Word of traitors

CHAPTER ELEVEN

22 Sypheros

Twilight came, and with it an end to the flow of supplicants to the grove around the ancient well. Pradoor had chosen to remain beneath the twisted branches for the day, letting the faithful come to her rather than wandering the streets to meet them. Normally Makka would have chafed at a day forced to sit and do nothing, but he found the time slipping past like a fast stream. Like the unseen water that rushed in the depths of the well.

The dark presence that lingered in the grove didn’t vanish with daylight, but seemed to grow stronger the longer Makka sat above the rock-rimmed hole.

When the last of the faithful had left the grove and the setting sun outlined the wizened branches with red light, Pradoor let out her breath in a long hiss of triumph. “Rhukaan Draal is the axle and I am the pin. The order of the world will be set right. The old ways will be given their proper place once more.” She turned to face Makka. “You have been silent.”

“I have been thinking,” he said.

“Have you?” Pradoor asked. Her thin lips twitched.

The old goblin’s speech the night before had lit a fire in Makka’s belly. He dropped to his knees in front of her. “The Six call. Show me how I may serve them.”

“You already serve.”

“Show me how to serve them better. Show me how to serve as you serve.”

Pradoor smiled, showing her teeth. “The Six marked you as theirs before they guided me to you, Makka. You cannot serve as I serve-I am given souls, you are given steel. But I can show you how to serve in your own way.” She pointed. “Turn.”

Makka shifted around and found himself staring into the ancient well among the jumbled rocks. “What do I do?”

“Look,” Pradoor said. She reached up and pushed his head forward. “Look and learn to see. The age turns, and you have your own part to play in the order of the world.”

Makka leaned out over the hole and peered down into the echoing darkness. At first it seemed there was nothing to see, but then shapes moved, and the sound of rushing water became the thunder of blood in his veins. Makka’s eyes widened and he saw.

He saw Ashi of Deneith dying on her own sword.

He saw the shifter, Geth, crushed and in agony.

He saw Dagii of Mur Talaan impaled on an elf spear.

He saw Ekhaas of Kech Volaar with her throat torn out.

He saw the White Stone tribe wasting away from a plague that afflicted their camp and no other, but that pursued them no matter where they fled.

He saw every person he had ever sworn vengeance against brought low. He saw every person who had wronged him in even the slightest way met with a swift and terrible justice.

He saw himself, filled with anger and power and strength, mercy wiped away by rage, bringing divine wrath down upon the world.

“Who do you serve?” asked Pradoor’s voice.

“I serve the Six,” Makka said.

“How do you serve?”

“With steel.” More. Understanding rose up inside him. “With steel and faith, and a will to bring the old ways back to the dar!”

“Who is your patron?”

He knew the answer. It throbbed with the beating of his heart and raced through him with all of life’s ecstasy. He saw it before his eyes. The calm that had guided him through the day vanished in a wave of frenzy. He drew the knife that had been an offering to the Six from his belt and pushed the tip against his chest, carving what he saw into his flesh. “The Fury,” he roared. “I belong to the Fury and her power belongs to me!”