The Doom of Kings_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [0]
A culture of warriors.
Clans built on blood and sacred tradition.
Home to Khorvaire’s most ancient race,
a land only newly reunited as a nation.
Darguun’s fragile unity rests in the fist of Lhesh Haruuc, the greatest leader to rule his people in a thousand years. But the Lhesh is growing old. The sun will soon set on his reign. Whether his nation will survive him or shatter into a hundred factions rests in the hands of an unlikely hero.
The shifter met Haruuc’s gaze. “There are people in Khorvaire who don’t like Darguun. They’d like to see Darguun fall apart into squabbling clans again. They’re afraid you’re just waiting for another chance to come over the Seawall Mountains and attack.”
“All of the human kings and queens watch each other because they’re afraid of the same thing,” Haruuc said. “When will Breland invade Thrane or Aundair attack Karrnath? Those people who don’t like Darguun don’t see it the way I do. United, Darguuls can find pride again and climb back to the heights of culture we once knew, but if Darguun falls, the chances that my people will attack are even greater. Ekhaas has told me you’re a veteran of the Last War. You know the chaos of country fighting country, clan fighting clan.” The lhesh sat forward. “Give my nation the chance to win its place in Khorvaire.”
Geth was silent, and Ekhaas felt as if a hundred needles were being pushed into her scalp and back—then the shifter took a deep breath and nodded.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
THE LEGACY OF DHAKAAR
BY DON BASSINGTHWAITE
The Doom of Kings
The Word of Traitors
The Tyranny of Ghosts
Raat shi anaa.
“The story continues.”
—Traditional opening to hobgoblin legends.
PROLOGUE
In the beginning, there had been some agitation to abandon the human dating of years and declare an era of sovereignty for the triple race of hobgoblins, goblins, and bugbears, but Haruuc had crushed such posturing before it got out of hand. Even as the dry summer of 969 YK drew out and Haruuc’s triumphant campaigns carved a new nation out of Cyre and Breland, there were already voices rising against his growing power. Someone had resurrected the ancient title of lhesh, meaning “high warlord”—and this Haruuc had accepted without question, since it had, in fact, been his idea—but there were also tongues wagging among the united Ghaal’dar clans, reminding everyone that when the title of lhesh had last been used in the dying days of the Empire of Dhakaan, it had been a temporary title. A warlord had been proclaimed lhesh for a short period, then had stepped down. It was clear, the wagging tongues said, that Haruuc was gathering too much power and that his clan, the Rhukaan Taash, would hold all the power in the new nation that was being born.
Haruuc had waited, with the patience that his enemies had always underestimated, until the loudest of those tongues had wagged themselves into undeniable treason, then personally cut them out of their owners’ mouths. The remaining tongues had stopped wagging of their own accord, but Haruuc knew the silence wouldn’t last. The Rhukaan Taash was gathering power that would lead to unrest among the other clans—and unrest from within was as much of a threat to his vision of a new nation as enemies without.
Fortunately, Haruuc thought as he looked across the ordered ranks of the warlords assembled before his field command tent, there had been a way around the problem that fought two battles with one army.
A burly hobgoblin of advancing years, his age frosting the wolflike ears that poked out from a helmet decorated with curling horns, rose from a bench and met Haruuc’s gaze with silent intent. Haruuc nodded and said, “Munta the Gray of Gantii Vus wishes to speak.”
Young warriors given the honor of acting as attendants rapidly raised the banner of the Gantii Vus, a fanged maw wreathed in flames, on the Pole of Order. The assembly fell quiet as the banner rose against the evening sky. Many of the chiefs still saw Munta as someone who might have been able to challenge Haruuc if he chose, even though the wily old chief