He hadn’t wanted aid in the errand. He’d argued to Tariic that he was capable of dealing with Geth and the others by himself. That it was a point of pride. That it would be easier to slip into Volaar Draal if he were alone. Tariic had overruled him. “Geth, Chetiin, Ekhaas, and Tenquis will die,” he’d said. “Get yourself into Volaar Draal, then call on Riila and Taak’s informant. It shouldn’t be difficult to find her. If she wants to show her respect for me, she can help you get him”—he’d thrust the Rod of Kings at Midian’s companion—“into the city as well. Until the traitors are dead, you’re allies. I command it.”
The command had been unnecessary. Midian might have protested, but he would have done whatever Tariic asked. He crossed the courtyard to his new ally.
“It’s done,” he said, reaching into his pack and drawing out a silver horseshoe. Tariic would gather an escort of soldiers—he probably already had one waiting—to see Senen safely returned to Kech Volaar territory. They would ride ahead of the escort, an unseen vanguard. Midian threw the horseshoe to the ground and spoke a word. The horseshoe bounced twice in perfect rhythm, then suddenly there was a white pony cantering in a circle around them. Midian whistled. It came to him. He mounted and looked up at his companion.
The big bugbear with the serpentine symbol of the Fury, dark goddess of vengeance, carved into his chest glowered down at him. He looked considerably more alive and angry than someone who had supposedly had the skin flayed from him should have.
“Tariic commands this, but I don’t like it,” Makka growled, tamping the butt of the trident that was his chosen weapon against the ground. He hadn’t escaped Tariic’s wrath at the death of Vounn d’Deneith entirely—he was pale from imprisonment in an isolated cell below Khaar Mbar’ost—but he was in better shape than the anonymous bugbear who been put in his place to satisfy the vengeance of House Deneith. “The wolf does not run beside the hound. I swore revenge against you as well as the others for turning my tribe against me.”
Midian met his gaze without fear. “After what you did, Makka, you should be glad Tariic finds you more useful as his hound than as a sop to keep Deneith quiet. If it had been my choice, you would have been a naked corpse rotting outside Rhukaan Draal weeks ago.”
He turned his back on the bugbear and rode for the gate.
CHAPTER
NINE
22 Aryth
As they approached the edge of Kech Volaar territory, the soldiers—seven strong hobgoblins and three burly bugbears—escorting Senen started getting skittish. First one, then another glanced around at his companions, until they were all looking at one another. Finally the leader of the expedition put his ears back and muttered something. Within moments, they had all turned and were galloping away in full retreat.
Midian sank a little farther back into his hiding place among the trees and watched them go. He was fairly certain that Senen, swaying in her saddle, head hanging down on her chest, was barely even aware they had left. Two nights before, Midian had crept into the escort’s camp after the soldier who was supposed to be on watch duty turned his attention to the stars and moons overhead. Senen’s skin had been hot. He strongly suspected that Pradoor had done no more than close the Kech Volaar’s wounds with her prayers. Infection and fever had set in—probably Pradoor’s twisted intention all along.
But Senen’s fever suited him too. The more confusion there was over exactly what had happened to her when she arrived in Volaar Draal, the more time he’d have to get Makka into the city and approach his targets. They would be busy cursing Tariic, ignorant of the assassin in the shadows behind them.
Geth would be the first to die, he’d decided. Then Chetiin.
Below, Senen crossed some invisible boundary, and the Kech Volaar patrol that had been lurking among the underbrush—Midian had spotted them immediately, even if Tariic’s soldiers had only guessed at their presence—emerged. The sudden appearance of the great mist-gray leopards that were their warmounts startled Senen’s horse, but the scouts surrounded it swiftly and slid Senen out of the saddle. They were too far away for Midian to hear their words, but the anger that showed on their faces told him all he needed to know. A messenger falcon was dispatched and a warning horn blown in a series of trills. Two members of the patrol bore Senen deeper into Kech Volaar territory, and a third rode off to track the fleeing escorts. A fourth, the one with the horn, waited where he was. Midian waited too.
