Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [65]
“Neither do I. He still doesn’t know we’ve figured him out, but if we have to deal with him after the false rod is in the hands of the new lhesh, he may guess. That’s why I need you to make sure Dagii and Ekhaas make it back. War isn’t predictable. I want someone watching over them.”
Chetiin’s ears twitched. “You trust me.”
“I do now.”
Chetiin actually smiled. “That pleases me. I’ll go.” His smile jerked a little higher on one side. “It isn’t often that one of the shaarat’khesh is asked to protect lives rather than take them.”
“I’m not used to sending other people out to fight in my place,” said Geth with a grunt. “I’m surprised Wrath hasn’t pushed me to go myself.”
“Fighting isn’t always the hero’s part,” Chetiin said. He twisted around and swung his legs out the window, then nodded toward the glowing horizon. “The last day of Haruuc’s games. The beginning of the end. Good luck, Geth.”
“Rat and Tiger dance for you, Chetiin.” Geth leaned out and watched the goblin start his climb down the wall of Khaar Mbar’ost like some big shadowy spider.
The end began as Haruuc’s funeral had begun—with a procession.
At first there was little to see from where Ekhaas sat in the stands of the arena, but she could hear the waves of cheering that accompanied the progress of the procession through Rhukaan Draal. It was like listening to the approach of a violent storm. The excited murmur of those lucky enough to have found a place in the arena itself—and there wasn’t a spare place to be had, even among the sections reserved for dignitaries—was wind in storm-tossed trees. The blurred susurrus grew louder and louder until the storm was upon them. One pair of the arena’s great gates opened and lightning might have struck. The roar of the crowd was thunder.
Where Haruuc’s corpse had led the funeral procession, Geth led the way onto the blood-damp sand of the arena floor. Somehow, Ekhaas thought, the shifter managed to look even more grim than the dead lhesh had. Ashi, sitting at her side, took her hand and squeezed it. The very human gesture was embarrassing, but Ekhaas didn’t pull away. It felt good to share her anxiety.
The four claimants to Haruuc’s throne followed Geth, smiling like victorious soldiers and waving to their supporters. Among the deafening echoes that illed the arena, it was impossible to tell who received the loudest cheers. Iizan looked just as conident as Tariic, and Garaad looked just as conident as Aguus. All four were dressed in splendid armor that flashed in the sunlight. All four walked as if they strode the polished stones of a throne room rather than an arena that had seen five days of combat and bloodshed. Not that any of them had any choice now, even if they doubted their true chances. To abandon their claim would be a stain on their honor.
The warlords and clan chiefs of Darguun came last. They entered as a group, more solemn than the contending heirs, though not so grim as Geth, and took their places for the final ritual of Haruuc’s mourning.
Geth moved to stand against one wall of the arena, the rival claimants against the others. The warlords—Dagii among them, the three tribex horns mounted to shoulders of the ancestral armor of Mur Talaan rising over his head—spread themselves out on either side, leaving a broad pathway between them.
Drums took up a deep rolling heartbeat that sounded even above the noise of the crowd. Slowly, sound in the arena died away until only the drums remained. Then they, too, fell silent and Razu stepped onto the raised platform that had recently been occupied by the announcer of the games. Her staff rapped the platform three times.
On the other side of Ekhaas from Ashi, Senen leaned close. “Did you know that Razu moved the date of the coronation by two days on the advice of your friend Midian Mit Davandi?”
“I didn’t,” Ekhaas lied.
“Tariic isn’t happy.”
“I don’t imagine he is.”
Razu spoke, her voice ringing. “By tradition, when a warlord of the Ghaal’dar Clans dies without declaring