The Doom of Kings: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 1 (49 page)

It was as if the din of the compound suddenly faded into the distance. Mourning, Ashi thought. Who died?

Ekhaas, her face suddenly gray, spoke the name that none of them wanted to hear. “Dagii.”

Then the
duur’kala
was sprinting across the compound to where she and the others had left their horses. Geth would have run after her, but Vounn grabbed his arm.

“I’m going with you,” she said. The shifter nodded sharply and pulled away.

Vounn looked to Ashi. “Wait here until we know what’s going on.”

“He was my friend, Vounn!”

Vounn’s faced softened slightly. “I know, but I want you out of Darguun. If the chance comes to leave, I want you to take it.”

“Why?” Ashi asked. “Vounn, what’s wrong?”

But Vounn was already hurrying after Geth and Ekhaas, and Tariic along with her. In only moments all four were galloping out of the compound in a cloud of Rhukaan Draal’s yellow dust.

H
aruuc’s fortress was a hub of chaos. Messengers ran in and out. Soldiers prowled the courtyard. Inside, small groups of warlords came together, split apart, and reformed as they shared rumors. Geth caught snatches of their words, wild speculations for the most part: the Gan’duur were defeated, Keraal had broken through Dagii’s line and escaped, Breland was attacking the northern border, raiding parties of Valenar elves had appeared to pillage the country. Most of the warlords turned to look as Geth hurried past with Ekhaas, Vounn, and Tariic in his wake, but none tried to stop him. They respected the status of
shava
that Haruuc had bestowed on him, but they didn’t fully trust him.

Some tried to hail Tariic, but Haruuc’s nephew shook his head and shrugged. “We don’t know anything!” he called back to them.

Just outside the antechamber of the throne room, Munta joined them, his belly rolling as he walked. “Have you been summoned?” he asked Geth.

The shifter nodded.

Munta grunted, “Did he tell you anything?”

“No, but we were at the Orien compound and he sent a message to them that the roads were closed for mourning.”

Munta’s ears rose.
“Maabet.”
He looked at the others. Tariic just shrugged again. Ekhaas gave no reaction at all.

Vounn’s eyes darted to Tariic, however, and Geth saw her lean a little toward Munta as they walked. He didn’t catch what she said,
but Munta gave another grunt. “It will need to wait until later, Vounn,” he said softly.

A small crowd stirred in the antechamber, mostly waiting messengers, but also a few warlords and clan chiefs being kept back by guards. On the stairs up to the throne room, Razu, Haruuc’s old mistress of rituals, waited with more guards. Behind her was something Geth had never seen before—a titanic slab of dark wood that filled the entrance to the throne room and extended up into the ceiling. A wall that could be raised and lowered when Haruuc wanted privacy in the throne room, he guessed. It had been carved with scenes of combat in a vast landscape. Geth thought he recognized some of the most famous battles of Darguun’s birth, but there was no chance to examine the wooden wall closely. Munta mounted the steps to Razu.

“We are summoned,” he said.

“Enter,” the thin hobgoblin woman told him. She pointed to a pair of doors set flush into the wood. “And you,
shava
. The rest must wait outside.”

“What?” Tariic said. “I need to see my uncle!”

“I know who was summoned and who was not,” Razu said. “The lhesh’s orders are clear. Only those he summoned are allowed to enter.”

The guards around her closed their ranks. Tariic glowered but stepped back. Ekhaas caught Geth’s arm. “Find out what you can,” she said. Geth nodded and followed Munta up the steps and through the carved doors.

The noise of the antechamber vanished with the closing of the doors. The throne room was as still as the fortress had been chaotic. The light that filled it was cold and gray—the great windows showed a sky filled with heavy clouds, and beneath them Haruuc sat brooding on his throne, the Rod of Kings in one hand.

“Haruuc!” Munta called as they strode down the aisle. “What’s going on?”

Haruuc’s answer was to flick a piece of tightly curled paper, the scroll of a messenger falcon, at them. Munta caught it and scanned the lines written there. His ears rose, then sagged. He passed the scroll to Geth.

