Dah’mir had to be warned of their approach, though. Vennet focused on the burning heat that crossed his back and invoked the power of his dragonmark. “Hear me, winds! I command you!” He paused, listening for a response, and frowned when there was none. He concentrated harder. “Hear me!”
The answer came on the whistle of the breeze and in the murmur of the crowd on the street below. What would you have us do?
“Go to my master. Tell him our enemies approach. Tell him to open his jaws to receive them. Go!”
The voice of the wind faded back into whistles and murmurs. Biish stared at him. “What are you babbling about, Storm?”
“Nothing you need to know about.” Vennet’s hands clenched once more. Something in the neck of the stallkeeper, an old woman who had found objections to him hiding among her wares, gave way with a crunch. Vennet let her drop-her dying breath had already joined the wind, and there wasn’t anyone to hide from anymore. He stepped out of the stall. “Your people will need to be alert tonight, Biish. The kalashtar may have been warned to expect something.”
The hobgoblin sneered. “I saw nothing. They make no preparations. The attack will be daring, but it won’t fail.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Vennet adjusted his hat, plucked a handsome red scarf from a rack, and stuffed it in his pocket. “Now, would you like to join me on a little hunt? It will get your blood up for tonight. I believe you’ve just seen our quarry.” He sauntered down the stairs, dreaming of the praise Dah’mir would heap on him for this bit of cleverness.
CHAPTER 12
The camp in the Sharvat Vvaraak stood empty. The horde of Angry Eyes had assembled beyond the Sharvat’s northeastern slope, on the side of the holy site that faced the distant Bonetree mound. Warriors carried their weapons and perhaps a small pack, but nothing else. Everything else-tents, supplies, food, possessions-had been left in the now-silent camp. The senior Gatekeepers clustered on the rim of the Sharvat above the horde, one among them shouting words of blessing and wisdom: “And Vvaraak said, ‘Let rage be your weapon and anger your armor. Let Eberron feed you. Leave behind the things of this world when you go to fight what is not of this world-trust in nature and you will defeat the unnatural!’”
The voices of hundreds of orcs rose in a wild roar. In pockets among the horde, the answering cries were nearly bestial-they came from warriors who had embraced the teachings with such fervor that they would fight naked, armed only with fists or whatever makeshift weapons they might seize on the battleground. Everywhere, the sounds of drums and flutes and bone rattles rose, a climax to the weird music that had filled the camp. The frenzy of the horde had reached its pitch. Every orc watched the descending eye of the sun. When it closed in sunset, the frenzy would break. The horde would be let loose. The Angry Eyes would march.
Geth’s hand clenched hard around Wrath’s hilt, listening to the words of the Gatekeepers and the warriors. Every orc’s eyes might have been on the sun, but his-and Ekhaas’s-were on Medala. The mad kalashtar and her guards stood on the slope of the Sharvat close to the senior Gatekeepers. Geth knew that he wasn’t imagining the possessive intensity that shone in her face whenever she looked out across the horde.
“This is wrong,” he growled. “This is all wrong.”
“It’s not all wrong,” Ekhaas hissed back at him. “It’s almost entirely right. That’s what makes it so terrifying. The horde should be marching, the Gatekeepers should be acting against the Master of Silence-but not with Medala at the reins.” The hobgoblin’s ears laid back. “Khaavolaar, I almost admire her.”
“Don’t say that!” Geth glared at Medala. The rush of the horde to prepare for departure after Batul’s announcement had separated them from her. Not that he’d felt any desire to remain close to the kalashtar. All he’d really wanted to do was run and hide like a dog during a thunderstorm. He hadn’t even been able to do that.
The Gatekeeper on the slope shouted yet another impassioned, inspiring passage from the teachings of Vvaraak and yet another roar from the horde answered him. Some of the loudest shouts came from immediately around Geth. Kobus bellowed loud enough for three orcs. He punched at the air with a massive fist-the other held a nasty-looking double axe-then thumped his hand across Geth’s shoulders and shouted in his ear. He spoke in Orc, but Wrath translated his words. “This will be a fight, my brother! This will be a fight to tell grandchildren about!” The big orc looked around them. “We march with one who has been to the Bonetree mound before!” he said. “We march with one who fought a dragon! We march with Geth!”
And as they had done at least half a dozen times since Kobus had sought him out to claim a place at his side, the warriors around him-once the followers of Kobus and other orc champions-took up the chant. “We march with Geth! We march with Geth! We march with Geth!”
Geth pulled his hand away from Wrath and the words faded back into unintelligible Orc. “Ker’od Geth! Ker’od Geth!” It didn’t seem to bother them that he neither spoke nor, so far as they knew, understood their language. They made up for it with enthusiasm.
“You need to acknowledge them,” said Ekhaas. “If you don’t, they’ll just keep chanting.”
He clenched his teeth and raised his gauntlet-clad arm into the air. The chant broke off into a cheer and faded away. Kobus gave him another jaw-rattling slap on the back. Geth grimaced.
A few hours ago, he would have accepted this hero-worship. He would have-no, he had enjoyed it. After talking with Medala, though, it just ate at his guts like poison. Was it real, or was it just a part of Medala’s manipulations? Was the warriors’ admiration just a side effect of her power over the horde, or was this a deliberate ploy, trying to get him to lower his defenses?
He was no leader. Just the idea of being a hero to warriors like Kobus made him feel awkward. It was good-the warmth he had first felt last night still hadn’t gone away completely-but it was also frightening. To be hero or leader gave him a responsibility to the warriors. He didn’t want that. Besides, he already had enough responsibility pressing down on his shoulders.
He looked at Ekhaas. “Do you think Medala was right about what’s going to happen in Sharn?” he asked. “All those ‘possibilities’ and ‘certainties’-maybe she’s just wrong.”
Ekhaas’s ears flicked and her amber eyes narrowed. “Prophecy is a treacherous thing,” she said. “Medala was right about one thing at least. Until an event actually takes place, there’s always a chance that it might not. The tales of the duur’kala record many instances of mistaken or misinterpreted prophecy.”
“But do you think she was right when she said that anyone who stands against Dah’mir will die?”
Ekhaas turned to look at him, but hesitated before answering. “It would be foolish,” she said, “to dismiss that possibility. We should assume that Dandra and Singe will-or have already-died in Sharn. We should assume that Dah’mir will come to the Bonetree mound as and when Medala says he will.”
Another roar from the horde covered Geth’s groan. “That’s what I was afraid of.” He looked back to the slope of the Sharvat, to Medala, and to the senior Gatekeepers. Batul stood among them, his blind eye stark white in the shadows of his face, his good eye scanning the horde. Geth’s belly tightened with his own certainty. “We need to talk to Batul,” he said. “He needs to know what Medala told us. He’ll know what to do.” He glanced at Ekhaas. “Can you cast the spell you used to protect us on him? Would it free him from Medala’s control?”