The doom of Kings

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Their first night out of Rhukaan Draal was the most difficult, at least for Geth. Although he’d broken his fast with a tremendous meal and slept through most of the day, the effects of his vigil on the roof of Khaar Mbar’ost lingered in his bones. He swayed in the saddle and kept falling asleep as they rode. More than once he wondered if maybe they should have waited until the morning, but he knew that the stories of the past wouldn’t have let him. They churned inside him, demanding action. The entire party-Ekhaas and Ashi, Dagii, Chetiin, and Midian-felt the urgency to be on the road, though. Haruuc hadn’t returned to Khaar Mbar’ost by nightfall, but reports of events beyond the Ghaal River had: the Gan’duur’s descent on the fields had been swift and thorough. A significant portion of the crops, summer-dry and almost ready for harvest, had burned, and the Gan’duur raiding parties were still roaming the countryside, causing more havoc.

When they stopped near dawn, Geth all but tumbled out of his saddle. Dagii let none of them sleep for long, however. By midafternoon, they were riding again. It became their pattern to ride through the afternoon and evening and late into the night, sleeping through the dawn and morning hours. As Chetiin explained to Geth, in a land where most of the population was as comfortable at night as during the day, dawn was the least active time and the safest period to rest.

Geth missed riding with the goblin behind him, but Chetiin had, as he’d said, acquired a mount of his own, one that was almost as silent as he was. While the rest of the party clopped along on Tariic’s magebred horses-or in Midian’s case on his magical pony-Chetiin rode a great black wolf that padded beside them like a shadow. There was a disturbing, malevolent sharpness in the animal’s eyes, and when Ashi commented that first night that she felt like the wolf was watching them all, the snarl that came from its muzzle sounded eerily like speech.

“She is watching you,” Chetiin said, “and she’d prefer if you didn’t call her ‘the wolf.’ Her name is Marrow. She’s a worg.” He scratched behind his mount’s ears. “Her pack has an ancient alliance with the taarka’khesh. She’s agreed to travel with me as a favor.”

“How can she run with the horses?” Geth asked. “I’d have thought they’d be terrified.”

Chetiin produced a vial of slightly milky liquid. “A taarka’khesh preparation. She smells like a horse.” Marrow growled and Chetiin added, “Not that she’s happy about it.”

Like the landscape between Matshuc Zaal and the Gathering Stone, the ruins of human habitation marked the country that they rode through south of Rhukaan Draal. It lacked, however, the feeling of emptiness and desolation. The fields and orchards that had run wild alongside the trade road had been tamed, though in many places it wasn’t farmers working the soil, but slaves. Through the long afternoons, the distant crack of overseers’ whips was as common as birdsong. In Matshuc Zaal, the slaves had been goblins, hobgoblins, and kobolds, but Geth was shocked to see humans, dwarves, and shifters in the fields as well. Ekhaas looked ashamed when he asked her about it. “Captives taken during the war or in raids,” she said “If Haruuc were riding this way, you wouldn’t see them. The overseers would hide them until he passed.”

“He must know they’re there,” growled Geth. “Why doesn’t he free them?”

“Haruuc holds a sword by the blade,” said Ekhaas. “Promises of plunder-including slaves-were one of Haruuc’s first tools in uniting the clans. Now he’s paying for that. Warlords like Daavn of the Marhaan are hungry for more wealth and he can’t give it to them. He has to balance his desire to show a civilized face to the Five Nations with a need to keep appeased the clans that support him.”

“If he ordered them to free their slaves, they’d turn against him faster than the Gan’duur have,” said Midian.

Ekhaas scowled but nodded at the gnome’s blunt assessment.

They traveled more slowly than they had along the trade road. They still followed roads, but the byways were old and not well-maintained. It was only a little better than riding across open country. At least they didn’t always need to camp rough. On several nights, Dagii led them to the stronghold of one or another clan. Sometimes the strongholds were large and sometimes they were small, but they always welcomed Dagii and the rest of the party with grace and honor. The first few times they found shelter in a clan stronghold, Geth assumed their welcome came because they traveled under Haruuc’s banner, but then one night he happened to let his hand rest on Wrath as Dagii and the local warlord exchanged greetings.

“We come with peace in our hearts and our blades in their sheaths,” Dagii said in a phrase that sounded like ritual. “We ride on behalf of Lhesh Haruuc, who asks you to take us in as your guests for a night.”