It was short but written in the dark, angular runes of Goblin. He couldn’t read it. Unless …

He grasped Wrath’s hilt and implored silently,
Show me
.

The ancient sword stirred and the runes became as clear in his mind as if someone had spoken the message aloud.

  
To
Lhesh
Haruuc Shaarat’kor—

The Gan’duur are broken. Keraal is my prisoner along with many of his warriors, but victory came at a price. Vanii of ja’aram fell in the
final battle
.

I return to Rhukaan Draal with his body that he may be given the honors due him
.

—Dagii of Mur Talaan

  Relief opened inside him. The mourning wasn’t for Dagii. Geth lowered the message and looked up at Haruuc. “I’m sorry.”

Haruuc’s ears flicked forward, and he met Geth’s eyes for the first time. “A hobgoblin doesn’t express sympathy for the death of a friend. A hobgoblin asks what he can do.”

“Then what can I do?”

“You can stand with me, last of my
shava.”
Haruuc bared his teeth. “And you can be unoffended when I say I wish I’d sent you against the Gan’duur instead of Vanii!”

The pain in Haruuc’s voice was naked. Geth bent his head. “I lost someone close to me in battle,” he said. “I understand.”

“Do you? It’s different for
shava.”

Geth clenched his jaw and tried to hold his temper in check. “Not so different, I think.”

Munta raised his voice, interrupting quickly. “What must be done, Haruuc? We’ve heard that you’ve closed the roads, but this is a time of victory as well as mourning. How will people celebrate the triumph over the Gan’duur if they can’t get into Rhukaan Draal?”

“Cho.”
Haruuc sat back on his throne. He stared out into the empty chamber with cold eyes. “First, we mourn, then we celebrate. For five days, no one is to travel except under my authority. No new fires are to be lit in Rhukaan Draal. At dawn and dusk, the streets
will be empty—these will be the times of mourning. Munta, I place the enforcement of these laws in your hands.”

The old warlord looked startled. “Haruuc, aren’t the terms harsh? That’s the kind of mourning performed in a clan stronghold on the death of a warlord. You can’t mean for all of Rhukaan Draal to follow those terms.”

Haruuc just turned his cold eyes on him.

Munta nodded.
“Mazo,”
he said, “but it exceeds the mourning for Fenic and Haluun. Did you love your other
shava
any less?”

“Fenic and Haluun died in different times,” Haruuc said. “I must be strong. I must show my power. If I could have done this for them, Munta, I would have.” He leaned his head back and, after a moment’s silence, added, “The people may have fire. But the punishment for failing to observe mourning at dawn and dusk is a public whipping. If the people love me as they say they do, they will mourn with me.” He looked at Geth. “Your task will be to organize the games.”

“Games?”
Geth asked.

“Contests of strength and skill. Tales from
duur’kala
. Fights between gladiators. Razu can help you with the details. One day of games for Vanii, three days for victory over the Gan’duur.
Don’t look at me like that, Munta!”
Haruuc’s voice rose to a sudden roar, and Munta, who had been about to speak, closed his mouth. “It is within my right! These will be games to remember. I want them to be talked about ten—no, twenty years from now. This is my gift to the people.”

“Lhesh,” Munta said humbly, “they will cost money. There are still food shortages. We still need to buy grain.”

“There is money enough.” Haruuc pointed at Geth. “Speak with Senen Dhakaan. Ask her about the games held in the time of the empire. Make me proud,
shava.”

Geth swallowed and bent his head. “I will.”

At the back of the throne room, the carved door opened again to admit a thin, nervous hobgoblin who looked more like a merchant than a warlord. Haruuc’s ears went back, and he gestured for the hobgoblin to come forward. “Iizan of Ghaal Sehn, join us. The Ghaal Sehn hold the territory on the west side of the Orien trade road from the Gathering Stone to Rhukaan Draal?”

Iizan dropped down to his knees. “We do, lhesh.”

“And there is a forest in your territory, not too far from the road?”

“There is, lhesh. A small one.”

