Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [4]
Ten days without fire, ten days of silence, ten days of isolation. By goblin tradition, a warlord was mourned within his clanhold for five days, but Haruuc Shaarat’kor had been more than just a warlord.
The morning of the eleventh day had come. Soon the people would be released to the spectacle of games commemorating the dead lhesh. But first, Haruuc’s tomb waited for him. The mingled sound of pipes, drums, and goblin voices was discordant and terrifying, halfway between a lament and a call to battle, a primal roar to accompany a king to his grave.
Or, Geth thought as he marched behind the moving throne, to sound the doom of a shifter who was in over his head.
His hands, already clenched around the Rod of Kings, tightened even more. The rune-carved byeshk shaft seemed colder and heavier that it had any right to be. He glanced at it and thought for the hundredth time in the last ten days, This is your fault.
If the rod made any response, he couldn’t hear it. At his side, Wrath, the Sword of Heroes fashioned by the same ancient hands from the same vein of byeshk as the rod, murmured its own subtle song of inspiration. Not so long ago, he’d only been vaguely aware of the sword’s influence as it urged him toward the deeds of a hero. Now, knowing where the rod had led Haruuc, the sword’s very weight was an uncomfortable reminder of its influence. Would it someday guide him to his doom as the rod had guided Haruuc to his?
A crooked smile pulled on Geth’s lips, baring sharp teeth. Maybe it already had. For ten days, a shifter mercenary had been the ruler—in name if not in practice—of a goblin kingdom. Why? Because it was the heroic thing to do?
On Geth’s right, Tariic, who had been Haruuc’s nephew, leaned close and spoke over the noise of the crowd. “You look uneasy.”
Geth forced the smile away, but he couldn’t completely hide how he felt. “I feel uneasy,” he growled back.
“I could help you,” Tariic said. “With the ceremony. You don’t have to do it all yourself.” His eyes darted to the rod and his ears flicked. “It would be within my right—”
There was sudden movement at the edge of Geth’s vision, and he turned his head to see another hobgoblin, his broad shoulders made even broader by two thick leopard pelts worn as a mantle, his cheeks marked with ritual scars like clawmarks, pushing out of the packed mass of warlords who followed close behind the throne. Other warlords looked at him, but his eyes were on Tariic, and he had the look of a zealous magistrate watching for the slightest violation of the law. Geth shifted his grip on the rod and dropped one hand to Wrath’s hilt. He might mistrust the sword’s guidance, but while it was in his grasp it allowed him to understand the harsh sounds of the Goblin language as if he’d been born to it. The warlord’s words became clear in his ears.
“Have care if you seek to advance your status, Tariic. Haruuc is not yet in his tomb!”
He spoke louder than he needed to. Even against the noise of the crowd, his voice carried to the warlords nearby. Geth knew him: Aguus, warlord of the Traakuum clan, and like Tariic, one of those in contention to take Haruuc’s place as lhesh. The other claimants were close, too. Garaad of Vaniish Kai, lean as a spear and just as deadly by reputation, walked with his supporters on the left. Iizan of Ghaal Sehn, wealthy and willful, looking more like a merchant than a warrior, watched from the right.
Haruuc had been deeply concerned with selecting the perfect heir, with finding a successor who would build on the foundations that he had built. Unfortunately, death had found Haruuc before he had named that heir. It could have been worse, Geth knew. If there had been a clear heir, he wouldn’t have had the chance to take control of the rod. It had killed