Geth first, then Chetiin. Then Ekhaas—she’d irritated him from the moment they’d met with the way she clung to duur’kala lore. Tenquis would be almost an afterthought.
The sun moved a handspan across the sky, and two more Kech Volaar patrols appeared. With their cats prowling around them, they conferred with the remaining member of the original patrol, then all of them moved off in the direction the escort had fled. Midian didn’t hold out much hope for the soldiers’ escape—or their swift deaths. He waited until the Kech Volaar patrols were well away, then wriggled out of his hiding place and made his way back to his own unwanted companion.
“The way’s clear,” he said.
Makka just glowered at him and swung back into the saddle of his horse. Midian ignored the bugbear’s bad temper and mounted his own white pony. With patrols in the area either absorbed with Senen’s plight or consumed by righteous wrath in their pursuit of Tariic’s soldiers, the way to Volaar Draal would be relatively clear. Just in case it wasn’t, they stuck to the trees, following the path from under cover as it transformed into an ancient road in the Dhakaani style.
Geth, then Chetiin. Then Ekhaas and Tenquis.
Then Makka.
The first night into their journey, Midian had looked across a small campfire, watched Makka sharpening the tines of his trident, and realized that Tariic’s command of alliance had a flaw. Until the traitors are dead, you’re allies. But once they were dead? Ah. Midian wondered if the omission had been deliberate, if Tariic wished to rid himself of one or more potentially troublesome underlings.
He suspected that Makka had realized the same thing. The bugbear kept stealing glances at him when he thought Midian wasn’t looking. One way or another, four bodies would become five before Tariic’s errand was over, and Midian intended to be the one going back to Khaar Mbar’ost.
He waited until he felt Makka’s gaze on him, then turned sharply. He had the satisfaction of seeing Makka twitch in surprise, his nostrils flaring. Midian gave him a wide, insolent smile. Makka’s eyes narrowed, then he smiled back, a cold smile that was all teeth. Any doubts were erased in Midian’s mind. Makka knew that their enforced alliance had a limit.
But the bugbear’s smile lasted only a moment before turning into a deep frown as he raised his head and sniffed at the wind. Midian’s smile faded as well. “What is it?”
Makka’s big, stiff ears cupped slightly. “Something dead.”
They rode even more carefully. Soon Midian could smell the sick-sweet odor of death too. A little farther and they found the source of the stench bound naked to a branching wooden frame—a goblin grieving tree—erected where the road descended into a steep-sided valley shadowed by the towers of Volaar Draal.
Midian slipped from his horse and, staying low, crept around to the front of the tree. The body had been there for no more than a few days. Blood had run down the victim’s left side and dried there from a wound that had been opened under her arm. She had lingered on the tree, but not too long before bleeding to death. Her head had been bound into place. The last thing she’d seen would have been Volaar Draal.
There was a sign, the words carved in Goblin. She betrayed her clan and her muut. She dies with no name.
“Well, this changes things.” he said under his breath. He returned to the cover of the trees. “Makka, see if you can track down a lone scout or a small patrol. We need to find out what happened here.”
17 Aryth – five days earlier
At Tuura Dhakaan’s order, they were thrown into a cell—at least Geth assumed it was a cell. T
he only light was a thin line around the door, a glowing thread in an echoing darkness. Their prison was vast. Without proper light he had no desire to go exploring.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Gath’atcha,” said Ekhaas. Her voice was rough, strained by her long song in their escape from the vaults. “It means ‘without honor.’ It is a place of punishment. Kech Volaar who break the traditions of the clan are sent here for a period of time.”
“They’ll hold us here?” asked Chetiin.
“Hold us, yes,” said Ekhaas, “but only until Tuura Dhakaan decides what to do. What we did was more serious than the deeds of most who are sent here.”
She tried to keep her voice steady, but even through the trained tones of a duur’kala, Geth could hear her fear and dismay. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Tuura will understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand, Geth. Breaking into the vaults goes beyond any concern she might have about Tariic or the Rod of Kings.”
“If we tell her about Tasaam Draet’s fortress and the shattered shield—”
“It makes no difference.”