Haruuc nodded. “Good. Take the slaves from your fields—”

A flush sprang up in Iizan’s face. “The Ghaal Sehn no longer keep slaves, Lhesh Haruuc!” he said. “We followed your example and freed them.”

The lhesh stood and stepped down from his throne to stand over the kneeling hobgoblin. “I didn’t ask if you have slaves, Iizan! I know that you do. I know that seven of ten warlords who swear they follow my example still keep slaves in secret!”

He seized a handful of Iizan’s hair and dragged him to his feet so sharply that Iizan didn’t have a chance to cry out. “I want you to take the slaves from your field and raze that forest. Take the strongest trees, strip them of leaves and small branches, and stand them along the trade road, one pair every two leagues from the Gathering Stone to the bridge over the Ghaal River. This will be done within three days, in time for the return of the soldiers from the north. You will have aid—the slaves of neighboring clans will be sent to you.” He looked into Iizan’s face as if searching for something, then flung the warlord away. “Do this and you will be rewarded. Do you understand, Iizan?”

“Mazo
, lhesh,” Iizan choked.

Haruuc gestured with the Rod of Kings, dismissing him, and the warlord fled. Geth stared at Haruuc as he returned to his throne. The image of a tree, bare of all but the strongest branches rose up in his imagination. He’d seen a shape like that before. From the expression on Munta’s face, he knew the old warlord recognized it as well.

Ekhaas had once told him that one of the greatest creations of Taruuzh, the ancient
dashoor
who had forged the Sword of Heroes and the Rod of Kings, had been a device of execution. In the time of Dhakaan, his device had spread to every city in the empire. The secret of making them had been lost in the Desperate Times after the empire’s fall, but hobgoblins of all clans, she’d said, still emulated their use in ending the lives of criminals and traitors.

Geth wet his lips and looked up at Haruuc. “Grieving trees?” he asked. His voice sounded thin in the emptiness of the throne room. “You’re lining the road to Rhukaan Draal with
grieving trees?”

“The Gan’duur must be punished.” Haruuc’s face was hard.

Munta actually seemed frail with worry. “Haruuc, what will the Five Nations and the dragonmarked houses say? This is too much.”

“You have your instructions, Munta,” Haruuc said. “So does Iizan. Dagii’s instructions have been dispatched to him.”

“But the Five Nations—”

“This is no concern of theirs!” Haruuc’s voice rose again. “It is a matter for Darguun and Darguun alone. Our traditions are as old as our claim on this land, and both are older than the Five Nations. Go and do your duty, Munta. Let Rhukaan Draal know whom it mourns.”

There was a finality in his voice that would accept no further argument. The warlord of the Gantii Vus nodded stiffly, turned, and walked back up the long length of the throne room to the carved doors. Geth was left facing Haruuc alone. After a long moment, he asked, “Can I go too?”

“No. Stay. I’m expecting one more visitor, and I want you here as witness to one of the most sacred duties of a
shava.”
Haruuc gestured behind himself. “Stand at my shoulder. Where Vanii stood.”

Geth stepped up onto the dais and moved behind Haruuc. The lhesh lapsed into silence. Anger and disgust whirled in Geth’s mind. Organizing funerary games in memory of Vanii and to commemorate victory over a rebellion—that was something he could deal with. There was nothing he could object to except the task itself. The games even sounded like fun, but now they were irrevocably tainted by the thought of so many grieving trees and the victims they would claim.

“You know why I have to do this, don’t you?” Haruuc said without turning around.

“No,” Geth growled. “I don’t.”

“I have to show the other warlords what happens to rebels. I have to remind them of who I am—of what the lhesh is. It’s ironic
that in defeating the Gan’duur, I have no choice but to become the bloody tyrant they wanted me to be. Our culture is not merciful, Geth. It does not favor forgiveness. Humans have difficulty understanding that. I thought a shifter might.” He paused, then added, “When your friend died in battle, what did you do?”

“I put my sword through the belly of the man who killed him,” Geth said. “Blood paid for blood spilled.”