Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [30]
“Chetiin,” Ashi said.
Midian waved the name away. “He’s not likely to get close to the rod again, is he? Anyone else?”
“Senen Dhakaan wanted to look at it, but Haruuc wouldn’t let her,” said Ekhaas. “Maybe he already realized there was a danger in handling the rod.”
Geth pressed his lips together in thought. “Most of the warlords have seen it, but never up close. Razu has been close to me and to Haruuc, though.”
“Do you think she would suspect anything?”
“Probably not.”
“Wait.” Dagii looked uncertain. He rose from the chair he had been sitting in and paced around the small room. “The rod is made out of byeshk. That’s not exactly a common metal.”
Midian gestured toward the window. “We’re in Rhukaan Draal. You can buy anything at the Bloody Market.”
Dagii frowned. “Maybe so. But the rod is more than just a piece of metal. Even without its power of command, you could feel something when Haruuc held it. He had a greater presence. He seemed more majestic.”
“Any artificer worth his fee could create the same effect—and work the byeshk, too.” The gnome shifted. “The only problem might be finding an artificer we can take into our confidence. If you’re willing to try this.”
Once again, they looked at each other. What Midian had suggested was, Ekhaas thought, dangerously simple. It wasn’t without risks, but it was the only plan they’d come up with that met all of their needs.
“I’m willing,” she said.
“So am I,” said Ashi.
Dagii nodded his agreement.
Geth opened his hands. “We’ll do it. So we need to find an artificer we can trust and who can create a replica of the rod in five days before the end of the games.”
“Four days,” Ekhaas said. “We’ve lost a day now. I’ll take care of that—of all of us, I can move around Rhukaan Draal without attracting attention.”
“Move fast.” Geth leaned his head back against the wall behind his chair. “Grandfather Rat’s naked tail. This could actually work.” He looked at Midian. “You’re brilliant.”
The gnome’s smile flashed. “Say that again. I don’t get tired of hearing it.”
The wound in Makka’s side was an agony. He’d tried to staunch the bleeding, but every movement tore the wound open again. Blood matted the thick hair of his body and left a spattering of big drops on the ground wherever he stopped.
When the wolf had savaged his arm on the mountainside, he’d been in familiar territory and—for a short time at least—among friends. There had been someone with sure hands to bandage the wound. There had been herbs to treat it. Rhukaan Draal was strange and alien. There were no allies. Makka had tried to find a healer, but everyone he’d demanded aid from had fled.
When he staggered and fell against the wall of a building, he knew the wound was too deep. This was the end of him—the end of his search for vengeance. The jackals of this accursed city would circle him, and when he was dead they would strip the flesh from his bones. He felt along the wall until the building became an ally. He slipped into the cool shadows, found shelter behind an abandoned cart, and lay down to wait.
Memories and dreams came to him. Hunting deer at dusk in the mountains. Feasting on liver cut fresh from the steaming carcass. Gorging on hot, dripping meat roasted over a fire. Creeping up behind Ashi of Deneith and plunging her bright sword through her belly, laughing as she turned in astonishment to face her killer, as he wrenched the sword sideways to tear through her flesh. Catching Ekhaas the duur’kala and cutting the tongue from her mouth, then using her mewling cries to lure Dagii of Mur Talaan. Stringing him up like a deer and butchering his still living flesh, blood falling with a drip-drip-drip—
—tap-tap-tap. Slow shuffle of feet. Tap-tap, shuffle again. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
Makka opened his eyes. Full darkness had fallen, though not yet the darkness of death. The constant noise of Rhukaan Draal was a din in the distance.
An elderly goblin woman made her way along the alley,