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Across the ridge, Ashi, a stolen hobgoblin sword poised to strike, rose up silently behind one of the two remaining bugbears. Makka pointed his sword—her sword—at her. “Fight me, Ashi of Deneith!” he bellowed. “Fight me!”

She jerked at the challenge, startled to be caught. Her intended target turned. Sword met steel bar with the ring of metal on metal. Weapons drew back for another exchange of blows.

Makka charged along the ridge. “By the Fury, fight me!”

He felt the power of the Fury move through him, binding him to Ashi. She felt it, too. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t let down her guard. The bugbear she fought swung his pry bar. Ashi turned it easily, then whipped her sword at his chest.

The bond between Makka and her tightened like a noose. Sudden pain wracked Ashi’s face—Makka felt an echo of it like the sweetest of stings. Her swing faltered and the killing blow became a flesh wound. Her opponent stumbled back.

Ashi tried to strike him again, but once more Makka felt the Fury’s power pull tight. Ashi’s face grew pale, the swirling lines of her dragonmark leaping out in sharp contrast.

Then he was on her. Human sword in dar hands clashed against dar sword in human hands.

Through their bond, Makka felt Ashi’s pain ease now that she submitted to the power of his challenge, but it had hurt her. He could see it in her face and feel it in her blows. She was slower than the last time they had fought—even if he was now fighting with Pradoor perched on his shoulder like a cackling bird. The old goblin laughed with glee. “For the Six!” she cried. “For the Six!”

“Close your mouth!” Ashi thrust at Pradoor.

Makka beat her sword down and slashed up on the return blow. Ashi pulled back, but the tip of the bright blade sliced through her shirt and drew a thin red line across her belly. She gasped and circled away. Makka turned with her.

Just in time to see Geth racing to her aid. The shifter moved low and fast like an animal, sword at the ready. Makka grinned. More sacrifices for the altar of his vengeance! He braced himself.

Instead of attacking, Geth slid to a stop and took up a position a spear’s length away from Ashi. Now they both threatened him—attack one and he was vulnerable to the other. It was a cold, calculating strategy. The shifter’s eyes were cool and hard.

And wrong. When he’d faced Geth before, on the dais at Tariic’s coronation, his eyes had been hot and alive with barely contained anger. The hobgoblins who had captured Geth had described his fiery, unflinching attacks. He hadn’t held back.

A strangely familiar sense intruded on Makka’s lust for vengeance. A familiar sense, and a memory: Tariic’s introduction of the changeling Ko, wearing Geth’s face but without Geth’s fear.

Ashi was Ashi, but whoever stood ready to attack him was no more Geth than Ko had been.

Pradoor still cackled on his shoulder, but the rhythm of battle was suddenly quiet in Makka’s heart. He stepped back, turning slightly as he went so that his opponents were forced to move with him—and so that the length of the ridge and the slope that faced Rhukaan Draal came into view.

The door of Haruuc’s tomb stood open. They’d been tricked. Ashi, Ekhaas, and the false Geth were only a distraction.

Conflict roiled inside Makka. Ashi and Ekhaas were here on the ridge and vengeance too long denied called out to him. The Fury blessed his hunt. She’d taken him as her own. Vengeance was his sacred duty. But the Rod of Kings lay within the tomb, the key to Tariic’s ambition, the key to new power for Darguun. The key to new strength for the faithful of the Fury and of all the Dark Six.

The age turns.

Makka roared and drove directly between Ashi and the false Geth with a suddenness that brought a screech from Pradoor. He slashed left and right, driving his opponents back with powerful blows, then he was past them and running with long leaping strides across the face of the ridge.

“What are you doing?” Pradoor demanded, her words jolted by every step. “The battle—”

“A trick to