The Doom of Kings_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [79]
“If he ordered them to free their slaves, they’d turn against him faster than the Gan’duur have,” said Midian.
Ekhaas scowled but nodded at the gnome’s blunt assessment.
They traveled more slowly than they had along the trade road. They still followed roads, but the byways were old and not well-maintained. It was only a little better than riding across open country. At least they didn’t always need to camp rough. On several nights, Dagii led them to the stronghold of one or another clan. Sometimes the strongholds were large and sometimes they were small, but they always welcomed Dagii and the rest of the party with grace and honor. The first few times they found shelter in a clan stronghold, Geth assumed their welcome came because they traveled under Haruuc’s banner, but then one night he happened to let his hand rest on Wrath as Dagii and the local warlord exchanged greetings.
“We come with peace in our hearts and our blades in their sheaths,” Dagii said in a phrase that sounded like ritual. “We ride on behalf of Lhesh Haruuc, who asks you to take us in as your guests for a night.”
The warlord, a powerfully built hobgoblin wearing the crest of a sundered shield, laughed at the ritual. “The lhesh might ask, but I’ll take you in because you are the one at my gate, Dagii. Welcome, brother!”
“Brother?” Geth asked Chetiin.
“It’s an old courtesy between friendly clan chiefs.” When surprise passed across Geth’s face, Chetiin’s ears twitched up. “You didn’t realize? Dagii is chief of the Mur Talaan.”
“I didn’t know that. I thought he was just a member of the clan, the way Tariic’s a member of the Rhukaan Taash.” Geth stared at Dagii’s back as he followed the local warlord into his stronghold. “What does his clan do while he’s serving Haruuc?”
“The Mur Talaan is a very small clan. It was never big and war made it smaller. I wouldn’t ask him about it—it’s a private matter to him. What’s left of the clan gets along well enough without his interference.”
“Where is Mur Talaan’s territory?”
“Rhukaan Draal.”
Geth looked at the goblin in amazement. Chetiin shrugged. “The Cyran town that Haruuc conquered to build Rhukaan Draal was at the edge of Mur Talaan territory. Fenic, Dagii’s father and the first of Haruuc’s shava, ceded it to Haruuc as a place that would be neutral to all the clans of Darguun. Over time, the rest of their territory was lost, but the land beneath Rhukaan Draal still technically belongs to the Mur Talaan, even if the lhesh controls the city. It brings them—and Dagii—a great deal of honor, although very little else.”
“If a human clan owned all the land under a city the size of Rhukaan Draal, they’d be as wealthy as a dragonmarked house.”
Chetiin’s ears twitched again. “Can you imagine trying to collect rents or taxes in Rhukaan Draal?”
“I guess not.” Geth glanced again at Dagii, still talking with the local warlord, and tried to imagine the warrior who wore Haruuc’s crest as a warlord in his own right. Maybe the responsibilities of a clan chief were the reason he seemed so stiff.
As they traveled farther from Rhukaan Draal, roads became paths and the strongholds of warlords became increasingly far apart. Territories were larger and some areas were simply unclaimed by any warlord. Bandits roamed these areas—and local strongmen who were simply bandits settled down and gone to seed. When they camped under the moons, they posted watches; when they stayed under a roof, it was less Dagii’s invocation of Haruuc’s name that earned them hospitality than Ekhaas’s promise of stories told with the skill of a duur’kala.
Several times a day, Geth drew Wrath and held it out before him to be certain they were still on course, still heading south-southwest. On the tenth night of their journey, the same night that the last path ended at the long burned remains of a farmstead, they reached the eastern foothills of the Seawall Mountains. The hills