Marguul tradition valued honor, but not so much as it valued staying alive. Followed by the jeers of his tribe, Makka fled for the second time that night.
For three days he hid, thoughts of vengeance festering in his mind just as his wounded arm festered. On the fourth day, he went to a brook upstream from the White Stone’s new camp and washed the pus from his arm, praying to the Dark Six that the sluggish water would carry the infection to his former tribe. Then he packed the burning wound with moss and spiderwebs and made his way back to the burned-out camp. Down the mountainside, he found tracks. The footprints of humans and hobgoblins, the hoofprints of horses, the pawprints of wolves, all leading out of the mountains and back to the lowlands.
The ones responsible for his shame were the three prisoners, two hobgoblins and a human that he had rescued from the trolls-and whatever allies had appeared to help them to escape and lay waste to the White Stone camp. He had learned something about the three prisoners while they were his captives. The hobgoblin warrior had named himself Dagii of Mur Talaan and claimed the hobgoblin woman as a follower, though Makka doubted the claim. The human woman carried the dragonmark of Deneith across her face and arms, and the bright sword that now hung at Makka’s side like an oversize dagger had been hers until he had taken it.
His shame had been begun by the three. On a mountain side during a thunderstorm, Makka swore by the passion of the Fury, dark goddess of rage, that his vengeance would start with them.
Where would he find them? They had tried to bargain for their safety by invoking the name of the lowland king, Haruuc. Whether they had his favor or not was questionable, but if they’d known to try invoking his name, there was only one place to begin his search.
Makka turned his footsteps toward Rhukaan Draal.
19 Sypheros
He arrived just before dawn on a fine cool day to find the entrances to Haruuc’s city clogged with lowlanders, all dressed as if for a festival. Makka waded into the throng, shouldering past hobgoblins, goblins, and bugbears alike. There were only dar present, he noticed. That was strange. Usually humans forced their way into everything.
As he got closer to the front of the crowd, he saw what was holding it back: guards wearing armbands fashioned of red cords stood at makeshift barricades. He grabbed the nearest goblin and spun the little creature around, forcing him to look up into his face. “What’s happening here, taat?”
The goblin stared at him with wide eyes. “The end of mourning,” he said, his voice cracking. “Haruuc goes to his tomb today.”
Makka grunted and looked back to the guards. The goblin, he noticed, took the opportunity to shrink back into the crowd. Makka didn’t try to stop him.
He’d heard about Haruuc’s death during his journey. A goblin in the southland had squeaked out the news, not that it had meant much to Makka. The end of a warrior-may the Keeper treasure his soul-but also a fitting end for a lowland sop who had turned dog for the humans. Makka had his vengeance to think about. Other goblins and hobgoblins along the way had confirmed the passage of the three he sought. Yes, two hobgoblins and a human with a dragonmark across her face had traveled that way. Yes, they had been going toward Rhukaan Draal. Yes, they had traveled with others: a shifter, a gnome, and a goblin who rode on a great black wolf. Makka had added three more deaths to his oath of vengeance.
Names had come later-those who had passed were heroes, acclaimed by Haruuc. Dagii of Mur Talaan, Ekhaas of Kech Volaar, Chetiin of the shaarat’khesh, Ashi of Deneith, Midian the gnome, Geth the shifter and shava to Haruuc. Later still, the news that Chetiin was Haruuc’s assassin and Geth now held the throne of Darguun. That had made Makka smile. His targets were chib. Killing them would bring him much honor.
And the Fury, it seemed, approved of his vengeance, because he found four of his targets with an ease that could only be an omen.
They were out in the open, marching in Haruuc’s funeral procession, unsuspecting of the death that had come for them. Dagii of Mur Talaan and a shifter that could only be Geth walked directly behind Haruuc-the lowland king made a wrinkled, pathetic corpse. Ekhaas of Kech Volaar was further back, and Ashi of Deneith walked with humans and other races near the rear of the procession. The riches borne at the very end of the parade of mourners gave Makka pause. So much wealth! He ground his teeth, closing out greed inspired by the Keeper, and turned back to his targets in the procession. They were the reason he had come.
They were well-protected. He would have to wait, but he had waited for prey many times. Makka chose his target. The human woman would be first. He would slay her with her own sword and leave the weapon in her steaming guts, letting the others know who was hunting them.
He shadowed the procession through the stinking crowds of Rhukaan Draal. When the city ended, he pushed forward until he was right against the wall beyond which the procession had passed. Heaving himself up against the iron fence atop the wall, Makka could see the marchers, but not Ashi in particular. That didn’t bother him. He’d pick up her trail again.
He had a good view of the tomb along the ridge and of the three hobgoblins standing alongside it. Only when the ceremony had started did he realize they were priests. The tips of his ears curled and a growl rumbled out of his belly. He’d heard that Haruuc had abandoned the Dark Six and the old ways of the dar to follow the Sovereign Host, but to bury a warlord or a chief without the sanction of the Keeper, god of death? As Haruuc’s throne-bearers descended into the tomb, Makka thought maybe the priests would at least make a sacrifice of them, but all of the bugbears returned to the surface and the tomb was sealed without blood being shed. Makka’s hand went to the muu’kron, the talisman of six knotted cords on his belt, and his fingers closed around the fang that was the token of the Keeper.
Along the wall, he could see a few others doing the same thing, though furtively. Makka felt a surge of disgust-Haruuc hadn’t turned all lowlanders to the worship of gentle gods, but he’d forced those who’d kept to the old traditions to hide their beliefs. He caught the token of the Fury, a bit of wood carved like a snake and polished smooth by his touch, in his fingers and prayed for a swift resolution to his vengeance so that he could return to the freedom of the mountains.
His prayer was answered. As the blasphemous ceremony ended and the crowd below the tomb broke up, he caught sight of Ashi again. He smiled.
The human woman stiffened, as if catching his scent, and turned.
Makka dropped away from the wall, slipping into the sea of people turning away from the tomb to rush on to the games. He didn’t want Ashi to know he was here. Not yet.
From behind a moving screen of dar, he watched Ekhaas of Kech Volaar distract Ashi. The two women spoke together, then to an old human woman, then they moved back to the road that led away from the tomb and joined the crowd streaming into the city. Alone.
Makka hadn’t considered taking two of his victims at once, but when the Six gave a sign, only a fool ignored it.
Ashi waited until they were away from the tomb, away from the remains of the procession and safely anonymous among the crowds of Rhukaan Draal before she spoke. “I had an idea last night. A way to deal with the rod.”
Ekhaas looked at her, ears flicking gently. “How?” she asked.
“As long as I’m in Rhukaan Draal, I can use my power to protect whoever holds the rod from its influence. We tell the new lhesh that it’s dangerous, so he knows he needs my help, but we don’t tell him about the power of command. The protection of my dragonmark lasts for about a day-I could renew it every morning.”