Read The Doom of Kings: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 1 Online
Authors: Don Bassingthwaite
The Doom of Kings: Legacy of Dhakaan - Book 1 (2 page)
Haruuc laughed.
“Ban,”
he said. “But beginning now, the history of this place and this land”—he brought his boot down on the helmet, crushing the last of the plumes and cracking the metal—“is what we make it!”
Haruuc opened his eyes to sunlight on the roofs of Rhukaan Draal thirty years from the memory of that triumphant day. The yellow dust of the city rose in a drifting haze, thicker over the bustle of the Bloody Market. From the window where he stood, Haruuc could hear the sounds of combat that rose with it, different from the normal sounds of the late-morning market. The clash of steel on steel, the screams of defiance, the shouts of command, the wails of the fatally injured. Violence in the market wasn’t uncommon, but no merchant ever defended his stall with such vigor or mourned the loss of his goods with such deep agony.
A party from the Gan’duur clan, outspoken opponents to his rule, had entered the city the day before to trade in the market, or so they had claimed. The Gan’duur weren’t a subtle clan. Presented with a spear, they’d throw themselves onto it. And from the signs of the fight in the Bloody Market, they’d found the spears Haruuc had sent to them in the hands of his own disguised warriors. The corpses of the Gan’duur would be left where they fell, victims of the market violence. Haruuc had crafted the strategy with care. By tradition, the corpses of the Gan’duur should be hung in gibbets before the gates of his fortress, a warning to anyone who might consider crossing him. Public display, however, would show his involvement in the deaths and enflame the remaining Gan’duur. Worse, it would be proof to the other clans of the growing unrest, another hint that Haruuc’s grasp on power was slipping. Left in the street, the corpses would be as anonymous as their killers. The chief and elders of the Gan’duur would surely guess what had happened, but there would be no proof of Haruuc’s hand in the matter. The doubts of the chiefs and lesser warlords would be staved off—until the next time the Gan’duur rose.
The Gan’duur or some other ambitious clan scratching for fleeting power. Fenic, he thought, I should have listened more closely to you. He looked down at the hands that gripped the windowsill—deep yellow skin slowly growing thin and increasingly stained with dark spots.
There were voices beyond the door, and Haruuc turned away from the window. A moment later, the door opened and Tariic entered. “We depart, uncle.”
It came to Haruuc that Haluun had always insisted that Tariic had been conceived the very day that they had captured that Cyran frontier town. He had never believed in omens that he didn’t make himself, but if he had, surely that was a good one. His ears rose. “Swift travel and great glory,” he said in blessing. “Bring back our history, Tariic.”
CHAPTERONE
15 Lharvion,
999 YK (midsummer)
A
shout of rage was the only warning Geth had before a fist that smelled of onions and dirt smashed into the side of his face. Caught by surprise—his own fists were already twisted in the loose fabric of another man’s shirt—Geth rolled with the blow. Pain spread across his cheek, but it was dull and distant. The odor that trailed the punch was stronger. A growl tore out of Geth’s throat. He pitched away the man who lolled in his grasp and bared his teeth at the farmer who had hit him.
The sight of a shifter’s mouthful of sharp teeth didn’t even give the man pause. He lunged at Geth, wrapping thick arms around him and bearing him backward off his feet. The smell of onions and dirt, topped off with ale, surrounded Geth as they both stumbled backward. The hard edge of a table bit into Geth’s lower back.
That
hurt. Geth ground his teeth together and slammed his forehead into the other man’s face. There was another burst of pain, but the farmer’s grasp weakened. Geth butted him again. The man let go and staggered back, cursing. Geth shoved himself away from the table and twisted to drive his knee up into the man’s gut. Breath whooshed out of him. Geth grabbed his shoulder and brought up his knee a second time for good measure. The farmer went down, and Geth whirled, fists raised, looking for the next attacker.
