The Doom of Kings_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [169]
“Paatcha, shava,” he said, then nodded to the bugbears. They took the corpse to a stone bier set beneath the grieving tree, left him there, and retired to the side of the room. Haruuc returned to the throne and looked up the aisle. Heads turned again in anticipation.
Chains clanked on the stairs in counterpoint to the slow beat of the drum, then Dagii and Keraal appeared. The warlord of the Mur Talaan had washed and donned his armor with the three tribex horns that stood tall over his head and shoulders. Ekhaas saw his ears flick at the sight of the grieving tree, but his face otherwise betrayed nothing.
Keraal’s ears, however, went back flat against his head, and his eyes opened so wide the whites of them made a shocking pale ring. He had been stripped of clothes except for a loincloth. Chains bound his ankles and his wrists. Bruises and half-healed wounds showed on his body. He tried to pull back, but Dagii pushed him forward. Keraal stumbled down the aisle, his eyes fixed on the grieving tree. Dagii dragged him to a stop before the throne. Haruuc looked down on the defeated warlord. Keraal tried to stand straight, but the shackles wouldn’t allow it—a length of chain between hands and feet forced him to hunch. The chains rattled as he began to shake.
Haruuc said nothing, but only gestured with the rod toward the tree. Dagii took Keraal’s arm and guided him over to stand beneath the stone branches, beside Vanii’s bier, then took several quick steps back. Keraal was left alone, staring up at the tree.
Haruuc whispered a word.
The grieving tree shivered—and moved. The curved segments of its branches ground together as they rotated. Haruuc whispered another word, and a thick stone limb bent down and curled around Keraal. The warlord screamed. Like a living tree caught in a storm or some weird undersea creature, the tree thrashed and whirled. Keraal was passed from branch to branch until he hung among the carved white stone. Then the ridges and thorns of the tree seemed to ripple, and Keraal shrieked again as they dug into his flesh.
The grooves cut into the branches from which he hung turned red as blood trickled through them. The grieving tree shivered again. Twitching and whimpering, Keraal hung in agony as the tree fed.
A strong person could linger on a grieving tree for days. Legends of Dhakaan told of arch-traitors and fallen heroes who had hung in a tree for a week or more.
Ekhaas saw some of the ambassadors of the other nations and some of the representatives of the dragonmarked houses—humans, elves, half-elves, a dwarf, a gnome—look away. No one of the goblin races did. Her gut twisted at Keraal’s agony and her ears went back. But saliva ran in her mouth and her tongue moved, touching the points of her teeth. Her heart beat faster, taking the place of the drum that had fallen silent.
One of the warlords moaned softly. Ekhaas didn’t look to see who.
Haruuc rose. He raised the Rod of Kings. “Let all witness,” he said, “the end of those who stand against Darguun! Haruuc Shaarat’kor fears no one. Darguun fears no one!”
“Haruuc!” shouted a voice. “Haruuc!” Other voices took up the chant. “Haruuc! Haruuc! Haruuc! Haruuc!” The throne room shook. Haruuc raised his hands in acknowledgment.
Then another voice called, “Give us war!”
Ekhaas saw Haruuc freeze. The chant that filled the room changed. “War! Haruuc! War! Haruuc! War! War! War!”
A smile spread across Haruuc’s face. “Darguuls!” he roared. “Was our nation not born in war? Were our people not born in war? From ancient days, have we not spread our power across the land?”
The knot in Ekhaas’s belly grew tighter. The ambassadors of the other nations of Khorvaire were looking at each other in a peculiar frenzy. All of them seemed to have moved a little bit away from the ambassador of Breland. Another groan drifted from Keraal on the grieving tree. Haruuc looked up at him—and it seemed to Ekhaas that his smile tightened once more. When