The Doom of Kings_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [4]
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.”
CHAPTER
ONE
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