“Oh, you would be a terror at your full strength!” Her stick rapped his knuckles again. He grabbed for her and missed again. Her smile grew tight. “You honor the old ways,” she said. “You wear the muu’kron.”
It was a statement, not a question. An eerie feeling penetrated Makka’s anger. How had the goblin known? She couldn’t have seen the six knotted cords on his belt. Had she guessed? There was too much confidence in her voice. His hands dropped and he pulled back a little bit.
“I wear the muu’kron,” he said.
“You call on the Dark Six. The Keeper. The Fury. The Mockery.” She paused and cocked her head. “The Devourer?”
“When thunder rolls and my belly is empty,” said Makka.
“The Shadow?”
He shivered. “I have little dealing with dark magic.”
“But you honor him?”
“I fear his power.”
The goblin tapped her stick against the ground. “That is as much as honoring him. And the Traveler?”
Makka’s hair rose as stories of the trickster god came creeping out of his childhood. Stories that told of how the Traveler had remained on Eberron after the age of creation, wandering the world to spread chaos and test the faithful, never appearing in the same guise twice. Stories rejected by the adult mind of a hunter that had no room for chance, but broke down on the edge of death. Makka looked at the old goblin woman with new eyes and a growing wariness.
His silence must have given away his thoughts. The golin’dar laughed. “You think I could be the Traveler? Your wounds must be bad! And yet surely the Traveler led me to you.”
Makka found his voice again. “Or the Mockery, to increase my torment.”
She laughed again, a sound like some night-hunting bird, and moved closer to settle down on her haunches. She was close enough to seize now, but Makka didn’t move. It wasn’t just because of the growing darkness that drained the strength from him. There was something odd in this fearless woman.
“I am Pradoor,” she said.
“Makka.” He didn’t add the name of his tribe, partly because he no longer had a tribe, partly because a strange sensation had fallen over him. He stood on a cliff. With one step, such things as tribes would no longer matter.
“You are called, Makka,” said Pradoor. “The change beloved of the Traveler is coming. Haruuc fled to the gods of the Sovereign Host in the belief that it would make Darguun strong, but only the strength of the old ways can make Darguun great. There will be a new lhesh, and he will respect the Six. The people still believe. The order of the world will be set right.”
Her blind eyes faced him. “You want revenge. The Dark Six—the Fury—will place it in your path. Serve me, and your strength will be greater than anything you had before. Refuse and die.”
The words were blunt. It wasn’t a threat, only the truth. “When the Six give a sign, only a fool ignores it,” Makka said. “I choose vengeance.”
“When the Six call, you have no choice.” Pradoor stretched out a gnarled hand—she was somehow even closer than he had thought—and stroked his head the way his mother had when he’d been a pup. “You are their instrument. The Keeper will not take you this night.”
Waves of fatigue and weakness washed over Makka. For a moment, he thought that Pradoor was wrong, that the Keeper had claimed him, then fatigue and weakness were both gone. He trembled, as if just recovering from a long and terrible fever, but the fire of the wound in his side had cooled. He stood up and pulled apart the gap that Ashi’s sword had made in his bear hide vest. The skin beneath was crusted in dried blood, but the wound had closed, leaving a tender pink scar behind.
“Stare later,” said Pradoor. She poked her stick into his leg. “Up.”
Makka lifted her up to his left shoulder where she settled herself comfortably, one hand curled around the back of his neck. The old goblin weighed almost nothing. She tapped his head and pointed to the mouth of the alley. “The people wait for us. A king waits for us.” Her fingers stroked his head again. “Your revenge waits for you.”
Makka bared his teeth. “Praise the Six,” he said, and walked out to face the jackals of Rhukaan Draal.
CHAPTER
SIX
20 Sypheros
The most rumored match of the second day of the games had already begun as Ekhaas stepped into the sun of the warlords’ box. Below, Keraal circled the ring, back to the wall, taking the measure of his opponent—an ettin captured somewhere in the northern hills of Darguun and forced into the arena. Ekhaas shaded her eyes against the afternoon’s brightness and studied the creature just as Keraal did. The ettin stood nearly twice as tall as the hobgoblin. Its limbs were thick and its features angry, with fleshy lips and ragged ears on each of the two heads that sprouted from its massive shoulders.
