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

“Next time.” Tenquis seized the hobgoblin’s head by its lank black hair and held it up so that he could stare into the vacant eyes. Blood dripped from the severed neck, spattering fallen leaves at Tenquis’s feet. The tiefling stood looking at the head for a long moment, then spun around sharply and hurled it off into the darkness. It crashed through dry branches like some great clumsy bird before hitting an unseen tree with a solid
thunk
. Tenquis bent and hooked his arms under the dead soldier’s arms to help Geth carry the body.

Chetiin wasn’t the only one Geth was glad to have as a friend rather than as an enemy.

“Tenquis,” he said, “why are you doing this? Why are you still with us? You didn’t know Ashi. You met her—what? Three times? The only reason you even came to Tariic’s notice is because you created the false Rod of Kings for us.”

Tenquis, still bent over, hands under the soldier, twisted his neck to look up at Geth. “And because you came to me for help when your plan fell apart around you.”

Heat burned in Geth’s cheeks. “And that. I’m sorry.”

“Remember what Chetiin said about regret being the blade that wounds? Tieflings have a saying too: choices are a sword sharpened on both ends. I chose to help you. Apology accepted, but you’re not the one to blame.”

He heaved the soldier’s torso up off the ground, holding it
away to avoid smearing himself with blood. Geth started walking backward, leading the way toward the brush-screened gully that would serve as an open grave. “You’re not a part of this.”

Tenquis showed needle-sharp teeth. “Tariic made me a part of it. Because of him, everything I had, all of my research, is gone except for what I managed to stuff in my pockets.” His breath wheezed from exertion as he spoke, but he managed to tap his chin against one shoulder, indicating the long, labyrinth-patterned vest that he wore. The garment was magical, its pockets unnaturally capacious. Geth had seen Tenquis slide a long iron pry bar into one pocket creating only a slight bulge in the fabric. “Because of him, my—”

His face hardened, and his mouth closed tight, cutting off the words, but Geth knew what he’d been about to say. In addition to sharp teeth, eyes of gold or black or red, and heavy horns, tieflings had another feature that betrayed the bargain that their sorcerous ancestors had struck with infernal powers in ages past—a thick, sinuous tail. Because of Tariic, Tenquis’s tail was only a scarred stump, a reminder of what Haruuc’s nephew had been willing to do to gain the Rod of Kings.

They pushed past bushes and reached the edge of the gully. Neither of them spoke as they swung the patrol leader’s body into the shadows. Geth listened to the snap and crash of branches below. It was like the crackling of fuel in the fire of his anger. Grim determination settled over him as they turned back to the scene of the ambush.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be going to Volaar Draal,” he said. “Maybe it’s time to stop running. If Tariic thinks we’re headed for Breland, we can go anywhere we want. We can go back to Rhukaan Draal. He won’t be expecting an attack.” Geth’s gut tightened. “We can end this.”

Tenquis frowned. “How? Without Ashi, you’re the only one who can stand up to the power of the rod.”

“All the more reason to go back,” said Geth. “I’m going to carve the price of her death out of Tariic’s heart.”

“Geth.” Tenquis grabbed his arm and stopped him. The tiefling faced him eye to eye. “I want to see Tariic pay for what he’s done, but charging back to Rhukaan Draal isn’t the way. Volaar Draal can provide us with more than just sanctuary. Haruuc learned about the Rod of Kings from the stories preserved by the Kech Volaar. We may be able to find a way to stop Tariic in the vaults of Volaar Draal.”

He dropped his voice and added, “We need to rest and plan first, or we’ll fail. Tariic will win, and who will avenge Ashi then? There’s an old Dhakaani proverb that goes
‘Khaartuuv kurar’dar, mi shi morii’dar.’”

Geth’s hand rested on Wrath’s hilt, and the magic of the sword translated the Goblin words. He spoke them back to Tenquis. “To avenge the dead, remain among the living.”

Tenquis nodded. Geth clenched his jaw. “We’re going back, though,” he said. “When we have a solution, we’re going back.”

Tenquis smiled at him, the tips of his teeth showing past his lips. “I wouldn’t be here if we weren’t.”