The warlord, a powerfully built hobgoblin wearing the crest of a sundered shield, laughed at the ritual. “The lhesh might ask, but I’ll take you in because you are the one at my gate, Dagii. Welcome, brother!”

“Brother?” Geth asked Chetiin.

“It’s an old courtesy between friendly clan chiefs.” When surprise passed across Geth’s face, Chetiin’s ears twitched up. “You didn’t realize? Dagii is chief of the Mur Talaan.”

“I didn’t know that. I thought he was just a member of the clan, the way Tariic’s a member of the Rhukaan Taash.” Geth stared at Dagii’s back as he followed the local warlord into his stronghold. “What does his clan do while he’s serving Haruuc?”

“The Mur Talaan is a very small clan. It was never big and war made it smaller. I wouldn’t ask him about it-it’s a private matter to him. What’s left of the clan gets along well enough without his interference.”

“Where is Mur Talaan’s territory?”

“Rhukaan Draal.”

Geth looked at the goblin in amazement. Chetiin shrugged. “The Cyran town that Haruuc conquered to build Rhukaan Draal was at the edge of Mur Talaan territory. Fenic, Dagii’s father and the first of Haruuc’s shava, ceded it to Haruuc as a place that would be neutral to all the clans of Darguun. Over time, the rest of their territory was lost, but the land beneath Rhukaan Draal still technically belongs to the Mur Talaan, even if the lhesh controls the city. It brings them-and Dagii-a great deal of honor, although very little else.”

“If a human clan owned all the land under a city the size of Rhukaan Draal, they’d be as wealthy as a dragonmarked house.”

Chetiin’s ears twitched again. “Can you imagine trying to collect rents or taxes in Rhukaan Draal?”

“I guess not.” Geth glanced again at Dagii, still talking with the local warlord, and tried to imagine the warrior who wore Haruuc’s crest as a warlord in his own right. Maybe the responsibilities of a clan chief were the reason he seemed so stiff.

As they traveled farther from Rhukaan Draal, roads became paths and the strongholds of warlords became increasingly far apart. Territories were larger and some areas were simply unclaimed by any warlord. Bandits roamed these areas-and local strongmen who were simply bandits settled down and gone to seed. When they camped under the moons, they posted watches; when they stayed under a roof, it was less Dagii’s invocation of Haruuc’s name that earned them hospitality than Ekhaas’s promise of stories told with the skill of a duur’kala.

Several times a day, Geth drew Wrath and held it out before him to be certain they were still on course, still heading south-southwest. On the tenth night of their journey, the same night that the last path ended at the long burned remains of a farmstead, they reached the eastern foothills of the Seawall Mountains. The hills were far more rugged in the south than they had been in the north at the Marguul Pass-and for the first time they discovered the weakness in Wrath’s ability to point to the distant Rod of Kings.

“Grandfather Rat’s naked tail.” Geth stared along the length of Wrath as if closer inspection might somehow change the fact that the twilight blade pointed straight at the sheer rock face of a long escarpment.

“It points directly to the rod, doesn’t it?” said Ashi. “No matter what’s in the way. Rond betch.”

“We’ll find a way up or around,” Dagii said grimly. He turned his horse to the south and urged it onward.

It was Marrow who eventually found a way up the escarpment, sniffing out a narrow trail apparently used by wild game to reach a pool at the escarpment’s base. The worg was able to bound up the trail with little difficulty, but the rest of them-with the exception of Midian, who simply dismissed his pony and tucked the silver horseshoe back into his pack-had to dismount and lead their horses up. By the time they reached the brow of the escarpment, dawn was breaking.

The ground above the escarpment was no less rugged than that below. When Geth held up Wrath again, the sword pointed to a hill that was only a little less steep than the escarpment. If they’d been able to travel as the sword pointed, the even harsher slopes of the gray mountains were only a day’s ride away.

Dagii’s ears folded back. “We travel by daylight from now on,” he said. “We need to be able to see what’s coming so we can avoid it.”

The rest of them replied with grunts and groans of exhaustion, although Midian added, “At least we know the rod is in the mountains.”

“How do you see that?” Geth asked.

“The sword points up. If the rod was somewhere beyond the mountains, it wouldn’t. We’re going to be climbing.”

Geth groaned again.

Vounn told herself that she had done what she could. More than she should have, perhaps. When, after days of shouting about her desire to leave Rhukaan Draal, Ashi had come to her with a simple and reasonable argument-that allowing the bearer of the Siberys Mark of Sentinel to aid in the search for the Rod of Kings would certainly bring influence to Deneith, not just with Haruuc but with his successors-Vounn had almost been too overwhelmed to resist agreeing on the spot.

