The Tyranny of Ghosts_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [17]
“Legends are full of lords and kings who set aside inconvenient heroes.”
Chetiin bent his neck in acknowledgment. “I will not argue legend with a duur’kala. But don’t give up on Dagii. The absent return more readily than the dead.”
As the sun reached its zenith, they emerged onto a stone-paved road winding up into the mountains. The road showed its age in worn stones and moss, but Ekhaas knew that it was even older than it seemed. Even the oldest stone was a replacement for a stone that had been there before, the newest a replacement for a replacement for a replacement. When Volaar Draal had first been established, there had been no road. The early Kech Volaar had hidden themselves away alongside the lore that they guarded, but as the clan had grown stronger, hiding had given way to display of their heritage.
They rounded the final bend in the road, and Volaar Draal was revealed.
Geth’s wide animal eyes opened even wider. Tenquis reined in his horse so sharply, it almost reared up. Even Chetiin’s eyebrows rose and he signaled Marrow to pause for a moment. Ekhaas’s chest felt tight as pride rose up in her. “Volaar Draal,” she said. “In the human tongue, the ‘City of the Word’. Called Niianu Raat, Mother of Stories, among its children and Skai Duur, the Great Dirge, among those who have tried to seize it.”
Beyond its final bend, the road entered a steep-sided valley cradled in the arms of the mountains. Ancient stories told how, when the Kech Volaar had first come, the valley had risen to a sheer wall of naked rock, and a cleft in the wall had been the only opening into the refuge of the Word Bearers. But that cleft had become a great gate and the wall of rock transformed, carved away as if Volaar Draal had waited within the mountain since the birth of the world for the hands that would reveal it.
Four mighty spires stood above the valley like the blades of massive swords, edges turned to meet whoever or whatever came against them. The bulk of the city lay within the mountain, the precious vaults deep below it, but this was the face that Volaar Draal presented to the world. From slits within the walls, archers could command the area before the spires. Hidden behind sliding panels of stone, powerful ballistae and catapults could sweep the entire valley. Master strategists had a hand in creating the stronghold of the clan, but the lore of Dhakaan had guided the masons who brought it forth from the rock. As harsh and functional as the spires were, there was a cruel majesty in their proportions. Volaar Draal was like a warrior defending himself in battle with a heavy blade—enemies who attacked the City of the Word were promised death beneath its walls.
“Horns of Ohr Kaluun,” said Tenquis. “It’s incredible.” He glanced at Ekhaas. “Daashor constructed this.”
Ekhaas saw a thin smile flicker across Geth’s face. “You must be feeling better,” the shifter said. “You’re talking about daashor again.”
“You think I would come to Volaar Draal and not ask about them?” Tenquis asked. He looked back to Ekhaas. “You promised me tales of the daashor in payment for crafting the false Rod of Kings. While we’re looking for a way to stop Tariic and the rod, I’d be happy to take whatever lore about the daashor that’s stored in the vaults.”
Ekhaas’s ears flicked. The daashor had been the artificers of the Empire of Dhakaan—and more. Wizard-smiths of astounding ability, they had forged wonders that were the stuff of legend even before Dhakaan’s fall. The Sword of Heroes and the Rod of Kings were the creations of just one daashor, the legendary Taruuzh. In many ways, the daashor were the counterparts of the duur’kala. The magical music of the dirge-singers manifested almost entirely in women of