The doom of Kings tlod-1

by Don Bassingthwaite

  “This is what’s going to happen,” Munta said, passing the tray to Geth, then leading them out of the chamber and into the corridor. “Haruuc wants to have a very public presentation of the rod so that everyone who matters knows how important it is. The presentation will take place in the throne room. As you enter, a duur’kala will tell the story of the rod. When you reach the foot of the throne, Tariic-as a representative of the people-will take the rod and give it to Haruuc, who will then speak. After that, there’s no particular order of ceremonies you need to follow. Haruuc’s instructions will guide you.”

  “You make it sound like a pageant,” Midian said.

  “Rule is as much spectacle as it is action.” Munta stopped at a tall door. From the other side of it, Ekhaas could hear the indistinct murmurs of a great many people. “This leads into the antechamber of the throne room,” Munta said. “When the drums start, the doors will open and you’ll go in.” He looked at them all and solemn pride filled his face. “Haruuc won’t be able to say this in public, but he asked me to tell you. Kaaspanozhii kitaan atcha.”

  We owe a debt to your honor. He turned and hurried up the corridor, heading, Ekhaas assumed, to take his place in the throne room. She glanced at the others. From their expressions, they might have been walking to an execution rather than a celebration.

  “It’s too late not to do this, isn’t it?” asked Ashi.

  “Far too late,” Ekhaas said.

  A drum stroke sounded from beyond the door. The murmurs of the crowd died out. The drum continued, its beat throbbing on the air in a slow rhythm. “The call to advance,” said Dagii. “Armies march into battle at that pace.”

  At the head of their small party, Geth shifted his grip on the tray and raised one hand to touch the collar of black stones around his neck.

  The tall doors opened.

  Representatives of all three goblin races filled the antechamber. Ekhaas recognized minor dignitaries, wealthy merchants, and officers of Haruuc’s guard. Soldiers holding crossed spears as a barrier kept clear a path through the crowd and up to the wide stairs of the throne room. Faces turned to stare at them. Ekhaas saw Geth swallow, the hair on his neck and forearms rising, then he started to walk, matching his pace to the drum.

  A voice rose, speaking in Goblin. “Raat shi anaa. In the ancient days of Dhakaan lived the great dashoor Taruuzh, who found inspiration in all things. It pleased him to work in the mines, where he could handle the raw material of his creations, and he was so working in the mines of Suthar Draal when he found a vein of byeshk so pure that he named it the Blood of Dusk.”

  It was the same story that Senen Dhakaan had told in the small chamber high in Khaar Mbar’ost, the story that had launched their quest. This time, however, it was not Senen Dhakaan who told it. Ekhaas recognized the voice that rose and fell in time with the drum, a voice like seawater and beeswax. Walking through the antechamber and up the stairs was like passing through a legend. The ears of every goblin in the crowd lifted to listen, captivated by the words of Aaspar, the elderly mother of the dirge, as she spoke of the wonders Taruuzh created from the byeshk of the Blood of Dusk. First of Aram, the Sword of Heroes. Then of Muut, the Shield of Nobles. And finally of-

  “-a rod carved with symbols that had been old when the first daashor took up a hammer and the first duur’kala sang. A rod which Taruuzh gave to the emperor of Dhakaan and which he named-”

  They reached the top of the steps. The throne room opened before them. The first thing Ekhaas saw was Haruuc, seated on his throne, the light that came through the tall windows striking bright rays from his armor and the spiked crown of Darguun. The second thing was Aaspar, dressed in black and standing before Haruuc.

  Then the drum paused and Geth paused with it. In the silence, Aaspar flung up a thin hand, pointing along the aisle to those framed in the doorway. Her voice soared to fill the great hall. “-Guulen, the Rod of Kings!”

  A hundred heads or more turned to follow her hand and voice. A hundred pairs of eyes or more stared at them. At the byeshk rod that Geth carried.

  In that moment, the throne room of Khaar Mbar’ost seemed as timeless as the cavern of Uura Odaarii. Ekhaas was aware of the beating of her heart. It seemed that every warlord and clan chief of Darguun was in the hall, together with dignitaries wearing the crests of every nation of Khorvaire and every dragonmarked house. She saw Munta. She saw Senen Dhakaan. She saw Vounn d’Deneith. She saw Tariic standing across from Aaspar before the throne and Vanii standing in a place of honor behind it. Through the window, she could see smoke still rising in gray streamers from Rhukaan Draal, but that hint of conflict only seemed to add to the aura of the conqueror that clung to Haruuc.