Both pairs of the ettin’s tiny black eyes were fixed on Keraal, watching intently as the warlord of the Marhaan spun the chain that was his appointed weapon in a slow circle before him. The ettin had been provided with arms of a sort as well: a club fashioned from a length of heavy building timber and a shield made out of a door.
The spectators in the stands were cheering, most of them for the ettin, a vocal few for Keraal. Ekhaas saw one of the ettin’s heads murmur something to the other, then the creature let loose a bloodcurdling dual-pitched cry and charged. The club swept down and Keraal slid aside, but it was a feint. The ettin pushed its makeshift shield into the path of Keraal’s spinning chain. A few chunks of wood flew free, then the chain crashed into a tangle. Keraal tried to leap away, but he was slow. The club dealt him a glancing blow. He staggered and turned the stagger into a desperate lunge under the ettin’s arm. He kicked hard into its calf, then sprinted away as it hopped in pain, yelping with two voices. On the other side of the arena, Keraal shook out his chain and began to spin it again.
A few more voices were cheering for Keraal.
Geth sat alone at the front of the box. Ekhaas slipped in beside him. “None of the heirs are putting themselves on display?” she asked.
“They are. Just not here.” Geth pointed to either end of the box, then out into the stands. “They claimed their own territory.”
Ekhaas followed his gesture. At one end of the raised box, Tariic stood cheering with Daavn at his side. A good number of other warlords clustered around him. Aguus of Traakuum and the warlords who supported him had claimed the other end of the box. Garaad of Vaniish Kai had taken a populist approach, sitting in the stands surrounded by warriors of lower ranks—many of them looking vaguely wistful as they stared across the arena at the section of benches taken over by Iizan of Ghaal Sehn and his supporters where wine was flowing freely and boxes of sweet shaat’aar were being handed around.
“He’ll empty the vaults of the Ghaal Sehn,” Ekhaas said.
“They’re all spending money,” Geth told her. “Iizan’s just being more showy about it.”
Ekhaas spotted Midian among the Ghaal Sehn, trying to get Iizan’s attention and apparently not having much luck. “What’s he doing?”
“Trying to get all the heirs to let him continue digging at Bloodrun, I think. So far he’s only got Tariic to agree. I don’t think any of the others care much for gnomes—or history.”
Ekhaas’s ears lay back.
In the arena, the ettin charged again. This time, Keraal flicked his arm and the chain broke out of its spin to fly low at the ettin. At the last moment, the hobgoblin twisted into the chain, wrapping it around his waist. The flying end of the chain, weighted with shackles, changed direction sharply and jumped up to slam into the shoulder of the ettin’s sword arm. The creature’s shield dipped and it pulled its charge up short—though not short enough. Keraal jerked on the chain and the shackles cracked across one of the ettin’s faces, tearing its lips and cheek. A roar went up from the crowd at the sight of first blood.
“Who chooses his opponents?” asked Ekhaas.
The ettin swatted Keraal with its shield as he tried to get past and a
cheer went up from Tariic and his supporters. “Who do you think?” said Geth. “He’s let it out that there’s a fat reward to whoever defeats—and kills—the rebel who defied Haruuc.”
Another successful blow by Keraal brought another, louder roar for the rebel. Ekhaas’s ears flicked upright again. “That could bite him,” she said. “The longer Keraal stays alive, the more the crowd will treat him like a hero.”
“Haruuc told me once that Darguuls want blood and it doesn’t matter who sheds it. I think the crowd will be just as happy if he dies.” Geth grimaced. “I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do if he lives.”
“There’s nothing to figure out. He goes free. We’re bound by tradition.” She looked sideways at him. “I’ve found our artificer,” she said quietly.
The shifter sat up. Ekhaas put a hand on his arm and pulled him back down in his seat. “Don’t make a fuss!” She glanced around. No one seemed to have noticed Geth’s excitement. “He’ll see us tonight. You, me, and Dagii.”
“Just the three of us?”
