Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [56]
Pradoor let her words hang among the trees for a moment before she continued. “You who are of the People understand muut and atcha, duty and honor—you who are not should learn. There is muut in serving the Six, just as there is muut in serving a warlord. There is muut in faith. But duty is like the two halves of a mill stone. There is muut in serving a warlord, but for a warlord there is muut in protecting those who serve him. So it is with the Six, who protect those who serve them and keep their faith!”
She spoke the words with a power and confidence far larger than her frail old body. The words lifted Makka up—lifted him beyond those others who stood before the old goblin woman. He could see the wonder in their expressions, but he knew in his gut that none of them could feel the way he did. Some were crying. Some had dropped to their knees. His spirit struggled within him as if it was ready to burst free.
“The Six protect those who serve them and keep their faith,” repeated Pradoor, her tone softening slightly. “Don’t fear war. If you must fear something, fear defeat, because it will mean you have failed the Six—and Darguun. This is a time to celebrate. You have the chance to prove yourselves.” Her voice rose again. “Are you strong?”
“Yes!” answered the crowd in one unified voice.
“Are you fierce?”
“Yes!”
“Are you faithful?” “Yes!”
Pradoor raised her hand in blessing. “Then return to your homes and prepare for what the Six bring you, but leave your fear behind. It will only drag you down. Now go from this place in awe of the Six who rule our lives!”
The crowd broke apart, its unified voice splintering into babble. Most of those who had gathered melted away into the shadows and torchlight, renewed confidence showing in the way they held themselves and in the tone of their voices. A few came forward to kneel before Pradoor and Makka. Pradoor tapped him on the top of his head, and he lowered her to the ground. It was strange to see hobgoblins and other bugbears humbling themselves before the blind old woman, but it almost seemed that, in that moment, she was bigger than they were. Drawing a worn muu’kron from her belt, she pressed it against the foreheads of those who knelt and murmured a blessing to each of them.
With each blessing, Makka felt his own belly grow tighter. His head seemed to throb. When the last kneeling igure had risen and left the shelter of the trees, he spoke, his voice cracking in his throat. “Pradoor—”
She stopped him with a raised hand. “There are others who want to speak.” She turned her blind eyes out to the shadows among the trees. “You. Come forward now.”
Two hobgoblins detached themselves from the shadows. One walked barefaced. The other had a scarf wound around his neck, and he tucked his face down into it. In a crowd he might not have drawn attention, but alone he seemed familiar. As he drew closer, Makka recognized him. He had walked beside the shifter Geth in Haruuc’s funeral procession, and Makka suspected that made him important. He tried to push back his own urgent desire to speak with Pradoor and studied the intruders more closely. The one who had walked beside Geth carried himself with confidence in spite of his attempt at disguise. His eyes were bright and a shade of dark brown so intense they were almost red. He looked back at Makka, raising his face from the concealment of his scarf to study him and Pradoor just as he was studied. A sense of wariness seeped into Makka.
The unknown hobgoblin, however, had the look of a schemer. His eyes went to Pradoor and stayed there. He tried to walk tall, but his shoulders hunched as he drew close.