She had resisted, of course. Very little got the better of her. She’d turned the issue over in her mind, considering it from all sides. She had a strong suspicion that Ashi didn’t really believe in what she was saying and that, to her, it was just another attempt to get Vounn to let her follow her friends. Her charge was, though, correct for a change. Her participation in the quest would reflect very well on Deneith. The look of surprise on Ashi’s face when Vounn had finally agreed was almost amusing.

She had changed her mind as she watched Ashi ride out of Khaar Mbar’ost, but it had been too late then. Ashi was gone like a bird from the nest. Most of the time she could accept that. Vounn just hoped that she would never have to explain the loss of the Siberys Mark to the patriarch of House Deneith.

And while she waited for Ashi’s return, there were other duties that Breven d’Deneith expected of her.

The warlords of Haruuc’s court were more than eager to become acquainted with the envoy of House Deneith, but there was one clan that defied all of her efforts. Senen Dhakaan of the Kech Volaar refused to meet with her, in spite of the secret knowledge that they shared. Formal requests were rebuffed. Casual approaches were ignored. The warriors of the Dhakaani clans were famous for their skill at fighting in formation, but Deneith had never found enough influence with the proud, independent clans to hire their warriors as mercenaries. If Vounn could bring the warriors of the Kech Volaar into Deneith’s legions, it would be a triumph.

From what Vounn could see, though, the Word Bearers might have deigned to ally themselves with Haruuc, but their attitude toward Deneith had changed no more than a mountain in a day. So she went to Haruuc.

Aruget followed her, of course. Vounn would have preferred to have a Deneith mercenary guarding her, but she’d accepted Haruuc’s offer of hobgoblin guards gracefully. At least they knew the lhesh’s fortress and the city, and Aruget, at least, had proved that he understood when to keep his mouth closed and obey orders.

She found Haruuc alone, brooding over a great map laid out on a table in a room with more maps hung on the walls. Vounn paused a respectable distance away from the table and dropped into a curtsy. “Lhesh,” she said.

He raised his head and looked at her with weary eyes. “Lady Vounn.”

“Am I disturbing you?”

“You’re a welcome change from the disturbances of the Gan’duur.” He forced energy into his face and beckoned her closer. “Look at this. Tell me what you see.”

Vounn looked down at the map. Bright colors stood out on a faded background-the basic map had been created many years ago and updated several times. It showed Rhukaan Draal, its outskirts drawn and redrawn as the city expanded, and the surrounding area. The Ghaal River with its cataracts and the road leading north to the Gathering Stone were easy to recognize. The map also marked hills, streams, ravines, farmholds, and lanes. Simple wooden markers painted red, black, or white had been placed atop it, mostly to the north of the city. The black markers lay in scattered patterns atop farmholds, the red in a sweeping arc, the white in widely scattered clusters.

She pressed her lips together as she considered the patterns, then said, “I’m a diplomat, not a strategist, lhesh, but I would say this shows the Gan’duur attacks.”

“The attacks, my response, and sightings of Gan’duur raiders.” Haruuc swept his hand through the air above the map. “They move quickly, staying ahead of my men. They strike, split up, and move on. And this concerns me-” He pointed to the northeast and southwest extremes of the activity represented on the map, to white markers that stood off on their own with neither red nor black markers around them. “We received word by messenger falcons this morning of these positions. No attacks, just riders. They displayed no banners, so we can only assume they’re Gan’duur, but it seemed they were riding here-and here.” His fingers moved to indicate the river west and east of Rhukaan Draal. “An old Cyran bridge across the upper river. A ferry crossing on the lower.”

“They mean to cross the Ghaal.”

“Cho,” said Haruuc. “Boats have been dispatched downstream and riders upstream. Perhaps we can catch them, but it may be too late.” He fell back into a chair and pressed his knuckles together. “The patterns of clan warfare. You see now what I hope to forestall. Maabet. I thought my people were past this.”

“A philosopher of Karrnath once wrote ‘A farmer may sow wheat, but nature had the field before him,’” Vounn said.

Haruuc looked at her over his fists. “Falko Gergus in The Battle Called Life.”

“You know it.”

“ ‘If you want fine wool, better to befriend the shepherd than the wolf,’” the lhesh quoted back to her with a thin smile. “Gergus’s metaphors have never found favor among goblins, but his principles are sound.” He lowered his hands and sat up. “But I doubt that you came here either to discuss military philosophy or to hear my complaints. What do you want, Vounn?”