  The slow cadence of the drum returned, and Geth resumed his measured pace along the aisle. Aaspar’s voice continued to ring from the high ceiling, so powerful it almost seemed enough to shake the banners that hung from the walls or to wake the statues that looked down from above. “For centuries upon centuries, the emperors of Dhakaan held Guulen. For centuries upon centuries, they ruled with might and wisdom-until Guulen was lost and the Empire of Dhakaan crumbled. But now the dar are united once more. Now…” Her words slowed along with the drum as their party reached the dais upon which Haruuc’s throne stood. “… Guulen… returns!”

  Her final cry echoed for a moment, then faded. For a long moment, the hall was silent-and Haruuc spoke.

  “Who comes to the court of Lhesh Haruuc Shaarat’kor?”

  For an instant, an awkward horror ran through Ekhaas. Munta hadn’t said Haruuc would address them with the traditional challenge. She wanted to look at the old warlord, but didn’t dare. She pushed her shock aside and spoke boldly.

  “Ekhaas of Kech Volaar, daughter of the dirge, comes.”

  The others picked up her cue. Dagii’s voice rose. “Dagii of Mur Talaan, son of Fenic, comes.”

  “Chetiin of the shaarat’khesh comes.”

  “Ashi of Deneith, daughter of Ner, comes.”

  “Midian Mit Davandi, son of Tivani Mit Davandi, comes.”

  “Geth…”

  The shifter hesitated. Ekhaas glanced at him. So did Aaspar. So did Tariic and Vanii. Haruuc probably would have glanced at him, too, if he wasn’t frozen in a stiffly formal posture. There was confusion and maybe even struggle in Geth’s eyes, then they cleared. He straightened, and, in Goblin that was far more precise than his usual broken attempts at the language and burred with the ancient accent of Dhakaan, he said, “Geth, who bears the sword Aram, who carries the honor of Kuun, who killed the dragon Dah’mir, comes.”

  He dropped to one knee and held out the tray. “Lhesh Haruuc Shaarat’kor, we bring Guulen, the Rod of Kings.”

  Ekhaas saw Tariic blink in surprise at Geth’s dramatic statement. He stepped forward, though, and lifted the rod from the tray. Climbing the steps of the dais, he sank down in front of Haruuc. “As Taruuzh said to his emperor,” he said solemnly, “in this are the glories of the people. Bear them in mind, and the people will always know their king.”

  Haruuc stared at the rod for a long moment, then reached out his hand. Ekhaas found she was holding her breath and watching the lhesh closely. Would he change when he held the rod? Would he feel the power within it?

  His fingers closed on the metal. Haruuc took the rod from Tariic, looked at it, then rose and held it high. “As Guulen passed from emperor to emperor in the age of Dhakaan,” he said, his voice filling the hall, “so shall it pass from lhesh to lhesh in this new age. Who holds Guulen is the ruler of Darguun. Look on this symbol of the glories of the people, warlords and clan chiefs, ambassadors and envoys, and know that it is true!”

  The words were well-chosen. The gesture was perfect. Caught up in the spectacle of the rod’s presentation, the crowd in the throne room burst into applause, the goblins striking hands against chest, the dignitaries of other nations slapping palm against palm. From the antechamber came shouts of enthusiasm from those spectators of less dignity. Ekhaas applaud
ed as well. Haruuc’s plan had worked-he had the symbol he would pass on to his successor. She looked up at him, light from the window flowing around him, shining from crown and rod, his ears held high, his mouth wide in a smile of triumph…

  Her applause slowed. She squeezed her eyes shut, then looked at Haruuc again. The light still shone around him, and he still looked majestic, but no more than that. The rod, she thought; it’s the power of the rod. She looked around her, at Dagii on one side and Chetiin on the other. Dagii looked worried. Chetiin looked thoughtful. “Geth’s sword had powers even while it was asleep,” he said under the applause. “We should expect the rod will, too. An aura of majesty is a minor magic.”

  Ekhaas studied Haruuc. He looked out onto the throne room with bright eyes but no sign at all that he was aware of the rod’s effect. He was no more commanding its power than Geth commanded Aram. She nodded slowly. Dagii did, too, but added, “Minor magics can lead to greater. We will watch him.”

  “Mazo,” murmured Chetiin.

  Haruuc relaxed and lowered the rod to look down at the party before him. Tariic stood and moved back to one side. Geth stood as well, the tray whisked away by a goblin wearing an armband of red cords. As the applause slowly died, Haruuc raised his free hand. “Darguun commends you who risked your lives to bring back Guulen. Rewards come to the heroes who deserve them.” He gestured, and the goblin who had taken away Geth’s tray brought it back.

