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“Makka, keep him down.” The large pouch on the belt was indeed strangely heavy. Something inside strained the leather. Midian pulled the pouch open.

Purple byeshk winked at him.

He drew the notched disk out and threw the pouch aside. “Makka.”

The bugbear looked over and snorted. “That’s a poor weapon.”

“It’s not a weapon. It’s a symbol of Dhakaan, a shaari’mal.” His instincts as a scholar had truly come alive. The disk was unquestionably of original Dhakaani craftsmanship, far finer than anything even the modern Dhakaani clans produced, but it was also remarkably preserved for something so ancient. He held it up before Ekhaas. “What is this?”

Her ears flicked rapidly. “We found it in the ruins. We don’t know what it is.”

“Liar.” He caressed the metallic surface of the disk and turned it into the sunlight to examine the symbols carved on it. “A shaari’mal forged from byeshk—when the Sword of Heroes and the Rod of Kings also happen to be forged from byeshk.”

Ekhaas bared her teeth at him. “That’s just a coincidence. It has nothing to do with the sword or the rod.”

“And yet the markings are similar.” Midian felt giddy. Tariic was going to want to see this.

“They’re not,” Ekhaas insisted. There was a tension in her voice that she was trying hard to conceal. The others were reacting too. Geth was cursing. Chetiin had sat up sharply. Tenquis had squirmed around so he could see what was happening. Even Marrow’s red eyes were darting around.

Midian smiled at the duur’kala. “Well, it’s fortunate we have something to compare them against, isn’t it?” He turned to where Geth’s sword lay waiting on the ground. “The Sword of Heroes, conveniently to hand.” He went to the sword and reached for it—then paused and stood up again.

Geth growled at him. “Go ahead, Midian. Pick it up. Draw it.”

“Close your mouth!” barked Makka. The bugbear glared at Midian. “What’s the problem?”

Midian chewed his lip for a moment. “The Sword of Heroes won’t bear the touch of a coward,” he said. He might have dismissed such a warning as an absurdity, a myth that had grown up around the ancient sword, except that he’d seen it himself. He looked down at Tenquis. “You. Draw the sword. Makka, let him up.”

Tenquis’s eyes went to Geth, then to Ekhaas, then he started to sit up.

“Maabet!” Makka said. The bugbear planted a foot in the middle of Tenquis’s chest and shoved him back down. “You don’t need him. Give me that.”

A sense of danger ran along Midian’s limbs. “Makka, don’t be—”

But two quick strides brought Makka to the sword. He jabbed his trident into the ground, scooped up the blade, and yanked it from its sheath.

The crack of thunder split the air the instant Makka’s hand closed on the hilt. Lightning writhed up his arm. He howled in shock and pain, the sudden contraction of his muscles more than anything completing the action of drawing the weapon. Geth’s sword flew from his hand to land blade down in the jungle soil.

Midian snatched his knife from his belt and whirled on Ekhaas.

He was too slow. The air itself seemed to tremble as the duur’kala opened her mouth and sang a single harsh note—

Ekhaas felt the weight in her belt pouch shift the moment she sat up after Tenquis had finished tying her. At first, she cursed herself for cramming the lone shaari’mal into the pouch the night before, when the others were safe in Tenquis’s hidden pocket. Then she cursed the shaari’mal for being a mysterious, useless piece of … whatever it was … instead of the fragment of the Shield of Nobles that they’d come looking for.

And then, as Makka bashed Geth without a second thought and Midian strode around like a bully, ordering Tenquis to take their weapons and pouches, she thought of a use for the thing.

Whatever its true connection to the Sword of Heroes and the Rod of Kings, the shaari’mal made ideal bait. A puzzle for Midian’s arrogance. A lure for Makka’s recklessness.

The paired duet of Wrath’s anger and Makka’s pain as the bugbear ignored Midian’s warning and tried to draw the sword was like sweet music. All of the anxious triumph that Ekhaas