The Tyranny of Ghosts: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 3 (6 page)

As the sun reached its zenith, they emerged onto a stone-paved road winding up into the mountains. The road showed its age in worn stones and moss, but Ekhaas knew that it was even older than it seemed. Even the oldest stone was a replacement for a stone that had been there before, the newest a replacement for a replacement for a replacement. When Volaar Draal had first been established, there had been no road. The early Kech Volaar had hidden themselves away alongside the lore that they guarded, but as the clan had grown stronger, hiding had given way to display of their heritage.

They rounded the final bend in the road, and Volaar Draal was revealed.

Geth’s wide animal eyes opened even wider. Tenquis reined in his horse so sharply, it almost reared up. Even Chetiin’s eyebrows rose and he signaled Marrow to pause for a moment.
Ekhaas’s chest felt tight as pride rose up in her. “Volaar Draal,” she said. “In the human tongue, the ‘City of the Word’. Called
Niianu Raat
, Mother of Stories, among its children and
Skai Duur
, the Great Dirge, among those who have tried to seize it.”

Beyond its final bend, the road entered a steep-sided valley cradled in the arms of the mountains. Ancient stories told how, when the Kech Volaar had first come, the valley had risen to a sheer wall of naked rock, and a cleft in the wall had been the only opening into the refuge of the Word Bearers. But that cleft had become a great gate and the wall of rock transformed, carved away as if Volaar Draal had waited within the mountain since the birth of the world for the hands that would reveal it.

Four mighty spires stood above the valley like the blades of massive swords, edges turned to meet whoever or whatever came against them. The bulk of the city lay within the mountain, the precious vaults deep below it, but this was the face that Volaar Draal presented to the world. From slits within the walls, archers could command the area before the spires. Hidden behind sliding panels of stone, powerful ballistae and catapults could sweep the entire valley. Master strategists had a hand in creating the stronghold of the clan, but the lore of Dhakaan had guided the masons who brought it forth from the rock. As harsh and functional as the spires were, there was a cruel majesty in their proportions. Volaar Draal was like a warrior defending himself in battle with a heavy blade—enemies who attacked the City of the Word were promised death beneath its walls.

“Horns of Ohr Kaluun,” said Tenquis. “It’s incredible.” He glanced at Ekhaas.
“Daashor
constructed this.”

Ekhaas saw a thin smile flicker across Geth’s face. “You must be feeling better,” the shifter said. “You’re talking about
daashor
again.”

“You think I would come to Volaar Draal and not ask about them?” Tenquis asked. He looked back to Ekhaas. “You promised me tales of the
daashor
in payment for crafting the false Rod of Kings. While we’re looking for a way to stop Tariic and the
rod, I’d be happy to take whatever lore about the
daashor
that’s stored in the vaults.”

Ekhaas’s ears flicked. The
daashor
had been the artificers of the Empire of Dhakaan—and more. Wizard-smiths of astounding ability, they had forged wonders that were the stuff of legend even before Dhakaan’s fall. The Sword of Heroes and the Rod of Kings were the creations of just one
daashor
, the legendary Taruuzh. In many ways, the
daashor
were the counterparts of the
duur’kala
. The magical music of the dirge-singers manifested almost entirely in women of the goblin races; the craft of the wizard-smiths in men. Ultimately, music had proved more lasting than craft—the traditions of the
duur’kala
had survived the Desperate Times, while the lore of the
daashor
had faded away, scattered in crumbling tomes and ancient carvings that the dirge-singers could not access. Some knowledge persisted, handed down among masons and smiths, but such magic was less than the shadow of what the
daashor
had practiced.

Until he had agreed to help them, Tenquis’s life had been devoted to the rediscovery of the lost lore. Who knew? Perhaps a modern artificer, even one who was not a
dar
, could find more meaning in the ancient writings than a
duur’kala
could. But … “The vaults are vast, Tenquis. The Kech Volaar have been collecting the lore and artifacts of Dhakaan for thousands of years. The archivists who tend the vaults maintain a list—the Register—of everything placed in them, but even it’s massive.”

“Even better.”

Ekhaas sighed and urged her horse back into a walk up the road toward the great gates. “Just don’t do anything stupid. The vaults contain the treasures of my clan, and the Kech Volaar don’t like trespassers.”

Three ranks of guards stood before the gates, all dressed in armor that had not changed since the days of Dhakaan. Linked plates provided strength and mobility. Spikes at strategic points provided weapons even if a warrior should be unarmed. Flared
helmets protected vulnerable necks while still allowing openings for large and expressive ears. A Dhakaani legion on the attack would have looked like a wave of steel. As the travelers approached, the guards moved in response to some unseen signal, their ranks splitting to open the way into Volaar Draal.

One of the guards, a red insignia of rank on his helmet, stepped forward and thumped his chest in salute. “Ekhaas
duur’kala,”
he said in Goblin, “you are expected. Tuura Dhakaan summons you. An escort comes for you and your … companions.”

It was impossible to miss the dip in his ears or the way his eyes flicked over Geth and Tenquis as he said it. Ekhaas knew exactly what he was thinking:
chaat’oor
. It was the Goblin word for humans and the races descended from them, like shifters and tieflings, that had come to Khorvaire after the fall of Dhakaan. Loosely translated, it meant “outsider.” More specifically, it meant “defiler.” Ekhaas’s own ears went back. “Treat them with respect,
lhurusk
. Their names will be sung alongside the heroes of the dar.”

“Then you move in honored circles,” said a familiar voice from the shadows of the gate. “Walking with heroes and summoned by the leader of our clan. Perhaps a humble lorekeeper isn’t enough of an escort for you,” A hobgoblin woman dressed in a black wool robe and a red leather girdle tooled with angular designs walked out between the parted ranks of the gate guards.
“Saa
, Ekhaas.”

