re headed for Breland, we can go anywhere we want. We can go back to Rhukaan Draal. He won’t be expecting an attack.” Geth’s gut tightened. “We can end this.”
Tenquis frowned. “How? Without Ashi, you’re the only one who can stand up to the power of the rod.”
“All the more reason to go back,” said Geth. “I’m going to carve the price of her death out of Tariic’s heart.”
“Geth.” Tenquis grabbed his arm and stopped him. The tiefling faced him eye to eye. “I want to see Tariic pay for what he’s done, but charging back to Rhukaan Draal isn’t the way. Volaar Draal can provide us with more than just sanctuary. Haruuc learned about the Rod of Kings from the stories preserved by the Kech Volaar. We may be able to find a way to stop Tariic in the vaults of Volaar Draal.”
He dropped his voice and added, “We need to rest and plan first, or we’ll fail. Tariic will win, and who will avenge Ashi then? There’s an old Dhakaani proverb that goes ‘Khaartuuv kurar’dar, mi shi morii’dar.’”
Geth’s hand rested on Wrath’s hilt, and the magic of the sword translated the Goblin words. He spoke them back to Tenquis. “To avenge the dead, remain among the living.”
Tenquis nodded. Geth clenched his jaw. “We’re going back, though,” he said. “When we have a solution, we’re going back.”
Tenquis smiled at him, the tips of his teeth showing past his lips. “I wouldn’t be here if we weren’t.”
CHAPTER
TWO
7 Aryth
Ashi d’Deneith stood on the dais of the throne room of Khaar Mbar’ost, stared out over the mob of Darguul warlords, and remembered another moment, just a week shy of four months earlier, when she had stood on a similar dais. The occasion had been the arrival of Tariic, ambassador of Darguun and nephew of Lhesh Haruuc Shaarat’kor, in Sentinel Tower, home fortress of House Deneith. Ashi had been waiting to perform for Tariic, her mentor Vounn d’Deneith’s firm hand restraining her eagerness.
But Vounn was dead. Ashi stood at the left hand
of Lhesh Tariic Kurar’taarn in his fortress, restrained by the threat of a sharp knife.
And yet she was still performing.
Drums beat slowly as two guards marched down the central aisle of the throne room. They dragged a gruesome burden behind them—the corpse of a bugbear with every scrap of skin flayed away, from foot to face. The thing had been laid on a mat of coarse burlap to keep it from leaving a trail of blood across the floor, but even so, red smears—and the turning heads of Darguul warlords—marked its progress through the room.
The guards brought the corpse to the foot of the dais and stepped aside so that Tariic could look down on it. He did, then looked to the crowd. “This was Makka,” he said, “who shamed me by murdering a guest and an ally and by nearly doing the same to another.” He spoke formal Goblin but Ashi understood it easily—Ekhaas had taught her the language. Tariic looked to his right. “Pradoor, is this just?”
The elderly goblin priestess whose prayers had dragged Ashi back from sharing Vounn’s fate glanced with disdain at the tortured corpse of her former servant. Or rather seemed to stare with milk-blind eyes that saw more than they had any right to. “It is just, lhesh,” she answered.
Tariic turned and looked at Ashi. “Ashi d’Deneith, does this cleanse the honor of Darguun in the eyes of House Deneith?”
Ashi stood straight and spoke, also in Goblin, the words that were required of her. “It does, lhesh.”
“Then let this thing be taken from our presence,” Tariic said, his words rising. “Take it through the streets, and throw it in the dust beyond the city. Let all Darguuls know Makka’s fate and let them learn from it. For I am Lhesh Tariic Kurar’taarn, and their honor belongs to me!”
The Tyranny of Ghosts: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 3 Page 2