A
shi d’Deneith stood on the dais of the throne room of Khaar Mbar’ost, stared out over the mob of Darguul warlords, and remembered another moment, just a week shy of four months earlier, when she had stood on a similar dais. The occasion had been the arrival of Tariic, ambassador of Darguun and nephew of Lhesh Haruuc Shaarat’kor, in Sentinel Tower, home fortress of House Deneith. Ashi had been waiting to perform for Tariic, her mentor Vounn d’Deneith’s firm hand restraining her eagerness.

But Vounn was dead. Ashi stood at the left hand of Lhesh Tariic Kurar’taarn in his fortress, restrained by the threat of a sharp knife.

And yet she was still performing.

Drums beat slowly as two guards marched down the central aisle of the throne room. They dragged a gruesome burden behind them—the corpse of a bugbear with every scrap of skin flayed away, from foot to face. The thing had been laid on a mat of coarse burlap to keep it from leaving a trail of blood across the floor, but even so, red smears—and the turning heads of Darguul warlords—marked its progress through the room.

The guards brought the corpse to the foot of the dais and stepped aside so that Tariic could look down on it. He did, then looked to the crowd. “This was Makka,” he said, “who shamed me by murdering a guest and an ally and by nearly doing the same to another.” He spoke formal Goblin but Ashi understood
it easily—Ekhaas had taught her the language. Tariic looked to his right. “Pradoor, is this just?”

The elderly goblin priestess whose prayers had dragged Ashi back from sharing Vounn’s fate glanced with disdain at the tortured corpse of her former servant. Or rather seemed to stare with milk-blind eyes that saw more than they had any right to. “It is just, lhesh,” she answered.

Tariic turned and looked at Ashi. “Ashi d’Deneith, does this cleanse the honor of Darguun in the eyes of House Deneith?”

Ashi stood straight and spoke, also in Goblin, the words that were required of her. “It does, lhesh.”

“Then let this thing be taken from our presence,” Tariic said, his words rising. “Take it through the streets, and throw it in the dust beyond the city. Let all Darguuls know Makka’s fate and let them learn from it. For I am Lhesh Tariic Kurar’taarn, and their honor belongs to me!”

Cheers and applause—predominantly goblin applause, an open hand slapped against the chest—filled the throne room. The guards gripped the burlap cradling Makka’s corpse and dragged it back up the aisle. The nearest warlords leaned out and spat on the corpse as it passed. Cheers and applause settled into the buzz of any crowd.

Ashi’s hands clenched into fists. Tariic looked up at her from the throne. “Well done, Ashi,” he said in the human tongue. “Be patient.”

For anyone else in the great hall, the words would have been a command. Tariic held the Rod of Kings, braced casually against his knee, in his right hand. Ashi felt the power of the artifact try to take hold of her—and felt it skitter aside like a blade against armor as it encountered the power of the dragonmark that patterned her body. Maintaining the power of the mark that shielded her from the rod’s influence had become her new discipline. On each of the four days since Vounn’s death—and, very nearly, her own—she’d risen with the sun, reached into herself, and drawn up the clarity of the mark’s protection.

She gave Tariic a thin smile. “You can convince everyone in this room that what happened was Makka’s fault alone, Tariic,” she said quietly, “but Breven d’Deneith is beyond your reach.”

Tariic’s ears just twitched, and he looked back out to the waiting crowd. He lifted a hand, and half the warlords, thinking he was pointing to them, started calling his name. He indicated Ashi, and there was a smattering of renewed applause. In the gallery above the hall, the envoys of the dragonmarked houses and the ambassadors of the nations beyond Darguun looked down on her with nothing but pity. Pradoor’s voice rose in an ear-pinching cackle unmoved by Makka’s harsh death.

“They would welcome the Fury’s kiss if you suggested it, lhesh!”

Ashi’s stomach twisted, but she kept her face still. By rights those in the throne room should have glared at her with hatred or at the very least mistrust, not offered her applause. Only six days ago, she’d been part of an attempt to kill a king. Every one of them had witnessed it. In any other nation, she would already have been executed as an assassin. The Rod of Kings had changed that.

The rod—and Vounn’s murder and her own near death at Makka’s hands. She could still feel the sword, her own grandfather’s honor blade, in her chest and the weight of Vounn’s body against hers. She suppressed a shudder.