There wasn’t one. The man he had tossed aside was hobbling away, supporting a friend whose smashed nose bore the imprint of Geth’s knuckles. The other patrons of the tavern had pulled back from the fight and stood in an uneasy circle around Geth, each of
them looking nervously at the others, none of them willing to make the first move.
“Get out,” said a voice behind Geth. He turned around. The tavernkeeper stood at his bar, one hand below the top of its well-scrubbed surface. The bend of an arm tattooed with the dragonhawk crest of Aundair hinted that his hidden hand grasped a club or a knife—maybe even a wand. The thick hair that covered Geth’s forearms and the back of his neck bristled and lifted slightly. The nation of Aundair had more than its share of mage-trained veterans of the Last War.
Keeping an eye on the tavernkeeper’s hidden hand, Geth stood straight and opened his fists. “Easy there,” he said. “I was defending myself. They started this. Did you hear what they said to me? Boar’s snout, they accused me of stealing sheep and raiding vineyards!”
The tavernkeeper’s face was hard. “I’d believe them before I believe you. They come from Lathleer. They belong here. Where do you belong, shifter? We’ve seen enough of your kind since the end of the war. Just another war-torn wanderer. Get out of my tavern and get out of Lathleer!”
Geth stiffened. “I’m not a wanderer. I’m on my way back to Fairhaven. I just want a—”
“Get out,” the tavernkeeper said again, and this time he raised his hand from below the bar. Geth had been right. It was a wand, an unpleasant-looking black stick bound with dull rings of lead and capped with something that might have been rune-inscribed ivory but was more likely bone. A wizard or an artificer might have been able to guess what magic was contained within such an ugly device. Geth couldn’t, but he had a strong feeling that it was nothing gentle.
The crowd of patrons must have known. A murmur of eagerness swept through the room, and from the corner of his eye, Geth saw the circle around him tighten slightly. His hands clenched. Armed with a sword to keep them back, he might have been able to face the crowd, but not unarmed. They wouldn’t make the same mistake as the first three men. They’d rush him all at once and bring him down through the sheer weight of their numbers. Assuming the tavernkeeper’s wand didn’t bring him down first.
“I’m going,” he said. Keeping his eyes on the tavernkeeper, he backed toward the door. The man gave a quick jerk of his head and Geth heard murmurs of disappointment and the shuffling of feet as the circle opened to let him out.
Beside the door was a niche lined with cubbyholes where patrons left bags and packs—and, more importantly, weapons—while they were in the tavern. Crouched on a stool inside the niche was a wizened little goblin in a shabby dress. The creatures weren’t as common in Aundair as they were in the cities of the south, where they formed a menial underclass, but even in a town like Lathleer they were far from unknown. Standing, the top of the goblin’s head would have been below Geth’s waist, but the commotion in the tavern had left her curled up into a tight ball, as if she could fold herself up and disappear. Small dark eyes stared at him in fear from a face that looked like it had been pressed flat, lips squeezed so tight her wide mouth was barely a crease in the wrinkled yellow parchment of her skin.
“Give me my pack!” Geth snapped at her, not wanting the distraction of groping among the cubbyholes himself. The circle of tavern patrons had closed again, folding in on itself to follow him to the door.
The goblin didn’t move. Geth’s breath hissed between his teeth and he repeated himself—this time in the Goblin language.
“Roo! Piiroto kaana!”
He was still learning Goblin, and he knew that he spoke the language like a child, but at least the goblin woman blinked and uncurled a bit, her large pointed ears twitching.
“Piiroto!”
said Geth again. He dug in a pouch, groping blindly for a coin, and flicked what he found at her.
“Kaana kaana!”
A thin copper crown flashed on the air. Uncertainty crossed the goblin’s face, but it lasted only as long as it took for her to stick out an arm and snatch the coin. The rest of her body uncoiled as well, and she hopped to one of the cubbies. Pulling out a pack that was almost as big as she was, she shoved it at Geth.
