Don Bassingthwaite - The doom of Kings

Vounn looked out at the rising smoke again. She could recognize one of the burning buildings now as Deneith’s small enclave in Rhukaan Draal. It wasn’t nearly as important as the Gathering Stone, but it still belonged to the House. She rose. “Tariic, I must go. Good day.”

She didn’t wait for his reply, but swept after Pater. Thuun was waiting outside, milling around with the other guards of those still in the gallery. She snapped her fingers at him. “We need to go into the city-the Deneith enclave is on fire. I want Aruget and Krakuul with us.” After her experience the night of the famine march, she didn’t go out in Rhukaan Draal without at least two of her escorts.

“I’ll take you to them, lady.” Thuun stepped in front of her and led the way, pushing aside anyone who found themselves in his path. Vounn made plans in her head. If the clerks at the enclave knew their jobs, their first move would be to ensure that enlistment records and contracts, more valuable to the House than gold, were saved. She would take charge of the papers first, then worry about saving the building.

The smell of food-goblin food, sharp with vinegar-hit her, and she emerged from her plans to look around. They were somewhere near the kitchens of Khaar Mbar’ost. Unlike the grand halls, these passages were cramped and dim. “Where are we going?” asked Thuun.

“Aruget and Krakuul spend their time off-duty close to the kitchens, the better to get at the richest scraps,” her guard said. “Stay close, lady.”

Vounn looked around. There were few hobgoblins in sight along the corridor or through the doorways they passed. There was an atmosphere of uneasy excitement. It seemed word of the fires in the city had already spread down here. “Haruuc has called an alarm,” she said. “It’s possible Krakuul and Aruget have already gone looking for us. Perhaps I should return to my quarters and wait for you all there.”

“This would be the worst time to be alone. We’re almost there. Have patience, and I’ll go back with you.”

She could smell a draft of fresh air. They must have been approaching a rear gate or kitchen entrance. It seemed unlike Aruget, she thought, to spend his time lounging near the kitchen. The hobgoblin was a brisk and efficient soldier. If he wanted something from the kitchen, he would have sent a runner for it. From what she knew of Krakuul, he might have gone to the kitchen on his own, but he would have stayed near there until he had what he wanted. Judging by her glimpses through the corridor, she and Thuun were already past the kitchen.

And was it strange that Thuun, the least talkative of the three guards, had just said more to her than he ever had before?

Vounn looked at her guide sharply. His broad shoulders hid his hands, but he had pulled something from his belt and was manipulating it where she couldn’t see. A prickle of unease crawled up Vounn’s neck. Keeping her pace steady, she narrowed her eyes and concentrated on the dragonmark that curled around the inside of her right arm. A gentle warmth passed through it and the power of the Mark of Sentinel manifested around her, an unseen barrier that brought with it a feeling of safety.

That feeling was only an illusion. The danger, Vounn felt certain, was real. Something was wrong. Between one step and the next, she turned and ran as fast as she could back the way they had come.

Thuun didn’t curse or cry out. In an instant, Vounn heard his long, heavy strides coming after her. She looked around for help, but all of the goblin servants seemed to have vanished like mice. The lady seneschal fumbled for her stiletto as she ran, but couldn’t get at it. She drew breath to scream for help-and a strong arm wrapped around her and lifted her off her feet. Her unseen shield could do little against such a direct attack. A hand went over her face, holding a wet rag across her nose and mouth.

The rag reeked powerfully of distilled alcohol and something else she couldn’t quite identify. It was herbal, both bitter and sweet, and it reminded her vaguely of a tea-like beverage she’d once been served at a feast thrown by the half-orcs of House Tharashk. She tried to hit Thuun with her elbows and her feet, hard defensive blows with no mercy. One backward kick came close to landing in his groin, but he twisted and took the blow on his leg instead. She heard him grunt, then he brought his mouth close to her ear.

“Struggle harder, Vounn of Deneith. You can do it.”

He was no longer speaking Goblin. She threw herself into another furious struggle, but he just kept twisting and letting her blows slide off him. After a few moments, though, it seemed to Vounn that her arms and legs were strangely heavy, that her blows were sluggish, and she realized what a mistake she’d made. Struggling harder had made her breath more deeply, inhaling greater quantities of the fumes from the rag. They seemed to penetrate her mind and rob her of will. Her vision drifted; she couldn’t focus on anything for more than a moment. Her body went limp in Thuun’s grasp.

The hobgoblin eased her to the ground, supporting her if she were a drunkard while he tucked the rag away in a pouch at his belt. She caught a glimpse of a small brown bottle. “What have you done to me?” she tried to ask him, but the words came out slurred.

He must have guessed at what she was saying. “Essence of gaeth’ad,” he said. “Created by bounty hunters from the gaeth’ad tea of the Shadow Marches. Normally you’d have to drink it, but mixing it with strong alcohol gives the fumes some effect and allows for an easier delivery.”

She was certain of the tea scent now. “Tharashk,” she managed to say with some clarity.

Thuun chuckled. “No, just freelance.”

Some servants were peeking back out into the corridor again. Thuun waved them away. “Too much to drink,” he said in Goblin. “Taking her for fresh air.” With a professional ease, he steered her stumbling body along the corridor and, after a few moments, into a small courtyard. Servants and even guards bustled about, many of them staring at a column of smoke that could be seen through a tall gate. No one paid much attention to the soldier with the human woman under his arm.

No one except two more soldiers who came to help, one with a cloak over his arm. Some part of Vounn knew they weren’t really soldiers. They wore the red corded armbands of Khaar Mbar’ost, but their armor was rough and unpolished, the hair tucked under their helmets lank and greasy.

“Help,” she called, hoping someone might hear her. No one did. The word was a croak. The cloak was whirled about her, leaving her with only a narrow gap in the hood to peer through. The three hobgoblins walked her out the gate without anyone challenging them.

At first the streets of Rhukaan Draal seemed quiet, but the farther they went, the more the sounds of chaos filled the air. Vounn could see little through her narrow field of vision, and her drug-addled senses seemed to make everything worse. People were running back and forth. A few were screaming. She caught snatches of rumors: that the storehouses of the city were burning, that there were riots over a new supply of food, that Lhesh Haruuc had imposed martial law in the streets. She could smell smoke, heavy and choking. She mostly saw running legs and darting figures. They started to turn down one street but pulled back-Vounn saw fighting ahead. They went another way. The hobgoblins’ pace, set by the traitorous Thuun, was fast. Vounn stumbled helplessly. She shook her head, trying to throw off the hood. She managed to get it half off. Thuun grabbed it and pulled it back down, but not before she’d gotten a look at him.

He was no longer Thuun. He wore Thuun’s armor, and she would have sworn that his hands had never left his arms, but he was not Thuun. Instead of the familiar face of the guard Haruuc had assigned to her, she saw a stranger, some anonymous hobgoblin who could have gone unnoticed in any crowd.