Word of Traitors_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [87]
Ekhaas put her back to the stars and the distant mists and looked over the well-ordered lines of the camp. After the games, a swift boat had borne her and Dagii—and Keraal—down the Ghaal River from Rhukaan Draal to a point closer to the village of Zarrthec. With some hard riding, they’d caught up to the bulk of the army. The Valenar hadn’t tested Zarrthec yet, but raiders had been seen from the walls, watching and studying before riding away. The town was filled with refugees from clan- and farmholds like Tii’ator; the tales they carried told of swift strikes, slaughter, and miraculous survival.
“Not miraculous,” Dagii had muttered to her. “The Valenar are letting enough live to spread fear and become a burden on Zarrthec.”
“I know,” Ekhaas had told him in return. “The strategy appears in stories of war preserved by the Kech Volaar.”
He’d given her a slightly mocking smile. “Ban—and now you’ll get to be a part of those stories yourself.”
At Dagii’s command, the body of the army had established its camp about half a day’s ride east of Zarrthec—the better part of two days’ march back from Tii’ator. Small squads of scouts, mostly goblins and bugbear ambushers, had left the forward camp at dusk, fading into the long shadows. Some had gone north toward Baar Kai and Lyrenton. Others had gone south. Most would be back by dawn. Elves saw as well by night as dar, but elf bows would be less deadly in the shifting shadows. Darkness was be a fickle ally in this conflict.
Back in Rhukaan Draal, the coronation should have taken place. Tariic would be sitting in the throne, Ekhaas thought, or more likely presiding over a great feast, all with the false rod in hand. She wondered what Geth and Ashi were doing: joining in the well-deserved revelry or standing nervous guard over the true rod?
A figure detached itself from the firelight and came to her. She recognized Dagii easily from his stance and the limp in his walk. He’d set aside his ancestral armor for plain scalemail—there was little point in letting the Valenar know that the commander of the enemy forces had left the safety of the army. Dagii’s lhevk’mor, the warlord who served him as a second-in-command, had suggested he remain at the main camp, but Dagii wouldn’t be persuaded. He insisted on seeing for himself what damage the elves had wrought on Darguun.
Ekhaas suspected his motives weren’t so noble as he claimed. He wore detachment as he wore his armor, but she knew his blood stirred at the call of battle just as much as any hobgoblin’s.
For a moment, another figure followed him from the fires, but Dagii waved him back. Ekhaas waited until the lord of the Mur Talaan was closer, then said, “Keraal has attached himself to you.”
“More tightly than he needs to,” Dagii muttered, ears flicking. “I took his pledge as a warrior, not a servant.”
Ekhaas looked back to the camp. Keraal had moved into the firelight and the flames glinted on the armor he now wore—and on the chains that still swung from his hip. He had adopted the makeshift weapon as his own. “Legends of the Koolt Dynasty,” she said, “tell of the Marhu Dresin Koolt, who was sold into slavery as a child but fought his way to freedom when he grew and seized the throne of Dhakaan from a wicked cousin. Yet even when he was an emperor, he still displayed his slave brand openly. The expression ‘I would rather be the sum of what I endure than of what I deny’ is attributed to him. Keraal has been your enemy and your prisoner. Now he’s trying to be your ally. Give him time to find his own pride again.”
“I am,” said Dagii, “but I don’t need him at my side constantly.” He glanced at her. “Walk with me a little ways. There is … something you should know.”
She kept her face and ears still, but her heart and belly trembled