  This time, four daggers rested on the gold cloth. Ekhaas caught her breath. They were exquisite, combining the best work of a weapon smith and a gold smith. The bright blades were fine steel, chased with golden letters that spelled out atcha-honor. The grips were fantastic constructions of gold and silver woven around sparkling gems. Set into the crosspieces were jewels the size of her knuckle, different on each dagger-a ruby, an emerald, a sapphire, and a golden crystal that was a Siberys dragonshard.

  “Ekhaas of Kech Volaar, Chetiin of the shaarat’khesh, Ashi d’Deneith, Midian Mit Davandi,” said Haruuc, “you owe allegiance to other lords, but I gift you with these in thanks, and tell you that you are friends of Darguun. If ever you have need, speak and Haruuc will listen.”

  The goblin passed among them, offering a dagger to each. Ekhaas received the emerald dagger, Ashi the dagger with the Siberys dragonshard, Chetiin the ruby, Midian the sapphire. After the goblin retreated, Haruuc looked down again. “Geth, who bears Aram, the Sword of Heroes. Without your aid, Guulen could not have been found. What reward can I offer you? Will you take wealth? I would give you a chest full of gold.”

  Geth’s eyebrows rose, then fell again. He shook his head. When he spoke, his Goblin was once again broken and crude. “Lhesh, no. How would I carry it?”

  “Land, then?” Haruuc asked.

  Geth shook his head a second time, then a third when Haruuc offered him a rank in his army. The lhesh’s ears flicked twice rapidly. Although he didn’t smile, Ekhaas guessed that he had expected Geth to turn down all three offers and was somehow pleased that he had.

  “Geth, who bears Aram, you show your honor and prove yourself worthy of the greatest reward that any warrior can give. You owed me no allegiance, yet you sought Guulen at my request. You performed a great deed for Darguun, yet you accept neither wealth nor power. You have my trust in all things.” He stood up tall and straight. “Will you be my shava, to call me friend and stand at my back when I have need, to call on me to stand with you when you have need?”

  It was hard to tell who was more surprised: Geth, who stood in silent shock, or the Darguuls in the throne room, who broke out in low murmurs. Ekhaas found herself among them. It had been unusual for Haruuc to take three shava. To take a fourth-and one who was not of the goblin races at that-was unheard of. Geth turned and glanced at her as if seeking guidance. Ekhaas spread her hands helplessly. There was no advice she could give him in this. Behind Haruuc, however, Vanii smiled and nodded to Geth. The survivor of Haruuc’s three shava approved.

  Geth swallowed. “I will, lhesh,” he said.

  “Join me,” Haruuc said, stepping away from the edge of the dais. He reached back, set the rod aside, and took up his sword from where it rested against the arm of his throne. As Geth mounted the steps of the dais, the high warlord said, “Draw your sword.”

  The murmurs of the crowd hushed abruptly as Aram emerged. Haruuc raised his sword, gesturing for Geth to match the gesture. The two swords, red-stained steel and twilight purple byeshk, touched. Haruuc twisted his wrist and the teeth of the swords’ notched edges locked together. He reached under the joined swords and grasped Geth’s hand. Ekhaas heard him murmur, “Repeat what I say,” then he raised his voice.

  “Before witnesses, I make this oath,” he said.

  “Before witnesses, I make this oath,” Geth repeated.

  For a moment Ekhaas was afraid that his broken Goblin might spoil Haruuc’s grand gesture, but as the shifter spoke, his words once again took on the ancient accent. It had to be some power of Aram, she guessed-the sword was giving strength to his words. If Haruuc noticed anything, he didn’t react, but continued the oath, with Geth echoing every phrase with faithful intensity.

  “On blood and graves, I swear I will protect you and guide you, avenge you and cherish you, in life and death so long as I draw breath.” Haruuc paused. “Geth, you are shava to me.”

  “Haruuc, you are shava to me.”

  The two swords fell apart and Haruuc swept Geth into a rough hug. The lhesh’s embrace of Vounn before the assembly of warlords had been scandalous, but a hug between shava was an embrace of brothers and warriors. Vanii was the first to applaud, the beating of his hand against his chest a lonely sound for a moment in the great hall. Then Chetiin joined him and Ekhaas, Dagii, and Ashi an instant later. By the time Haruuc released Geth and showed him to a place on the other side of the throne from Vanii, very nearly the entire crowd was applauding. Ekhaas caught Geth’s eye and nodded at him. The shifter replied with an uncertain smile.