Ekhaas felt her face flush hot. “Kitaas,” she said. She bit the name off, hating the sound of it. “You’re our escort?”

Kitaas inclined her head, ears twitching. She looked at Chetiin and Geth, ignoring Tenquis. “Chetiin of the Silent Blades, and Geth, wielder of Aram, the Sword of Heroes. I am honored to greet you.”

Chetiin returned her nod. So did Geth, although a little more slowly. Ekhaas saw the stirring of curiosity, then a flash of recognition in his eyes. Kitaas turned to lead them into the gate and as they rode after her, the shifter leaned close to Ekhaas and whispered in the human language. “I recognize that
girdle. In Rhukaan Draal, you used an illusion to disguise me as a woman—you said you had to choose someone familiar.” He nodded toward Kitaas’s back. “She’s your sister!”

“In the way that a dagger is sister to a sword,” she told him.

Inside the gate, goblin stablehands came to take their mounts. One approached Marrow, but the worg snapped at him. Chetiin slid to the ground and she ran back out the gate, drawing yelps of surprise from the guards as she slipped among them.

“She will remain outside to find her own shelter and prey,” Chetiin said to Ekhaas.

“As she wishes,” said the archivist.

The others dismounted as well and unloaded their meager gear. Tenquis looked at Kitaas with interest. “You’re one of the keepers of the vaults of Volaar Draal?” he asked.

Kitaas glanced at him with the same disdain the gate guards had. “I understood that tieflings had tails.”

Tenquis’s face went hard, and he self-consciously twitched the back of his long vest to cover the mutilated stump. Ekhaas bared her teeth and snapped back at her sister before he could. “Don’t antagonize my friends, Kitaas.”

“Ban,”
said Kitaas. She gave Tenquis a haughty look. “I am adjunct to Diiteshm the High Archivist of Kech Volaar.”

“It means that she may call herself a ‘humble lorekeeper,’ but she isn’t,” Ekhaas said. She met Kitaas’s glare with one of her own. “You recognized Geth and Chetiin.”

“Senen Dhakaan makes regular reports. We are not isolated from events in Rhukaan Draal.” Kitaas folded her hands across her girdle, but her ears stirred languidly, and the ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “Those events are what Tuura Dhakaan wishes to speak to you about.”

Beyond the inner gate stretched the echoing length of the Great Passage, the final approach to the City of the Word.
Kitaas didn’t slow her stride for the weary travelers. Soon she was a dozen paces ahead of them. Geth moved closer to Ekhaas. “What’s between you and Kitaas?” he asked quietly.

Ekhaas kept her eyes on her sister’s back. “That’s not your concern.”

“You don’t think it might be? She’s the assistant—”

“Adjunct,” Ekhaas snarled.

“I don’t even know what that means. Is this High Archivist she works for in charge of the vaults? Maybe we want to stay on her good side.”

“It’s years too late for that,” she said curtly.

Geth took the hint and fell back a pace to let her walk in silence. Distant sounds flowed through the shadows—the clash of weapons and the stamp of boots as warriors trained, the haunting song of a far-off
duur’kala
, the rhythmic ringing of hammers against anvils—and again Ekhaas felt a pang that Dagii wasn’t with them. She would have liked to introduce him to the sounds of Volaar Draal. And to the sight of the city, gleaming in the darkness as they emerged from the Great Passage.

But Geth, Tenquis, and Chetiin paused in awe, and at least that was something.

Close-packed ranks of homes, halls, and workshops filled the floor and crept up the walls of the vast cavern where early Kech Volaar had once sought refuge. From windows and posts, sparks of dim white-green ghostlight glimmered. Against the shadows of the cavern, the lights resembled the dense brilliance of the Ring of Siberys in the night sky. Monuments rose in silhouette, and the sounds of life filled the still air. Ekhaas felt a rush of pride in the hidden beauty and grandeur of Volaar Draal.

Kitaas didn’t even slow down. While not quite so chaotic as the streets of Rhukaan Draal, the way through the Home Cavern was twisting, narrow, and filled with
dar
going about their business. Ekhaas gestured for the others to keep up and hurried after Kitaas, who said nothing to her and just kept walking. Ekhaas
couldn’t help noticing that the way opened up before her sister.

“Do they respect you or the robe of an archivist?” she asked boldly. Kitaas didn’t answer, but her ears went back a little. For a moment, the satisfaction of a well-struck blow warmed Ekhaas—then Geth nudged her.

“We’re attracting attention,” he muttered.

Ekhaas glanced over her shoulder. Where they had passed, ugly expressions and flattened ears followed as Kech Volaar stared after Geth and Tenquis. Kitaas, she realized, had deliberately taken them along one of the city’s busiest streets. “Ignore them,” she said. She thought she heard a satisfied chuckle from Kitaas.

“Is this going to make it difficult to keep our being here secret from Tariic?” asked Geth.

“Most Kech Volaar never leave sight of Volaar Draal,” said Ekhaas. “Those who do don’t talk much about clan matters. We’re safe.”

“What about them?” asked Chetiin. He pointed ahead with a slight, concealed gesture. Ekhaas looked.

The blocky shape of the Shrine of Glories, the seat of the Kech Volaar’s leadership, rose before them. Clustered at the foot of the stairs that swept up to the entrance was a group of six armored hobgoblins. An outsider less knowledgeable than Chetiin might have mistaken them for Kech Volaar, but Ekhaas saw instantly that they weren’t. The armor they wore was even heavier and more archaic than that of the guards at the city gate—and here in the heart of the city, they were the only hobgoblins wearing armor at all. The emblem of a sword was displayed on their helmets, and Ekhaas knew that if they got close enough, she’d see the emblem repeated in brands on their cheeks.