Don Bassingthwaite - The doom of Kings

But there had never been any question of giving in to those instincts. Shifters knew they were wrong. Any shifter who did give in was no better than an animal. Looking into Haruuc’s eyes, he knew it would be a mistake-it had been a mistake-to assume the same of goblins. He thought of a hundred little things about Ekhaas or Chetiin or the heroes of Kuun that Wrath remembered. How they ate. How they moved. How they spoke-so many ways to express honor and hierarchy, so many ways to say, “Thank you,” but no words, he realized abruptly, for, “You’re welcome.”

A goblin that gave in to his instincts was no animal. He was simply a goblin.

Suddenly, Geth felt like a tamed dog. He struggled to find something else to say, some other argument to put before Haruuc. “Think of the good of Darguun then,” he said. “Munta was right. The other nations of Khorvaire won’t like this.”

“And what will they do? For the sake of Darguun, I became a sheep. Now for the sake of Darguun, I must be a wolf again-and the sheep should be wary.”

The carved doors opened again. This time Razu stepped through. “Rekseen of Ja’aram comes in answer to Lhesh Haruuc Shaarat’kor’s summons.”

Another hobgoblin woman entered, and Razu stepped out, closing the door behind her. Rekseen of Ja’aram wore the armor of a warrior and, although many years younger than he had been, bore a strong resemblance to Vanii. As she walked down the aisle of the throne room, Haruuc spoke quietly over his shoulder. There was grief in his voice again, existing alongside the craving for blood with no hint of contradiction.

“The most sacred duty of a shava,” he said, “has always been to take charge of his brother’s affairs when he dies and to carry news of his death. Our every tradition respects it. Vanii’s death serves Darguun now, but in this at least I can serve him. The grieving trees are not your concern, Geth. You’ve spoken as a shava should. Now organize the games as I’ve asked-and make sure she has good seats.” He rose from his throne, set down the Rod of Kings, and faced the warrior woman. “Rekseen of Ja’aram, I have news of your uncle.”

The time of mourning passed. Geth spent the next five days walking with a knife in his gut. Word of the funerary games to come and of the forest that grew along the road to the Gathering Stone spread in Rhukaan Draal. Just as Haruuc had predicted, the people of Darguun greeted both with eager anticipation.

He organized the games with a kind of numb detachment. In truth, Razu did most of the work for him-Haruuc’s throne room remained sealed and the lhesh in isolation, so there was little else for the mistress of ceremonies to do. Geth approved her suggestions without much thought. He wasn’t sure what else there was for him to do. He felt helpless and not at all heroic, in spite of a sense of approval from Wrath. He suspected that only came because he was fulfilling his duties as a shava.

Ekhaas and Chetiin were no help. They came to see him the first day, and he poured his emotions out to them-at least as much as he could without offending them. Both the duur’kala and the shaarat’khesh elder offered consolation, but no condemnation for Haruuc’s actions. “What did you think he would do, Geth?” Ekhaas asked. “Keraal didn’t act alone. All of the Gan’duur warriors were with him. At least Haruuc’s not using the rod.”

“Would you have done it?” Geth asked her bluntly.

Her mouth opened and closed, but she finally said, “Tales of the Empire of Dhakaan speak of even harsher actions.”

“So you would have done it.”

Ekhaas’s ears went back flat.

“It’s the right response for the situation,” Chetiin said. “I wouldn’t have expected it from Haruuc, but it’s what a strong ruler should have done. The warlords like it. Haruuc has greater support now than in the first years of his rule.”

If the Darguul warlords liked Haruuc’s actions, reaction from the representatives of the other nations of Khorvaire and the dragonmarked houses was exactly what Munta had said it would be. Razu’s main distraction from helping Geth plan the games was dealing with the formal messages of disapproval that arrived at Khaar Mbar’ost from ambassadors and viceroys. Most urged mercy. House Orien threatened action if Haruuc hung his victims along the trade road. First Ashi, stuck in Rhukaan Draal while the roads were closed, and then Vounn tried to contact Geth-guessing at what they wanted, he turned them away with shame and took to avoiding them.

Midian wasn’t so easy to get rid of. The gnome turned up in Geth’s chamber one morning. “You’ve got messengers crossing Darguun lining up fighters and strong men. Get me out of here. I’ve got supplies ready to go. I’ve got guards hired and costing me money every day. I want to be on the road!”

“Wait two more days,” Geth said. “You can leave then.”

“With every goblin in Darguun trying to get into the city for these games of yours? No, thank you. I want to go before they come. Word about the games was spreading across the country as soon as they were announced.” Midian’s mouth twisted. “Just like word is spreading that Dagii reached the Gathering Stone yesterday and is traveling south along the trade road now.”

A messenger falcon had come to Khaar Mbar’ost at dawn with the news that the grim march had begun. The Gan’duur were dying. Dagii’s arrival in Rhukaan Draal would coincide with the end of the mourning period. Geth hung his head and closed his eyes. “Go to Munta,” he said. “Tell him I said he should give you a pass out of the city.”

Midian gave a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Geth.”

Geth clenched his teeth. “You’re welcome.”

The fifth day of mourning came. The games that would commemorate Vanii’s death and the defeat of the Gan’duur were ready. Spectators and participants would begin to arrive the next day and for four days after that, the fields burned by the Gan’duur south of Rhukaan Draal would become the site of a celebration that would be talked about in ten-no, twenty years. “You’ve done well, Geth,” said Haruuc as his court gathered at dusk on the bridge over to the Ghaal River to wait for Dagii’s arrival.

“Razu did well, lhesh. She knew what needed to be done.” Geth looked across the crowd gathered on the crest of the bridge. The entire court had turned out-warlords, clan chiefs, and councilors. The sun’s last rays struck reflections from polished armor, threads of gold, and rich jewelry. Haruuc wore ornate armor edged with the claws of great cats polished like gems. The Rod of Kings shone in his grasp, twilight metal in the twilight of the day.

Geth curled his fist inside his great gauntlet. He had dressed in his best-clean pants, a good white shirt, and a fitted leather vest purchased in Rhukaan Draal’s markets-just as the other members of the court had, but by comparison he was a shadow. He felt like a shadow too. The Darguuls were filled with an excitement he didn’t feel at all. He drew a breath and said, “Haruuc, I’m leaving when the games are finished.”

Haruuc looked at him for a moment, then turned away to watch the road again. “It is your choice, but you judge me harshly, shava. I do what must be done.”

Geth didn’t have anything else he could say to that. He turned away.

Haruuc caught his arm. “I want you at my side when Dagii returns.”

“I’ll be back,” Geth said tersely, pulling his arm free and slipping into the crowd. Warlords called to him. The mistrust they’d shown him only days before seemed to have vanished as if organizing the funerary games had suddenly made him worthy of attention. Geth ignored them all and pushed to the other side of the bridge.

The southern bank of the Ghaal and both sides of the way through Rhukaan Draal were filled with the ordinary folk of the city, all of them eager for a glimpse of what was to come. Haruuc and he had both been wrong about one thing: It wasn’t just the goblins who wanted blood. The humans, elves, dwarves, and half-lings who had found a home in Rhukaan Draal were a part of the howling crowd as well.