Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [40]
“Tenquis figured out that there’s something more to the rod.”
Ekhaas let out a soft curse. “Can we trust him?” asked Dagii.
“I think so,” said Geth. “He also guessed we were planning to do something with the true rod. I told him we were going to destroy it. That banging was him showing me that’s going to be harder than we thought.”
“I was afraid it might be,” said Ekhaas grimly. “In legends, great artifacts are either ridiculously fragile or impossibly durable. The cursed ones are never fragile. We’ll think of something—”
The skittering of a stone in the shadows interrupted her. Instantly, all three of them were on the alert, hands on their swords. “Rat?” breathed Dagii.
“No,” Geth said. There was another sound, this time from the shadows on their other side. They moved back to back. Almost immediately, a third stone rattled on the street, louder than the others. They all looked toward it.
“Whoever is out there,” said Ekhaas, “is either incredibly clumsy or wants us to know we’re not alone.”
“The latter,” said a voice that was thick and strained like a scar. A small shadow detached itself from high on a wall and dropped softly to the street, then moved forward so they could clearly see an old goblin with thin cobweb hair, the parchment-like skin of his face stained dark to match the black clothing of the shaarat’khesh.
“We need to talk,” said Chetiin.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
21 Sypheros
The fatigue Geth had felt dropped away, burning into rage. “You!” he snarled. He shrugged off Dagii’s jacket and thrust the bundle containing the rod at Ekhaas. Wrath rang as he drew the twilight blade, then he charged at the goblin.
Chetiin had picked a good spot for a fight, a small open square, little more than a broadening of the street with the shutters on the surrounding buildings closed tight. Four running strides closed the distance between Geth and the goblin. Chetiin sank back into a crouch, hands raised in loose fists. Geth swung Wrath on the last step. The heavy sword arced down—and Chetiin slid out of the way.
Geth spun, letting the momentum of the blow carry him around, and turned Wrath in another blow that forced Chetiin to dodge with a little less grace. Dagii joined him, moving in on Chetiin’s other side with his sword at the ready. Chetiin slipped back into his crouch and rocked gently from one side to the other, his hands weaving along with his body and making it difficult to tell where he was going to go next.
“Geth,” he said, his strained voice low, “listen to me—”
The shifter answered with a fast backhanded swipe of his gauntlet. Magewrought steel swept the air. Chetiin stepped aside—and vanished. Geth and Dagii whirled, searching for him.
He reappeared behind Dagii. Geth caught the flash of a fist as Chetiin punched into the warlord’s leg at mid-thigh before darting back. It was a hard blow, delivered with precision. Dagii grunted and nearly went down, his leg numbed, but Ekhaas appeared to support him. Eyes flashing with anger, she drew breath to sing.
Chetiin’s hand dipped into a pouch at his waist and emerged to fling ash into her face. Fine gray particles floated in an expanding cloud. Ekhaas’s eyes went wide and her song turned into a fit of choking. Chetiin leaped away from her and Dagii and turned to face Geth again, dropping into a crouch once more. His wide eyes were hard, his big ears cupped, his teeth bared—and through them he spat, “Geth, I didn’t kill Haruuc!”
The protest was so feeble, so ridiculous, that the only answer Geth could manage was a growl that rolled out of his belly. Dropping into a matching crouch, he reached deep inside himself, drew on his fury … and shifted.
The lycanthrope ancestors of the shifter race had the power to become animals, but as their bloodlines had tangled together, that ability had been diluted. Shifters couldn’t take animal form, but they could assume the animal traits of their ancestors. Some shifters could manifest sharp claws or put on a burst of feral speed.