Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [32]
Her blind eyes faced him. “You want revenge. The Dark Six—the Fury—will place it in your path. Serve me, and your strength will be greater than anything you had before. Refuse and die.”
The words were blunt. It wasn’t a threat, only the truth. “When the Six give a sign, only a fool ignores it,” Makka said. “I choose vengeance.”
“When the Six call, you have no choice.” Pradoor stretched out a gnarled hand—she was somehow even closer than he had thought—and stroked his head the way his mother had when he’d been a pup. “You are their instrument. The Keeper will not take you this night.”
Waves of fatigue and weakness washed over Makka. For a moment, he thought that Pradoor was wrong, that the Keeper had claimed him, then fatigue and weakness were both gone. He trembled, as if just recovering from a long and terrible fever, but the fire of the wound in his side had cooled. He stood up and pulled apart the gap that Ashi’s sword had made in his bear hide vest. The skin beneath was crusted in dried blood, but the wound had closed, leaving a tender pink scar behind.
“Stare later,” said Pradoor. She poked her stick into his leg. “Up.”
Makka lifted her up to his left shoulder where she settled herself comfortably, one hand curled around the back of his neck. The old goblin weighed almost nothing. She tapped his head and pointed to the mouth of the alley. “The people wait for us. A king waits for us.” Her fingers stroked his head again. “Your revenge waits for you.”
Makka bared his teeth. “Praise the Six,” he said, and walked out to face the jackals of Rhukaan Draal.
CHAPTER
SIX
20 Sypheros
The most rumored match of the second day of the games had already begun as Ekhaas stepped into the sun of the warlords’ box. Below, Keraal circled the ring, back to the wall, taking the measure of his opponent—an ettin captured somewhere in the northern hills of Darguun and forced into the arena. Ekhaas shaded her eyes against the afternoon’s brightness and studied the creature just as Keraal did. The ettin stood nearly twice as tall as the hobgoblin. Its limbs were thick and its features angry, with fleshy lips and ragged ears on each of the two heads that sprouted from its massive shoulders.
Both pairs of the ettin’s tiny black eyes were fixed on Keraal, watching intently as the warlord of the Marhaan spun the chain that was his appointed weapon in a slow circle before him. The ettin had been provided with arms of a sort as well: a club fashioned from a length of heavy building timber and a shield made out of a door.
The spectators in the stands were cheering, most of them for the ettin, a vocal few for Keraal. Ekhaas saw one of the ettin’s heads murmur something to the other, then the creature let loose a bloodcurdling dual-pitched cry and charged. The club swept down and Keraal slid aside, but it was a feint. The ettin pushed its makeshift shield into the path of Keraal’s spinning chain. A few chunks of wood flew free, then the chain crashed into a tangle. Keraal tried to leap away, but he was slow. The club dealt him a glancing blow. He staggered and turned the stagger into a desperate lunge under the ettin’s arm. He kicked hard into its calf, then sprinted away as it hopped in pain, yelping with two voices. On the other side of the arena, Keraal shook out his chain and began to spin it again.
A few more voices were cheering for Keraal.
Geth sat alone at the front of the box. Ekhaas slipped in beside him. “None of the heirs are putting themselves on display?” she asked.
“They are. Just not here.” Geth pointed to either end of the box, then out into the stands. “They claimed their own territory.”
Ekhaas followed his gesture. At one end of the raised box, Tariic stood cheering with Daavn at his side. A good number of other warlords clustered around him. Aguus of Traakuum and the warlords who supported him had claimed the other end of the box. Garaad of Vaniish Kai had taken a populist approach, sitting in the stands