Geth grabbed the pack so quickly he almost pulled her off her feet. As she jumped away from him again, he raised the pack, putting it between himself and the small mob of tavern patrons. The
men he had actually fought had made their way to the front of the crowd now, and if the other patrons looked unfriendly, these three looked outright hostile. Geth took three steps back and felt the wood of the door against his shoulders. He pulled the door open with one hand, keeping his eyes on the mob. Warm night air blew inside, a breeze that ruffled his hair and made the lanterns that lit the tavern dance slightly. Geth slid a foot over the threshold, then deliberately caught the gaze of the most aggressive of his attackers, the one who had started it all.
“If you want to keep this going,” he told him in a growl, “you come after me. I’ll be ready for you.”
He stepped back through the door, pulled it shut after him, and darted down the night-empty street, running not for the outskirts of Lathleer, but deeper into the town. The instant a hiding place presented itself, Geth dove into it. The hiding place happened to be a narrow, wet shadow between a public fountain and a wall, but he was in no position to be particular. Indeed, no sooner was he under cover than he heard the shouts of men spilling out of the tavern. He froze.
“Nowhere in sight!” Geth recognized the voice of the man who had first picked the fight with him. “Bloody full of wind, shifters are! Cowards, just like I told you. Won’t stand up to a fight.”
“He stood up pretty good inside, Urik,” said someone else. “Let him go.”
“When did you turn into your wife, saal? He asked me if I wanted to keep this going and I do. He can’t have much of a head start. Follow me!”
A chorus of cheers met the command, and boots hit the packed surface of the street in a heavy rhythm—heading the other way. Geth released his breath and risked a slow glance up over the rim of the fountain. The men from the tavern had done just what he’d hoped they would and assumed that a stranger and a fugitive would try to escape the town by the shortest possible route.
Geth had some experience in running, though. At one point in his life, he’d lived on the run for the better part of two years and he still remembered most of the tricks he’d learned back then. Lathleer was no village, but it wasn’t exactly a metropolis, either.
He ought to be able to find his way out of town as easily one way as another. Although it would have been nice if that hadn’t been necessary. “Rat,” Geth cursed and let his head sag back against the fountain.
The movement almost brought another curse from him. The stones were cold, slick, and slimy. Clenching his teeth, Geth rose, shouldered his pack, and hurried through the shadows of the street. Outside and away from the mob, he could have taken Urik and his friends, but brawling in a tavern was one thing and fighting in the street was another.
If Singe and Dandra had been with him, things wouldn’t have gotten out of hand. Either the swordsman-wizard or the kalashtar psion would have had the words to ease the situation. And if they didn’t at least there would have been three of them to stand together. But no, his friends were still several days’ travel away in the city of Fairhaven. The pair’s recently kindled relationship reflected the fiery magical energies that fascinated them both: burning with passion, occasionally flaring in anger, always uncomfortable for those around them. All three of them had been quietly happy when he suggested that he’d enjoy exploring the Aundairian countryside for a few months—by himself.
Singe’s last words as they parted had been, “Stay out of trouble.”
Geth turned down the first corner he came to, getting out of sight of Urik and his cronies in case one of them chanced to look back, then slowed his pace and exhaled. He couldn’t say that he regretted the weeks spent traveling around Aundair on his own. The transition from spring to summer was a pleasant time to be outdoors—although he would have preferred the countryside even in winter to staying in Fairhaven. It took a certain kind of shifter to enjoy life in a city, and Geth wasn’t that kind. The crowded, noisy conditions kept him constantly on edge, his instincts reacting to nonexistent threats. The countryside and small villages were better, and most of them had been far more welcoming than Lathleer. He’d traveled south, following the line of the lightning rail across Aundair to Lake Galifar, then wandering around the shores of the lake into the south of the country before turning back north again. In most places, he’d been welcomed, if not with open arms then at
least with an open palm and hospitality. In a few places, he’d even found a couple of days’ work doing odd jobs. On the whole, it had been much better than lingering in Fairhaven.