Tariic had needed an explanation for what had taken place. Why had former friends attempted to so publicly assassinate him? Why had a member of his entourage attacked and killed two highly placed members of House Deneith? The answer to one question would have revealed the powers of the Rod of Kings to the world; the answer to the other would have destabilized any confidence other nations or the dragonmarked houses might have had in his reign. And yet, Ashi had to admit, Tariic had brilliantly turned both events to his benefit.

The rod’s powers of command could be subtle, it seemed, as well as overwhelming. Tariic had spoken, the Rod of Kings
in his hand, and earlier reports rushed out of Darguun by means magical and mundane were recanted. In the minds of the warlords, envoys, and ambassadors, Geth and the others had become traitors intent on upsetting the fragile reign of the new lhesh and destroying Darguun—never mind that they’d all been hailed only weeks earlier as the saviors of the nation. Makka had become one of the traitors, trying to destroy the vital relationship between Darguun and House Deneith. Ashi—her role in the attempt virtually erased—was a lucky survivor and Vounn an unfortunate martyr.

Makka’s execution in the dungeons of Khaar Mbar’ost had been as much about reinforcing Tariic’s lie as it had been about honor or justice. She should have felt satisfaction at the bugbear’s death, but all she felt was a sharp fear. Every morning when she renewed her own protection against the Rod of Kings, she offered a silent prayer to unnamed powers that Geth, Ekhaas, Chetiin, and Tenquis were far from Tariic’s reach.

Soon she would be too. Tariic might hold her as a “protected guest,” but even he wouldn’t dare keep her in captivity if the patriarch of House Deneith, Darguun’s greatest ally among the nations and powers of Khorvaire, demanded her return. No matter what false reports emerged from Darguun, Ashi knew that Breven d’Deneith would be suspicious. Her house would look after its own, and she would be free to take the truth out of Darguun. The powers of Khorvaire would learn of Tariic’s ambitions and the danger he posed to them all.

She lifted her head, raising her chin defiantly. It only earned her more applause from the warlords and even a bit from the ambassadors. Ashi couldn’t think of a time she’d ever felt more isolated.

Yet there were a few who understood the situation, even if they didn’t dare speak of it. Senen Dhakaan looked down from the gallery, though never directly at Ashi. The ambassador of the Kech Volaar had risked much to deliver a message of hope—Ashi had woken one night to whispered song, the magical
communication of the
duur’kala
, and the news that Ekhaas and the others were on their way to Volaar Draal. Out in the crowd of warlords, Dagii of Mur Talaan stood in a place of honor. The gray-eyed and gray-haired—in spite of his young age—warlord hadn’t tried to speak to her, and Ashi knew he couldn’t without sacrificing his own freedom. He understood the effect of the rod and probably hated every action that its influence forced on him, but there was little he could do. Even if he hadn’t been directly involved in the attempt on Tariic’s life, Tariic knew that he’d been involved in the plot to substitute a false rod for the true Rod of Kings. But Dagii was also a hero, victorious in battle against the elves of Valenar. The warlords and people of Darguun loved him. Even with the power of the rod at his command, Tariic would have been hard-pressed to find a good excuse to execute a popular hero. Dagii lived—so long as his loyalty never wavered. Friends who stood close at hand, but they might as well have been in distant Sharn.

She thought of the changeling she knew both as Aruget, a hobgoblin guard, and Benti Moran, a half-elf, but who was actually an agent of Breland. He’d vanished after the assassination had failed, saving his own shifting skin. Maybe he’d made his way back to Breland. Maybe news of the danger brewing in Darguun was already abroad in the world.

Then why did the ambassador of Breland laugh and chat as if there were nothing wrong?

“Do you see something that interests you, Ashi?” asked a voice from her left.

She was staring, she realized. She forced her gaze away from the gallery and down to the speaker, a gnome with bright eyes and a shock of pale hair. Midian Mit Davandi had once been a friend, a scholar of the great Library of Korranberg joining them on their quest for the Rod of Kings, but then his true nature had shown itself. An agent for the gnome nation of Zilargo, neighbor of Darguun across the Seawall Mountains, he was the true assassin of Haruuc, a crime widely laid at the feet of
Chetiin. Midian’s many treacheries were also the reason that their attempts to keep the Rod of Kings from falling into Tariic’s hands had failed. He’d paid the price, though. When Ashi had returned to consciousness after Pradoor’s prayers had healed her, she’d found Midian was also Tariic’s captive.