Her voice actually broke. Geth tried to find her in the darkness, but his hands found only air. “Grandfather Rat. Can you sing us another light?”
“I can make a little light,” said Tenquis. Geth heard rustling as the tiefling searched the magically capacious pockets of his long vest, then the swish and gurgle of liquid being shaken in some kind of vessel. The sound stopped for a moment, then started again, more vigorous this time.
“Stop,” Ekhaas said wearily. “There’s no light in Gath’atcha. It’s an ancient magic. The only illumination lies on the other side of the door in Volaar Draal.”
“A lesson for those imprisoned,” said Chetiin. Of all of them, only he sounded calm.
“Can you get out of here?” Geth asked him.
“I might be able to,” said the old goblin. “I could get away when we are released. But I would be leaving you behind.”
“If it comes down to that, you should do it.”
“I will.”
No hesitation, no trace of self-sacrifice. Once again, Geth was glad Chetiin was a friend rather than an enemy. “They didn’t take our weapons,” Geth said. “We could try fighting when they open the door. We may all be able to escape.”
“When they open the door,” said Ekhaas, “there will be twenty warriors of the Kech Volaar on the other side with duur’kala to back them up. There’s the whole of Volaar Draal between us and freedom. They left us our weapons as a sign of disdain. We can’t escape, Geth.”
There was silence for a moment, then Tenquis spoke. “You say ‘they’ like you don’t belong with them anymore.”
“I don’t,” said Ekhaas. “Exile from the clan is the least I can expect.”
“What about the rest of us?” said Geth.
She didn’t answer him. “I said, what about the rest of us, Ekhaas?” he asked again.
Her voice came hollow out of the darkness. “Go to sleep, Geth. There’s nothing else you can do right now.”
There was a finality in her words that killed any thought of a reply. Silence settled into the darkness. Geth stood where he was for a long moment, then stretched himself out on the cool stone floor and stared into nothing. His hand came up to touch the polished black stones of the collar around his neck—an artifact of the Gatekeeper druids that had been the dying gift of his friend Adolan. Sometimes that collar grew cold or hot when he was in danger or needed guidance.
Just then it was no cooler than the air and no warmer than his skin.
They’d gained a clue to the destruction of the Shield of Nobles and a possible way to destroy the Rod of Kings, only to find themselves locked up like thieves. A bad end, Ado, he thought.
The Kech Volaar came for them around what Geth’s belly told him was noon the next day. When the door of Gath’atcha was opened, he was surprised to find that Ekhaas’s expectations of their escort were wrong.
There were actually thirty warriors waiting for them.
The Kech Volaar said nothing, just waited for their prisoners to emerge, then formed up behind them, guiding them with the bulk of their presence. After a night in the darkness, even the dim lights of Volaar Draal seemed bright. Geth found himself blinking as they were marched through the streets. In another city, crowds might have shouted abuse at them or maybe hurled stones and filth. The hobgoblins, goblins, and bugbears of Volaar Draal, however, watched their passage in silence. Geth thought he could feel the cold anger and disdain in every stare. He almost wished someone would shout or throw something.
Volaar Draal held its breath, waiting for them to be judged.
Their escort guided them to the blocky shape of the Shrine of Glories. Geth half expected to be taken around the back and in through the slave entrance they’d used before, but the warriors took them up the sweeping stairs that led to the main entrance. They emerged not into the pillared Hall of Song but into a chamber that reminded Geth uncomfortably of an arena. Tiered benches rose above the isolated floor, each seat filled by a harsh-faced older hobgoblin. Elders of the clan, Geth guessed immediately. On the broad platform of the lowest tier, seated in a high stone chair, was Tuura Dhakaan. Diitesh and Kitaas stood just behind her on one side; a hobgoblin warrior wearing heavy armor, an axe slung across his back, stood on the other.
“Khaavolaar,” said Ekhaas. “That’s Kurac Thaar. He’s the warlord of Kech Volaar.”
“I didn’t realize the Kech Volaar had a warlord,” said Tenquis.
“He stands at Tuura’s side when important decisions are made.” Ekhaas pressed her lips together for a moment, then added, “When there’s an execution, he carries it out.”