She bent her head. “I would be grateful if you could arrange a meeting between Senen Dhakaan and I. There are things I would like to discuss with her.”

“But that she doesn’t seem interested in discussing with you.”

Vounn nodded.

Haruuc grunted. “I know that feeling too well. The Dhakaani clans could teach stubborn to the sea.” He rose. “Let’s go talk to Senen together.”

“Now?” asked Vounn in surprise.

“ ‘The smith who knows his iron doesn’t let it cool on the anvil,’” said Haruuc, quoting once more from Falko Gergus. “You’ve obviously waited too long on Senen already, and I’ve spent too much time looking at field positions that are out of date.” He motioned for Aruget, standing at the back of the room. “Run to Senen’s quarters and see if she is there.”

“Mazo.” Aruget left. He was back quickly. “She is in the hall of honor, lhesh.”

“I might have guessed,” Haruuc said. “Wait at the Deneith quarters, Aruget. Lady Vounn is safe with me.” He held out his arm and Vounn took it.

The hall of honor ran the full length of one of Khaar Mbar’ost’s upper floors. Vounn knew the hall-it served much the same function that gardens did in other royal palaces, giving courtiers and councilors a place to stroll and converse. To be honest, however, she could never have pictured goblins, hobgoblins, and bugbears wandering among potted plants and flower beds. The long hall seemed much more appropriate, with statues of famous heroes lining its walls and intricate windows of stained glass capping the distant ends. The windows showed scenes of famous battles, but the colorful panels could also pivot to allow a flow of air.

As she and Haruuc mounted the stairs to the hall, a voice drifted down from above. Vounn’s eyebrows rose. The murmur of speech typically filled the hall, sometimes punctuated by an exclamation or a curse, but always mingled. Now there was only one voice, a storyteller’s voice, chanting a tale of ancient heroism with all the zeal of a enthusiastic priest delivering a sermon to the faithful. She glanced at Haruuc.

He gave her a faint smile and his ears flicked. “That would be Senen,” he said. “The tales of the empire are a religion to the Dhakaani clans. I let her speak when she wishes. Her stories are good.”

They emerged into the hall. Some distance away, before one of the great stained glass windows, Senen stood in front of an audience that would have only sparsely filled the hall had it been spread out. Packed into one end of the hall, though, it made for an appreciable crowd. Curiously, it was one of the most diverse groups Vounn had ever seen in Khaar Mbar’ost: Warlords and councilors formed the core of the audience, but ordinary warriors and servants stood at the fringes as well.

Standing right next to Senen was Tariic, listening closely to the duur’kala’s story. Or at least appearing to listen closely. Vounn had seen junior members of House Deneith watching plays and performances with just such a slightly-too-rapt expression, attending events for the sake of being seen to attend events, conspicuously demonstrating an appreciation for cultural forms because it was expected of them. She smiled and looked to Haruuc, but the lhesh’s eyes were already on his nephew.

“He takes up the sword without testing the weight,” he said softly.

“Lhesh?” asked Vounn.

Haruuc’s ears flicked again, almost regretfully Vounn thought. He drew her to one side, almost into the shadow of one of the statues in the hall. No one had noticed the appearance of the lhesh-all of their attention was on Senen. “In many ways,” Haruuc said, “Tariic takes after his father, my brother Haluun. Stories, even the stories of a duur’kala, never really caught Haluun’s interest. Tariic is the same, but he makes a show of interest so that others see it.”

“Many people do the same thing, lhesh,” Vounn said. “They do what is expected of them.”

Haruuc looked down at her. “That is a difference in our ideas of honor, Vounn. To do what is expected, to do your duty and do it well-yes, that is a part of honor. That is muut, something you do for yourself. But it is no one’s duty to appreciate a story. Appreciating a story, to be seen to appreciate a story, is a sign of personal sophistication. When others see it, they may think of you as having honor, but it is atcha, honor achieved through deeds.”

“Is that wrong?”

“No.” Haruuc shook his head. “There is atcha in more than fighting, and many people seek out its lower forms. Honor begets honor. But for some…” He spread his hands. “Tariic understands muut, but he is drawn to atcha.”

“Atcha shouldn’t be forced,” said Vounn, trying to grasp what Haruuc’s meaning. Muut and atcha weren’t new concepts to her, but no one had tried before to explain them in quite the same terms.