Ekhaas nodded. “I think he suspects something, so he wants to be discreet, which is what we want, too. I’m his contact, you’re the only one who can handle the rod, and Dagii will provide us with extra protection. Bringing Ashi and Midian would attract too much attention in the streets at night.”
“How did you get him to agree to it?”
She drew breath through her teeth. “He hasn’t entirely. Not yet. He knows that he’s going to be copying a Dhakaani artifact. That’s all. I even asked in the Bloody Market about the availability of byeshk. We’ll get it to him when he needs it.” Ekhaas sat back. “He’s fascinated by the lost knowledge of the daashor, the Dhakaani artificer tradition. That’s what hooked him. Bring Wrath with you tonight. If he hesitates when he finds out what we really want, I think the opportunity to examine two artifacts created by the legendary Taruuzh will help him make up his mind.”
“I’d bring Wrath anyway.” Geth touched the sword’s hilt. “I’m not going anywhere without it right now.”
“Dagii and I will come for you when the first moon rises,” Ekhaas said. “Wrap the rod in something to disguise it—and try to disguise yourself. Too many people recognize you now.” She rose.
An loud whistling sound from the arena drew her attention back to the sands. Keraal had doubled up his chain and was swinging it hard and fast overhead. The ettin, uncertain what the hobgoblin was up to, backed away slowly. Maybe too slowly—Keraal dropped suddenly to one knee and loosened his grip. The chain slid through his fingers with a long rattle and swept around in an expanding arc. The end of it wrapped around the ettin’s ankle, the shackles catching in the chain and tangling.
Instantly, Keraal was back on his feet and racing around the ettin even as the two-headed creature tried to shake the chain loose. Keraal caught its other leg inside the loop of chain, and hauled back with all of his strength. Muscles strained under his scarred skin.
The ettin’s legs were pulled together, then wrenched out from under it. Arms flailing, it crashed faces first to the ground. Keraal dropped the chain and charged, jumping up onto its broad shoulders and leaping high.
He came down with both feet together on the back of the creature’s right head. Even with the shouts of the crowd ringing in the arena, Ekhaas thought she heard a distinct crack as the head’s face was smashed into the sand. The left head bellowed in shared agony. The ettin heaved, trying to turn itself over.
Keraal dragged the club out of its slack right fist, wrapped both of his hands around the heavy timber, and lifted it. The ettin saw the raised club and tried to get its shield up, but its left arm was supporting most of its weight. It dropped as if it could roll away, but Keraal swung first. The club came down square on the left head. Bone crunched. The ettin managed a feeble roar. Keraal, silent, swung the club again.
The skull shattered and collapsed. Blood and brain spattered the hobgoblin. The ettin’s right head jerked and screamed. Keraal turned to it and swung the heavy club a third time.
The crowed roared in delight. Keraal flung down the club and turned to look up at Geth. Shifter and hobgoblin faced each other in silence, neither moving for a moment, then Keraal turned to Tariic and thumped his chest with his fist in a mocking salute. Tariic’s ears pressed back flat against his skull.
The arena resounded to the cheers and applause of the crowd.
Geth knew Dagii and Ekhaas had arrived when he heard song in the hall outside his door. It was a beautiful, soft song, strange and broken as all dar songs were to someone who hadn’t grown up with them, but still soothing. It reminded Geth of warm nights looking up at the stars and Eberron’s twelve moons and the hazy glow of the Ring of Siberys that dominated the southern sky.
He jerked back to alertness as the door of his chamber opened and Ekhaas entered. The duur’kala was wearing plain, drab clothes and a loose scarf that hid half her face but left room for her large and mobile ears. “Geth? Are you ready? The guards won’t sleep for—” Her eyes landed on him and she stopped. “What’s that?”
Geth pulled the enveloping cloak that he wore more tightly about himself. The hood hid his face better than Ekhaas’s scarf hid hers—in fact, he could barely see to either side. “You said to disguise myself because too many people recognize me.”
“So we wouldn’t attract attention. Now you look like someone trying to disguise himself. Get that off and we’ll try something else.”
Growling, he shook the cloak off—then growled again as Ekhaas squeezed her eyes shut and bent her ears down. “What?”
“We’re not going to be able to cover that.” She rapped the great gauntlet that covered his right arm.
