The Doom of Kings_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [51]
“The Dhakaani owned slaves?” Geth asked Ekhaas.
The duur’kala nodded. “Not all the people of the empire were heroes. The modern Dhakaani clans still keep slaves. Before I left Darguun I thought little of it, but the time I spent in the larger world has convinced me that the traditions of Dhakaan are wrong in that at least. Our people change slowly, though. Haruuc’s position has not added to his popularity.”
When slaves brought them dinner later, Vounn insisted that they eat a portion of the food as well. When they left, she had one of Tariic’s soldiers accompany them back to the kitchens with a harsh message that she’d been the one to feed them and that anyone who objected should come to her. No one came.
Pipes and drums signaling the change of a duty shift in the fortress roused their party before dawn, and they rode out of Matshuc Zaal’s eastern gate in thin but welcome light. They spent the second day of their journey in the descent of the pass and camped below the mountains that night. A well-used fire ring showed where many other groups had camped on the site.
“I’m surprised House Ghallanda hasn’t set up an inn here,” said Ashi.
“They did,” said one of the soldiers—Aruget, Geth thought. The hobgoblin pointed to the far side of the road. “You can still see the foundation over there.”
“What happened to it?” Geth asked.
The hobgoblin smiled. “Darguun.”
When they rose the next morning, they armed themselves as Tariic had suggested, putting their strength on display for any bandits that might otherwise be tempted to test them. Tariic and his soldiers donned armor of chain mail and linked plates, spiked at the joints. Ekhaas wore leather armor set with dark studs of steel. Midian produced a stiff leather vest. Neither Ashi nor Chetiin wore armor—they both fought fast and light, Geth knew, relying on skill and the steel of their weapons to protect them. Vounn didn’t don armor either, but just sat and watched the others with a smile of mild amusement.
For himself, Geth reached into his pack and pulled out a bundle wrapped in soft oiled leather. The bundle had taken up most of the space in the pack, and without its bulk the pack sagged like a discarded boot. He traveled light, but the bundle contained one of his most prized possessions. Setting it on a rock, he folded back the leather.
The plates of black magewrought steel that formed his great gauntlet gleamed dully in the morning light. Geth checked over each plate and every strap and buckle, then drew the gauntlet on. Interlocking strips of metal bulged around his upper arm, running all the way up to the plates of the wide, heavy shoulder guard. Flat spikes lined the ridge of his forearm and protruded from his knuckles, and three low, hooked blades rose from the back of his hand. Geth tightened the straps that held the gauntlet in place, then curled his fingers into a fist. The black steel whispered like a sword drawn from a scabbard.
The Darguuls had stopped to watch him. “Paatcha,” Tariic said approvingly.
Aruget grunted. “Nice armor,” he said in his thick accent. “Where’s the rest of it?”
Geth bent and straightened his arm, testing the fit. “I don’t need more,” he said in a low growl. The gauntlet had cost him a full year of his wages and bonuses as a mercenary, paid to an artificer in the now-dead city of Metrol. It had been worth every last silver sovereign.
The company must have made, he guessed, an impressive sight as they rode, sunlight flashing on armor, the banners worn by the soldiers snapping. The trade road was flat and straight as it emerged from the foothills, and they let Tariic’s magebred horses run. The speed that the animals’ walking gait had hinted at was no false promise. Under a cloudless sky so bright that its blue seemed almost white, the horses raced along the road, necks outstretched and hooves drumming like music, as if running were all they had been born to do.
Away from the mountains, the land became as flat as the road, broken only by the occasional