“It is more complicated than that, but you begin to understand,” Haruuc said. His ears sagged slightly, then twitched and rose again. “But I insult Tariic. He is a good man, and the lure of atcha is hard to resist. Without ambition, there would be no Darguun. Come-Senen is finishing her story. We will talk with her.”

In front of the window, Senen pronounced the formulaic ending to hobgoblin stories-Raat shan gath’kal dor-and her audience broke out in applause. As the applause died down and the audience drifted apart, Haruuc escorted Vounn forward.

Bowing heads made a wave as the lhesh was finally seen and recognized. Tariic, offering his personal appreciation to Senen, turned with a start. “Uncle!”

Senen’s response was more composed. She bent her head. “Saa’atcha, lhesh,” She glanced at Vounn and her eyes went flat.

Haruuc seemed to take no notice. “Saa, Senen Dhakaan. Nephew.” He nodded to Senen. “An excellent story. Ta muut.”

The ambassador of the Kech Volaar twitched her ears in acknowledgment. “I will leave you to speak with Tariic,” she said.

“Actually, Senen, we came looking for you,” Haruuc said in a tone that was both casual and commanding. “Lady Vounn expressed an interest in speaking with you. I would like to think that two of my greatest allies-the Kech Volaar and House Deneith-might come to be friends.”

Senen’s ears pulled back and she bared her teeth. “Lhesh, she wants to hire us and nothing more.”

Vounn made a swift decision-if the duur’kala could be blunt, so could she. “I do want to hire you,” she said. “The military discipline of the Dhakaani clans is legendary. Deneith and the Kech Volaar would both find profit in selling your service.”

Surprise and perhaps outrage at such honesty flickered in Senen’s face, silencing her for a moment. Vounn stepped into the breach she had made. “But I’ve come to see that renowned discipline before that can happen, Deneith needs to know the Kech Volaar. How can we understand your people without understanding your traditions?” She bent her head to Senen. “Will you tell me your stories, Senen Dhakaan? Will you let me visit Volaar Draal and show me the glories of the Empire of Dhakaan that the Kech Volaar keep alive?”

“Volaar Draal is not open for casual visitors,” Senen said slowly, as if trying to find refuge in the words. “Especially chaat’oor.”

Quick as thought, Vounn turned the rejection around on her. “Then you must visit House Deneith in Karrlakton to see our memorials and understand our traditions.” She raised her head. “The Mark of Sentinel was the first of the dragonmarks to manifest in humans, and long before Deneith was a House, we were proud warlords. Our history isn’t so old as yours, but it is good. I offer you the chance to learn our story.”

“And a generous offer it is, Senen,” said Haruuc. “An invitation to the seat of power of a dragonmarked house is not extended lightly.” His mouth was curved in a barely suppressed smile, and Vounn knew he had followed her strategy: the exchange of stories, irresistible to a duur’kala, between two groups with a common interest in the accomplishments of a martial past.

She could tell from Senen’s expression that she understood as well that there was no graceful way to decline the offer entirely. The Kech Volaar ambassador’s ears quivered, then bent. “I cannot accept on my own, and certainly I cannot leave my post in Rhukaan Draal, but I will relay your invitation to the leaders of my clan,” she said.

“What about your stories?” Vounn asked her. “Surely you don’t need to consult with the leaders of your clan before you share stories.”

Interest flashed in Senen’s eyes. “You are clever, Vounn d’Deneith. Call on me again and perhaps I will have a story to tell you.” She nodded to Haruuc and walked away.

“Nicely done, Vounn,” said Tariic quietly, watching Senen go. “Paatcha! I couldn’t have done better.”

Vounn thought she saw regret flit again across Haruuc’s face but she couldn’t be sure-one moment he was looking at his nephew, the next at a goblin messenger wearing the red-cord armband of Khaar Mbar’ost and hurrying along the hall of honor. The goblin clutched a loosely rolled scroll that he passed to Haruuc as if eager to be rid of it. Haruuc’s face darkened as he scanned the message.

“The Gan’duur have crossed the Ghaal at the eastern ferry,” he said. “They attacked wagons on their way to market in Rhukaan Draal this morning.” He glanced at the messenger. “Tell Munta and Vanii I’m on my way.” The goblin nodded and dashed away. Haruuc looked to Vounn. “Iron should not cool on the anvil, nor should it be left in the forge. I appreciate the distraction you offer me.”

Vounn bent her head. “You helped me, lhesh. Ta muut.”

Haruuc turned to go. Tariic sprang to his side. “Wait,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”

Vounn thought she saw Haruuc’s shoulders stiffen before he nodded to his nephew.