Don Bassingthwaite - The doom of Kings

Several times a day, Geth drew Wrath and held it out before him to be certain they were still on course, still heading south-southwest. On the tenth night of their journey, the same night that the last path ended at the long burned remains of a farmstead, they reached the eastern foothills of the Seawall Mountains. The hills were far more rugged in the south than they had been in the north at the Marguul Pass-and for the first time they discovered the weakness in Wrath’s ability to point to the distant Rod of Kings.

“Grandfather Rat’s naked tail.” Geth stared along the length of Wrath as if closer inspection might somehow change the fact that the twilight blade pointed straight at the sheer rock face of a long escarpment.

“It points directly to the rod, doesn’t it?” said Ashi. “No matter what’s in the way. Rond betch.”

“We’ll find a way up or around,” Dagii said grimly. He turned his horse to the south and urged it onward.

It was Marrow who eventually found a way up the escarpment, sniffing out a narrow trail apparently used by wild game to reach a pool at the escarpment’s base. The worg was able to bound up the trail with little difficulty, but the rest of them-with the exception of Midian, who simply dismissed his pony and tucked the silver horseshoe back into his pack-had to dismount and lead their horses up. By the time they reached the brow of the escarpment, dawn was breaking.

The ground above the escarpment was no less rugged than that below. When Geth held up Wrath again, the sword pointed to a hill that was only a little less steep than the escarpment. If they’d been able to travel as the sword pointed, the even harsher slopes of the gray mountains were only a day’s ride away.

Dagii’s ears folded back. “We travel by daylight from now on,” he said. “We need to be able to see what’s coming so we can avoid it.”

The rest of them replied with grunts and groans of exhaustion, although Midian added, “At least we know the rod is in the mountains.”

“How do you see that?” Geth asked.

“The sword points up. If the rod was somewhere beyond the mountains, it wouldn’t. We’re going to be climbing.”

Geth groaned again.

Vounn told herself that she had done what she could. More than she should have, perhaps. When, after days of shouting about her desire to leave Rhukaan Draal, Ashi had come to her with a simple and reasonable argument-that allowing the bearer of the Siberys Mark of Sentinel to aid in the search for the Rod of Kings would certainly bring influence to Deneith, not just with Haruuc but with his successors-Vounn had almost been too overwhelmed to resist agreeing on the spot.

She had resisted, of course. Very little got the better of her. She’d turned the issue over in her mind, considering it from all sides. She had a strong suspicion that Ashi didn’t really believe in what she was saying and that, to her, it was just another attempt to get Vounn to let her follow her friends. Her charge was, though, correct for a change. Her participation in the quest would reflect very well on Deneith. The look of surprise on Ashi’s face when Vounn had finally agreed was almost amusing.

She had changed her mind as she watched Ashi ride out of Khaar Mbar’ost, but it had been too late then. Ashi was gone like a bird from the nest. Most of the time she could accept that. Vounn just hoped that she would never have to explain the loss of the Siberys Mark to the patriarch of House Deneith.

And while she waited for Ashi’s return, there were other duties that Breven d’Deneith expected of her.

The warlords of Haruuc’s court were more than eager to become acquainted with the envoy of House Deneith, but there was one clan that defied all of her efforts. Senen Dhakaan of the Kech Volaar refused to meet with her, in spite of the secret knowledge that they shared. Formal requests were rebuffed. Casual approaches were ignored. The warriors of the Dhakaani clans were famous for their skill at fighting in formation, but Deneith had never found enough influence with the proud, independent clans to hire their warriors as mercenaries. If Vounn could bring the warriors of the Kech Volaar into Deneith’s legions, it would be a triumph.

From what Vounn could see, though, the Word Bearers might have deigned to ally themselves with Haruuc, but their attitude toward Deneith had changed no more than a mountain in a day. So she went to Haruuc.

Aruget followed her, of course. Vounn would have preferred to have a Deneith mercenary guarding her, but she’d accepted Haruuc’s offer of hobgoblin guards gracefully. At least they knew the lhesh’s fortress and the city, and Aruget, at least, had proved that he understood when to keep his mouth closed and obey orders.

She found Haruuc alone, brooding over a great map laid out on a table in a room with more maps hung on the walls. Vounn paused a respectable distance away from the table and dropped into a curtsy. “Lhesh,” she said.

He raised his head and looked at her with weary eyes. “Lady Vounn.”

“Am I disturbing you?”

“You’re a welcome change from the disturbances of the Gan’duur.” He forced energy into his face and beckoned her closer. “Look at this. Tell me what you see.”

Vounn looked down at the map. Bright colors stood out on a faded background-the basic map had been created many years ago and updated several times. It showed Rhukaan Draal, its outskirts drawn and redrawn as the city expanded, and the surrounding area. The Ghaal River with its cataracts and the road leading north to the Gathering Stone were easy to recognize. The map also marked hills, streams, ravines, farmholds, and lanes. Simple wooden markers painted red, black, or white had been placed atop it, mostly to the north of the city. The black markers lay in scattered patterns atop farmholds, the red in a sweeping arc, the white in widely scattered clusters.

She pressed her lips together as she considered the patterns, then said, “I’m a diplomat, not a strategist, lhesh, but I would say this shows the Gan’duur attacks.”

“The attacks, my response, and sightings of Gan’duur raiders.” Haruuc swept his hand through the air above the map. “They move quickly, staying ahead of my men. They strike, split up, and move on. And this concerns me-” He pointed to the northeast and southwest extremes of the activity represented on the map, to white markers that stood off on their own with neither red nor black markers around them. “We received word by messenger falcons this morning of these positions. No attacks, just riders. They displayed no banners, so we can only assume they’re Gan’duur, but it seemed they were riding here-and here.” His fingers moved to indicate the river west and east of Rhukaan Draal. “An old Cyran bridge across the upper river. A ferry crossing on the lower.”

“They mean to cross the Ghaal.”

“Cho,” said Haruuc. “Boats have been dispatched downstream and riders upstream. Perhaps we can catch them, but it may be too late.” He fell back into a chair and pressed his knuckles together. “The patterns of clan warfare. You see now what I hope to forestall. Maabet. I thought my people were past this.”

“A philosopher of Karrnath once wrote ‘A farmer may sow wheat, but nature had the field before him,’” Vounn said.

Haruuc looked at her over his fists. “Falko Gergus in The Battle Called Life.”

“You know it.”

“ ‘If you want fine wool, better to befriend the shepherd than the wolf,’” the lhesh quoted back to her with a thin smile. “Gergus’s metaphors have never found favor among goblins, but his principles are sound.” He lowered his hands and sat up. “But I doubt that you came here either to discuss military philosophy or to hear my complaints. What do you want, Vounn?”