Don Bassingthwaite - World of traitors

“Do you mean the war with the elves?” Makka asked.

Rumors had spread through the streets all day, growing wilder and wilder with each telling. Raiders had destroyed clanholds. Fires had consumed eastern Darguun, the smoke blotting out the sun at dawn. Valenar cavalry had crossed the Mournland and were riding on Rhukaan Draal. Darguun would follow Dhakaan into the dust of ages. All of the elves of Eberron had risen to war, determined to exterminate the dar-unless dar marched to destroy them first, which they undoubtedly would because Haruuc himself had returned from the dead to reclaim the Rod of Kings and lead Darguun to victory!

Makka believed less than a quarter of what he heard. Something was happening, there was no doubting it, but it could have been anything from a pitched battle to a mere skirmish. Still, he had seen hobgoblins and bugbears with the look of seasoned warriors checking armor, sharpening weapons, and glaring murder at any elves they saw. War it was, then.

Pradoor’s ears twitched. “The war is a part of it as I am a part of it and you are a part of it,” she said. “The Six give straw to some, clay or steel to others. What we are given makes no difference-we are judged by what we make of it.”

Sudden certainty uncoiled in Makka’s mind. “I am given steel,” he said.

“Yes,” said Pradoor. “You are a warrior called to serve.”

Makka twisted his head so that he could see Pradoor out of the corner of his eye. “What were you?” he asked. “What are you given?”

Pradoor laughed again, her cackle rising above the noise of the street. “No one who has served me has ever dared to ask that question!”

“Are you going to answer it?”

Blind eyes turned to a red sky and the setting sun. “I was a midwife,” said Pradoor. “I am given souls.” Then she pulled back her hand and smacked the back of his head. “Now turn here!” she commanded. “And hurry. We are expected.”

Makka turned and strode along another narrow crooked street. A hobgoblin working the edge of a well-used sword with a whetstone glanced up and gave him a nod. Makka returned it.

Full dark had fallen and the streets had come to life when the tight-packed buildings fell away. A crowd stood in the space beyond. Makka instinctively held back to assess what lay ahead. Pradoor smacked his skull. “Keep going.”

He stepped out from the shadow of the buildings and into an unpaved square over which arched the first trees he’d seen since before he entered Rhukaan Draal. They were twisted, spindly things, much like the guul’dar who lived in the city, with smooth trunks he could have circled with his hands and thin canopies that barely iltered the moonlight. Torches-real burning torches and not harsh magical imitations-had been hammered into the ground around them and wedged into their lower branches. Figures roamed the square in small groups, talking quietly and casting shadows against the smoky flames. There was something at the heart of the square among the trees, something that looked like a dark jumble, though he could make out no more against the torchlight and the shifting shadows.

“What is this place?” he asked Pradoor.

“Somewhere older than Rhukaan Draal, a place that was here before the city and that the city surrounded but could not fully consume. People come here when they are uncertain or when they’re afraid. I always find them here.” She tapped his head again, gently this time, and he continued on toward the dark jumble among the trees.

He had taken only a few paces before some of those in the square noticed him-or rather, noticed Pradoor. A pair of hobgoblins talking with their heads together looked up. Their ears rose, then they bent their heads and murmured, “Pradoor.”

Their voices drew the attention of others, who bent their heads and spoke Pradoor’s name in turn. The respect that the wizened goblin woman had received on the streets of Rhukaan Draal had left Makka amazed. The respect she received as they passed through the square came close to adoration. The bending heads were like grass in a windy field; the chorus of her name was like the whispering of a breeze. “Pradoor.” “Pradoor.” “Pradoor.”

They moved under the branches of the trees, and for a moment they were alone. The dark jumble resolved itself into a pile of weathered, lichen-covered rocks. A gaping hole among them plunged into the ground, and Makka thought he could hear the rush of water. The rocks were an ancient well, he realized, and the water below some hidden branch of the Ghaal River-and yet there was something more here, as if a vast and unseen presence had focused its attention on this spot.

He knew the feeling. The cursed valley that had lain below the camp of the White Stone tribe, the valley that Dagii of Mur Talaan, Ekhaas of Kech Volaar, and the rest of their party had disturbed, had felt like this. No bugbear of the tribe had ever gone further than the edge of the ancient trees that covered the valley floor, but all of them had gone at least that far, if only so they understood why the valley should be left alone and the trolls that lived there kept sated.

But Pradoor seemed to have no fear of the strange presence. Her fingers on his head urged him forward until he stood beside the rocks and above the hole. “Turn,” she said in his ear, and he did.

Those who wandered the square had moved in among the trees, crowding in on all sides. Torchlight illuminated faces even more diverse in race and rank-though Makka could see no elves among them-than those that had greeted Pradoor on the streets, as if the cover of night had drawn to the Six those who by day professed only a faith in the Sovereign Host.

They were silent, then Pradoor spoke. “What troubles you?”

Those gathered stayed quiet, glancing nervously at each other, until a bugbear found the nerve to speak. “War comes,” he said.

A goblin called, “The Valenar are riding against us!”

And suddenly all those who stood among the trees seemed to find their voices at once. Makka heard all of the wild rumors he had heard during the day and more beside. He heard fear for safety in Rhukaan Draal and fear for the safety of sons and husbands called to ight. He turned his head to glance at Pradoor and found her listening to everything with cupped ears. She let the babble run, then raised her hands. The gathering fell silent again.

“Your fear,” she said, “shames you. Your fear shames me. You’re afraid of war? Why?”

No answer came. Pradoor gave a mirthless laugh. “You dread even giving your fear a name when you of all the peoples of Eberron have the least to fear. The Dark Six smile on Darguun. You who will ight-do you fear that the Fury will not give you strength to smite your enemies?”

This time a chorus came back. “No.”

“Do you fear that the Mockery will not give you the skill to make your enemies suffer?”

“No!” Louder and stronger than before.

“Do you fear that the Shadow will not give power to the spell-casters who march at your side?”

“No!”

Pradoor raised her shrill voice to match the volume of the crowd. “You who will remain-do you fear that the Devourer will not protect the supplies stored against attack?”

“No!”

“Do you fear that the Traveler will lead your enemy past those who defend you?”

“No!”

Her voice rose so loud that it seemed impossible it should come out of her small, trembling body. “Do any of you fear that the Keeper will break his pact with those who have faith, that if you fall your souls will wither like forgotten fruit?”

“No!”

“Then why do you fear war?”

Makka felt his heart stir to Pradoor’s words as the hearts of her audience did. For all of his life he had feared and venerated the gods of the Six. They were the primal forces of the worlds-hunger and passion and pain and death and power and change. But as Pradoor spoke, he found fear and veneration coming together with the sense of service that had hung over him since the goblin woman had healed his wounds. What did a true servant of the Six have to fear from war-or from anything in life?