  Haruuc took up the Rod of Kings again and gestured, sword in one hand and rod in the other, for the crowd to be silent. “There is another reward that must be given,” he said. “Dagii of Mur Talaan, stand forward.”

  Dagii did. There was a slight limp in his step, a permanent legacy of her hurried healing of his ankle in the valley. Haruuc held his sword out, naked blade toward the waiting warrior. “Dagii of Mur Talaan, I offer you the rank of lhevk-rhu. Do you accept this challenge?”

  Ekhaas’s ears rose, and there was a new murmur in the crowd. Lhevk-rhu was the third highest rank in the military structure Haruuc had created after the war. It raised Dagii above most common warlords, leaving him outranked only by a few elder warlords, like Munta the Gray, and the lhesh himself. Dagii looked up and met Haruuc’s eyes.

  “I accept it,” he said. He reached out and wrapped his left hand around the sharpened edge of the offered sword. With a slow, steady motion, Haruuc withdrew the sword and fresh blood ran along the blade. There was new applause from scattered warlords in the crowd-applause that Haruuc stopped with a gesture.

  “Dagii,” he said, “your new rank comes with a responsibility. Remind me-remind all gathered here-where the territory of the Mur Talaan lies.”

  Dagii’s ears stood high. “Lhesh, the territory of the Mur Talaan is the land beneath Rhukaan Draal.”

  “If the territory of a clan has been attacked, what must its warlord do?”

  Confusion and suspicion narrowed Dagii’s eyes, and his gaze flicked to the smoke still visible over Rhukaan Draal. “The warlord must defend his clan’s territory. If the attack cannot be defended against or occurs in his absence, he must strike back against the attacker-if the lhesh, by your law, grants him permission to do so.” Dagii drew himself up. “Lhesh, has the territory of the Mur Talaan been attacked?”

  “Today and in your absence,” Haruuc said solemnly, drawing out the words. The hall was absolutely still. “Warriors of the Gan’duur make free with your territory, lhevk-rhu. They threaten
the peace by starving the people. Keraal of Gan’duur claims he has disciplined those responsible. As lhesh of Darguun, I must be satisfied with this.”

  Dagii clenched his wounded fist. Blood dripped onto the floor of the throne room. “Lhesh, my clan’s honor cannot be satisfied by words. A warlord may do what a lhesh cannot. On behalf of the Mur Talaan, I ask your permission to strike back against the Gan’duur.”

  The stirring among the warlords was like a wave, as if Dagii’s words had burst a dam. Haruuc smiled, looking almost smug. “You have my permission.”

  There was motion in the corner of Ekhaas’s eye as Munta the Gray rose. “Mur Talaan has few troops, lhesh. If Dagii of Mur Talaan will lead, the Gantii Vus will follow him to support his honor.”

  The offer came too easily to be spontaneous, but abruptly there were other warlords calling out their support. Haruuc, Vanii, and Munta were all smiling, and Ekhaas had the feeling that someone-and she suspected it was the Gan’duur-had just been outmaneuvered. Haruuc raised his voice, too. “The Rhukaan Taash will stand for the honor of the Mur Talaan as well. Let all see that the clans of the Ghaal’dar remember tradition.” He raised his sword high and held the Rod of Kings close to his chest. “Let all see that Darguun is strong!”

  The roar that shook the stones of the hall was deafening. The raw emotion of the crowd was like a song. Ekhaas turned around to stare, drinking in the moment of Haruuc’s triumph. Very nearly every Darguul was standing, their heads thrown back, their voices raised, their hands slapping their chests. But not everyone was so joyful. Ekhaas’s ears rose.

  Where the representatives of the Five Nations and the dragonmarked houses sat, reaction to the prospect of a strong Darguun was distinctly more restrained.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Over the next several days, it seemed to Ashi that she told the story of their quest for the rod-or at least the edited story they had all agreed to-so many times she felt like a duur’kala. The first time, along with the others, was to an audience of Haruuc, Tariic, Munta, Vanii, and Senen in the same small room in Khaar Mbar’ost where the quest had been planned. With excitement born of the rod’s presentation still echoing through the fortress, they drank in the tale, Haruuc interrupting with curses against the Marguul bugbear clans, Senen breaking in to beg details about Dabrak Riis and the Uura Odaarii. By the time the story ended with the last emperor’s destruction, however, they were silent and Haruuc bent his head before them all, then in return told them everything that had happened in Rhukaan Draal during their absence.