The thirty escorting warriors saluted Tuura and withdrew. Heavy doors boomed shut behind them, leaving Geth, Ekhaas, Chetiin, and Tenquis alone before the elders. Geth was reminded uncomfortably of vultures perched on trees, waiting for a wounded beast to die and become carrion.
The room was silent for a long moment before Tuura, looking down on her prisoners, finally spoke. “Ekhaas duur’kala, you will speak for your companions. You stand in this chamber because you have broken not only the terms of the sanctuary granted to you, but the laws and traditions of the Kech Volaar. You assaulted another member of your clan. You entered the vaults without permission and by stealth.” Her ears flicked back. “And you took those not of this clan—two of them chaat’oor—into the vaults along with you. Is this the truth?”
Ekhaas raised her head. “Mother of the dirge, it is the truth.”
A murmur of disapproval ran around the gathered elders. Diitesh and Kitaas glanced at each other with smug expressions. Tuura’s face hardened, and an edge of rage crept into her voice. “What are the punishments prescribed to Kech Volaar for these transgressions, Ekhaas?”
Geth saw Ekhaas’s ears tremble just slightly. Her words were steady, though—steadier than he could have managed. “These are the punishments, handed down by the earliest Kech Volaar and drawn from the traditions of the great empire, that are taught to children of the clan. Who strikes without sanction another member of the clan, whether with weapon or hand or magic, will pass time in Gath’atcha. Who enters the vaults of lore without sanction will pass time in Gath’atcha or may be exiled from the clan. Who guides—”
Her voice finally caught, but she swallowed and recovered. “Who guides those not of Kech Volaar into the vaults will be judged a traitor to Kech Volaar and will die without a name.”
There were no murmurs this time. Once again Tuura waited before she spoke. “And what are the punishments prescribed by tradition to outclanners?”
“An outclanner who strikes one of the Kech Volaar may be struck in return without fear. An outclanner who enters the vaults of lore will die.”
Geth’s stomach turned. He glanced urgently at Ekhaas. On the duur’kala’s other side, Tenquis hissed her name. “Ekhaas—”
“You have no voice here, chaat’oor!�
� thundered Kurac Thaar from Tuura’s side. “Be silent.”
Geth glared at the armored hobgoblin, but Ekhaas caught his shoulder, turning him away. “Easy,” she said softly, then turned her face back to Tuura. “These are the punishments dictated by tradition, mother of the dirge—but by tradition, we shouldn’t be speaking at all. By tradition, my companions and I should be dead already.”
Tuura’s ears flicked. “One has spoken on your behalf.”
She sat back, and Geth saw Ekhaas’s eyes go wide, then narrow. She—and he—looked to Kitaas, but Ekhaas’s sister seemed as startled as they did. Tuura paid no attention to them or to her. “The High Archivist,” she said, “proposes a different punishment.”
Diitesh? Geth watched the pale hobgoblin nod to Tuura as another wave of whispers passed through the elders. Kitaas had passed beyond startled to thunderstruck. She grabbed Diitesh’s sleeve and spoke into her ear. Diitesh just shook her head and gestured for her to step back.
Ekhaas held her gaze on Tuura. “What punishment?” she asked.
“You came to Volaar Draal seeking sanctuary from Lhesh Tariic. You will be returned to Lhesh Tariic to face his judgment.”
There were mutters of confusion among the elders, but Geth also heard murmurs of approval. Chetiin’s scarred voice echoed in the chamber. “Tariic’s judgment will also be death.”
Kurac Thaar drew breath, but Tuura gestured for him to hold his tongue. “Death in Volaar Draal or death in Rhukaan Draal. The honor of Kech Volaar is satisfied either way,” she said.
A vague sense of hope stirred in Geth. It would take time to get to Rhukaan Draal. Even under heavy guard, there was a chance that they might be able to escape—certainly a better chance than if they were to be executed in Volaar Draal. But another thought tugged at him. Why would Diitesh of all people propose a deal like that, a break from tradition? What did she gain by sending them back to Tariic?
The Tyranny of Ghosts: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 3 Page 13