Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [55]
Their voices drew the attention of others, who bent their heads and spoke Pradoor’s name in turn. The respect that the wizened goblin woman had received on the streets of Rhukaan Draal had left Makka amazed. The respect she received as they passed through the square came close to adoration. The bending heads were like grass in a windy field; the chorus of her name was like the whispering of a breeze. “Pradoor.” “Pradoor.” “Pradoor.”
They moved under the branches of the trees, and for a moment they were alone. The dark jumble resolved itself into a pile of weathered, lichen-covered rocks. A gaping hole among them plunged into the ground, and Makka thought he could hear the rush of water. The rocks were an ancient well, he realized, and the water below some hidden branch of the Ghaal River—and yet there was something more here, as if a vast and unseen presence had focused its attention on this spot.
He knew the feeling. The cursed valley that had lain below the camp of the White Stone tribe, the valley that Dagii of Mur Talaan, Ekhaas of Kech Volaar, and the rest of their party had disturbed, had felt like this. No bugbear of the tribe had ever gone further than the edge of the ancient trees that covered the valley floor, but all of them had gone at least that far, if only so they understood why the valley should be left alone and the trolls that lived there kept sated.
But Pradoor seemed to have no fear of the strange presence. Her fingers on his head urged him forward until he stood beside the rocks and above the hole. “Turn,” she said in his ear, and he did.
Those who wandered the square had moved in among the trees, crowding in on all sides. Torchlight illuminated faces even more diverse in race and rank—though Makka could see no elves among them—than those that had greeted Pradoor on the streets, as if the cover of night had drawn to the Six those who by day professed only a faith in the Sovereign Host.
They were silent, then Pradoor spoke. “What troubles you?”
Those gathered stayed quiet, glancing nervously at each other, until a bugbear found the nerve to speak. “War comes,” he said.
A goblin called, “The Valenar are riding against us!”
And suddenly all those who stood among the trees seemed to find their voices at once. Makka heard all of the wild rumors he had heard during the day and more beside. He heard fear for safety in Rhukaan Draal and fear for the safety of sons and husbands called to ight. He turned his head to glance at Pradoor and found her listening to everything with cupped ears. She let the babble run, then raised her hands. The gathering fell silent again.
“Your fear,” she said, “shames you. Your fear shames me. You’re afraid of war? Why?”
No answer came. Pradoor gave a mirthless laugh. “You dread even giving your fear a name when you of all the peoples of Eberron have the least to fear. The Dark Six smile on Darguun. You who will ight—do you fear that the Fury will not give you strength to smite your enemies?”
This time a chorus came back. “No.”
“Do you fear that the Mockery will not give you the skill to make your enemies suffer?”
“No!” Louder and stronger than before.
“Do you fear that the Shadow will not give power to the spell-casters who march at your side?”
“No!”
Pradoor raised her shrill voice to match the volume of the crowd. “You who will remain—do you fear that the Devourer will not protect the supplies stored against attack?”
“No!”
“Do you fear that the Traveler will lead your enemy past those who defend you?”
“No!”
Her voice rose so loud that it seemed impossible it should come out of her small, trembling body. “Do any of you fear that the Keeper will break his pact with those who have faith, that if you fall your souls will wither like forgotten fruit?”
“No!”
“Then why do you fear war?”
Makka felt his heart stir to Pradoor’s words as