A sleeve of magewrought black steel plates, studded with flat spikes on the forearm and short hooks on the back of the hand, the gauntlet was all the armor he needed. It was light. It was strong. Paired with a sword in his left hand, it made a second weapon that had surprised many opponents over the years. What it wasn’t was inconspicuous.
“I was wearing the cloak to cover it and Wrath!” He slapped the sword at his side.
“Hurry!” Dagii’s voice came low from the hall.
Ekhaas’s ears bent even further. “There isn’t time to take it off. Just hold still.” She concentrated on his face for a moment, her amber eyes intense, then raised a hand and sang a brief rippling passage of song. Geth had experienced Ekhaas’s duur’kala magic many times before, and each time it felt as though he had been dipped in some wild spring that bubbled with the primal music of the world’s creation. This time the music still had that primal energy, but it was strangely muted, almost as if it were only an echo. Ekhaas lowered her hand and nodded. “It will do.”
“What will do?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re out. Where’s the rod?”
“Here.” Geth had the Rod of Kings wrapped up in the soft oiled leather that normally protected his gauntlet. He reached for the anonymous bundle and was startled to see an unfamiliar hand pick it up—a hobgoblin’s orange-red hand on the end of a slender arm wearing a black wool sleeve. He glanced at Ekhaas.
“Illusion,” she said. “Just take the rod. We need to leave.”
He didn’t ask anything more, but grabbed the wrapped rod and followed Ekhaas out the door, closing it behind him. The guards that stood on either side of the door—an honor for the shava of Haruuc more than anything else—were leaning back against the walls, both of them lightly dozing under the subtle effect of Ekhaas’s magic. They wouldn’t know he had slipped out of his chamber.
Dagii was waiting just along the hall. For the first time Geth could recall, the young warlord wore no armor, though he did carry a sword. His shadow-gray hair had been shaken loose and brushed forward over his face. Dagii barely looked like himself. His ears rose at the sight of them, but he said nothing and fell into step alongside them.
As soon as they were away from the hall outside his chamber, Geth looked down at himself. He wore—or seemed to w
ear—a robe of black wool and a wide girdle of red leather tooled in the angular patterns favored by hobgoblin design.
He also appeared to have breasts.
“A woman?” he said under his breath. “You made me a woman?”
“My older sister, actually,” Ekhaas whispered. “I was in a hurry. I had to choose someone I knew well but that no one in Khaar Mbar’ost was likely to recognize. The illusion won’t last long—that’s why I prefer non-magical disguise. Try not to talk. The magic doesn’t change your voice.”
“You don’t know any hobgoblin men?”
Dagii’s voice was thick with restrained laughter. “If it’s any consolation, Ekhaas is clearly the beauty in the family.” He nodded to the duur’kala. Ekhaas’s ears flicked and she returned the nod gracefully, a smile playing around her lips.
Geth ground his teeth together.
If it was embarrassing, the illusion was effective. They tried to move through the least busy parts of Khaar Mbar’ost, but even at night the fortress was an active place. Still, no one within the walls gave them the slightest glance except for one hobgoblin warrior whose gaze lingered on Geth. They couldn’t sneak around the guards at the gates, but there Dagii simply looked one of the guards in the eye. The guard, startled by his unexpected appearance, snapped up straight. If anyone cared to question him, the hobgoblin might report that the warlord of Mur Talaan had left Khaar Mbar’ost, but Geth doubted if he would remember the two women who passed by with him.
Beyond Khaar Mbar’ost, the daytime revelry of the games spilled over into the night. Bonfires burned in the middle of some of the wider streets, and the people of Rhukaan Draal gathered around them to sing and dance and drink. The guards that had patrolled the city during the period of mourning were all but gone. Those few Geth spotted as they passed through the shadows were celebrating as heartily as the rest of the crowd. Here and there, vast casks of ale stood open and whole roast hogs were laid out courtesy of those with aspirations to the throne. Geth recognized the chiefs of a few lesser clans calling out the virtues of Aguus or Iizan or Garaad. The warlords had called on their allies to help support the costs of their campaigns of popularity.
Word of Traitors: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 2 Page 8