The tyranny of ghosts tlod-3

by Don Bassingthwaite

  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. The 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?

  Except-He looked up at Tuura and Diitesh. “And the Kech Volaar,” he said in his thickly accented Goblin, “will gain Tariic’s favor by turning his enemies over to him.”

  “Sometimes such things must be considered,” said Tuura. “You should understand-you sat on the throne of Darguun as Haruuc’s shava.”

  “Geth, don’t,” whispered Ekhaas. “This is our way out of Volaar Draal.”

  She’d seen the same thing he had. He shook his head though. He couldn’t let go of his suspicions. And he knew it wasn’t just him-he could feel a stirring across his connection with Wrath. The Sword of Heroes didn’t share memories with its wielder in the way that the Rod of Kings did, but it had been created to inspire. A hero did more than fight. A hero questioned.

  “We brought you a warning about Tariic when we came, Tuura Dhakaan.” As he spoke, his accent faded-the work of Wrath. Geth could feel it putting a hero’s words into his mouth. “Do not trust Tariic. Our lives are worth more than his favor.”

  “Close your mouth!” Kurac roared, driven beyond tolerance. “I said that chaat’oor have no voice here-”

  Fury caught Geth. “You will respect me, taat! I am the bearer of Aram. I hold the honor of the name of Kuun.” He drew Wrath, the twilight blade a dull shadow in the dim light. “Fight me, and test your atcha!”

  Kurac’s hand went to his axe, but before he could draw it, Tuura said sharply, “Kurac!”

  He froze. Tuura rose to her feet, her face as dark as a thundercloud. “Perhaps Tariic is not to be trusted,” she said. “But I have muut to my clan. As it has been since the Age of Dhakaan, I lead them and I protect them. I stand between them and forces greater than ours. When Haruuc ruled Darguun, I saw the potential in an alliance with him.”

  “Tariic isn’t Haruuc.”

  “Even if all that you have told me about Tariic is true, I must consider Kech Volaar. Diitesh offers a way to make the lhesh of Darguun a friend instead of an enemy while punishing those who break our traditions. Two armies fight one battle.”

  Geth looked at the High Archivist. “I have been told that the archivists guard the history and traditions of Dhakaan,” he said. “Aren’t you breaking traditions by handing us over to Tariic instead of allowing our deaths here?”

  “Geth!” Tenquis said in a low, strangled voice, but his exclamation was almost drowned out by mutters of discontent that made their way around the benches of elders. Apparently Diitesh’s suggestion wasn’t as popular as it might have seemed. Tuura looked around at the dissenters, bu
t Diitesh raised her head high.

  “I have said before that Tariic holds the hope of restoring the Empire of Dhakaan, just as he holds the Rod of Kings,” she declared. “He respects the traditions of the ages and restores those that Haruuc stripped away. This is the time the Kech Volaar have waited for. Our legacy is upon us. We must support him!”

  As many elders slapped their chests in approval as had raised their voices in dissent. Many of them, Geth noticed, wore the black robes of archivists. He spoke over the noise. “The same argument she used, Tuura Dhakaan, when the Kech Shaarat sought to draw you into an alliance under Tariic.”

  The applause faltered. Tuura’s eyes whipped back to Geth. “The Kech Volaar might ally with Tariic,” she said, “but we will not bow before him. That is why I rejected the approaches of the Kech Shaarat.”

  Diitesh’s ears went back. “If Tariic Kurar’taarn is the emperor returned, it is the muut of all Dhakaani clans to follow him.”

  Geth bared his teeth, feeling the full power of the sword flowing through him. He felt powerful, one hero standing before the assembled elders of a clan, fighting a battle as dangerous as if he stood in the path of an army. “Which is it?” he asked. “Will you follow Tariic or not? I tell you that if you send us back to him-or execute us here-the Kech Volaar will bow before him. Tariic’s power is irresistible. He doesn’t need the Kech Volaar, but if you give yourselves up to him, his ambition will consume you.”

  He paused to look over the crowd of elders, at Tuura and Kurac, at Diitesh and Kitaas, all staring at him in consideration or in anger. At Ekhaas, Chetiin, and Tenquis, likewise caught up in the words of a hero. He felt Wrath’s approval and let his voice rise until it rang from the walls and ceiling of the room. “We seek a way to stop Tariic, and we may have found it in the vaults of Volaar Draal, among the knowledge safeguarded through the ages by the Kech Volaar. If you’re willing to break with tradition by leaving our fate to Tariic, consider instead leaving Tariic’s fate to us!” He thrust Wrath triumphantly into the air “No!” Kitaas pushed past Diitesh to point a trembling finger at him. “By the Six Kings, don’t listen to him. They mean to destroy the Rod of Kings! They intend to destroy an artifact of Dhakaan!”