Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [159]
He felt like the leader of a tribe again. But better. Stronger. The favor of the Fury was on him.
The age turned around him.
Somewhere behind him, Daavn was shouting his name. He ignored it.
The peak of the ridge broke into a jumble of pits and crevices and more gullies, some shallow, some twice his height in depth, all of them offering hiding places. A scattering of stunted trees and bushes on the backside gave even more cover. The only figures visible were Daavn’s other workers. They saw him and the pair of bugbears that followed him and, one by one, they offered their silent submission. Makka gestured to them all with crisp movements, ordering them to spread out among the broken places of the ridge. His gut told him that his enemies wouldn’t have gone far—they would stay near the tomb.
Daavn and his hobgoblins came trotting up behind him with a clatter of armor. The warlord’s ears were back and his sword was out. “Maabet, I knew we should have killed them in the dungeon.”
Makka swung around to glare at him. “Their deaths are mine,” he said. “The Fury gives them to me.”
The guards with Daavn had the sense to flinch back, but Daavn just leaned into Makka’s anger. “If I find them first, I will kill them, gift of the Fury or not. They’re not going to stop Tariic from taking what’s—”
A weird, fluting battlecry and the sudden clash of weapons interrupted him. Makka knew the cry—it belonged to Ashi of Deneith. Shouts in Goblin answered it as bugbears converged on the crevice where the dust of battle rose. Makka put his back to Daavn and raced with them, leaping across the tops of mounds and spires. One bugbear reached the crevice before the others and dropped down into it with a roar, but his cry turned to a gurgle. The swirl of dust faded even as Makka reached the crevice. Two bugbears lay dead within, one stabbed through the heart, one with his belly ripped open.
Their assailants were gone, vanished into the maze of broken rock. “They’re close!” Makka shouted. “Look for them from above. They can’t hide from you.”
Even as the words left his mouth, one of the other bugbears yelped and fell hard on his face, his feet pulled out from under him by a loop of rope. Makka saw shock in the bugbear’s eyes as he was dragged back. Big hands clutched at the rock, but as half his body disappeared down into a pit, he thrashed abruptly and went still.
The lithe form of a shifter, spattered with blood, vaulted up out of the pit. Geth flashed a grin at Makka, thumped his chest in salute, then dived into another crevice.
Makka howled in rage. Daavn appeared, his guards in close formation behind him. Makka thrust a finger at the crevice. “Geth’s in there! You go after him and we’ll take the top!” He grabbed a bugbear with his other hand and dragged him forward.
Daavn glanced into the crevice—and jerked back as a stone whistled past his head. The warlord’s face twisted in anger. He whirled his sword around his head in command, then he and his soldiers plunged after Geth. Makka raced to the edge of the crevice, shouting for the other bugbears to converge on him.
One of them didn’t make it. A duur’kala’s keening song rose on the air. Stone cracked and the worker who had been the first to submit to Makka vanished as the rock wall on which he stood collapsed. His cry rose above the rumble of sliding rock, ending abruptly.
At the same time, a hobgoblin gasped in pain. A blur of hair and blood, Geth popped up out of the crevice and dodged into another. Makka howled again. “It’s like fighting spirits, Pradoor! They strike and run!”
“Make them stand!” the goblin said, slapping his head. “The Fury favors you”—her voice rose—“as the Six favor all those who fight for Darguun!”
The words were met with a roar from dar throats, but they were more than just an inspiration. Makka felt the blessing wrap around him like the embrace of victory. Strength and confidence flowed into him. He ripped the bright sword of Deneith