Don Bassingthwaite - World of traitors

Geth nodded. Tucking the Rod of Kings between his arm and his body, he knelt before the priest and the sword. The other two priests came forward. Balinor’s priest now carried a broad tray. Dol Arrah’s stood close with an unlit torch.

From the tray, Geth took a copper bowl lined with thick shreds of fiber and a flint, laying the Rod of Kings in their place. He set the bowl on the ground. The priest of Dol Dorn grounded Haruuc’s sword in it. Carefully angled so that all could see what he did, Geth leaned forward and struck the flint on the blade of the sword.

Sparks jumped from the sword into the tinder. Smoke curled up in a fine wisp, growing thick as Geth bent close to blow gently onto the bowl. When he sat back, the torch was ready for him. He took it and touched it to the burning tinder. Flames leaped into life. Geth lifted the torch and stood to face the warlords.

“From this will fire return to Rhukaan Draal,” he said. “From this will life continue.”

He took back the rod. The priest of Dol Dorn returned the sword to Haruuc’s grasp, then looked out over the crowd.

“This was Haruuc!” the priest shouted, his ears high and quivering. “Haruuc who founded Darguun and Rhukaan Draal, whose boldness made a new homeland for the People. He will never be forgotten! He will live in stories and legends as long as mighty, quick, and strong people draw breath. He will inspire us as long as the Ghaal and Torlaac Rivers flow from mountain to sea. Let all who would be great follow in the path that his red sword has carved!”

The roar that rose from the gathered warlords was as loud as anything Ashi had heard in the city. Weapons were drawn and flashed against the sky. Ashi felt the fervor of the moment sweep her up-she drew the sword at her side and raised it high as well. “Haruuc!” she shouted along with the Darguuls. “Haruuc!”

The priest of Dol Arrah nodded and the bugbears lifted the throne again. Turning underneath it, they reversed their positions so that they could walk forward. With his warlords shouting his name, Haruuc was borne into his tomb facing outward and the shadows of the grave closed over his face like dark water.

The three priests followed him in. Geth moved to stand before the doorway and the shouts of the warlords died away. In the silence, the noise of the cataract seemed louder than ever.

After a moment, Pater spoke softly. “The first time I met Haruuc, I expected him to talk about taxes or tolls. Instead he asked me if the trade roads were in good enough condition to allow easy trade between Darguun and Breland.”

The humble memory startled Ashi, but then she realized that throughout the crowd, warlords and ambassadors were whispering, sharing quiet reminiscences.

“He asked me about distant ports,” said Sindra. “He knew what was happening across Khorvaire.”

The Zil ambassador, Esmyssa Entar ir’Korran, stood nearby. “He always spoke to me as if I was as tall as he was.”

“We discussed philosophy,” said Vounn.

Ashi tried to find her own most significant memory of Haruuc. It took her a moment-his presence, even before he held the rod, had been inspiring and it was hard to pick out just one memory. She finally found the one she sought. Something that probably would have seemed small to anyone else but made a great difference to her. “He saw me as more than my dragonmark.”

Vounn raised a slim eyebrow at the statement, but said nothing.

The throne-bearers were the first to return to the surface, followed by the three priests. The priest of Balinor stepped around to the side of the tomb and, straining hard, pushed. The massive door swung shut. Stone as thick as a dagger’s length moved ponderously but, once set in motion, smoothly. The dark doorway became a narrow gap, then a sliver. Then the great door closed with a solid boom-and a hollow crack as the pivots that had allowed it to swing broke as they had been designed to do. The tomb of Haruuc Shaarat’kor was sealed. From the front of the door, an effigy of Haruuc glared down, a fierce warrior and a mighty king at the height of his power, the guardian of his own grave.

Standing under that gaze, Geth raised the torch and the rod high above his head. “The time for mourning is done. We remember Haruuc’s death-but now we celebrate his life. Now the games begin!”

The cheer that rose from the warlords was not as powerful as that which had honored Haruuc, but it was joyful and enthusiastic. Ashi was certain that she even heard an echo of it from the common people who waited beyond the arch.

Geth began the descent of the ridge, new fire for the city held out before him, and warlords shifted in an attempt to be among the first to accompany him back into Rhukaan Draal. Ashi tried to catch his eye, to give him a simple gesture of encouragement and show him he had done well, but it was no good. There were too many people vying for his attention. She started to turn back to Vounn -and felt the back of her neck prickle with the sensation of being watched. An old hunter’s instinct. She glanced around. This wasn’t like it had been while the funeral procession moved through Rhukaan Draal. No crowd watched her here.

No crowd except the one beyond the arch. Ashi spun sharply.

And the feeling was gone. The crowd was already breaking up and streaming back into the city, eager for the start. If someone had been watching her, they’d needed only to turn away to lose themselves in the crowd. Ashi found her hand was back on the hilt of her sword. She trusted her instincts. Someone had been watching her. Who?

Her hand tightened on the sword. Chetiin?

“Ashi?”

The sound of her own name made her whirl. Her sword was halfway out of its sheath before she realized it was Ekhaas. The duur’kala’s ears rose at the sight of her blade. “Is something wrong?”

Ashi felt blood rush to her face and she shoved the blade back. “No.”

Ekhaas’s ears didn’t drop but she nodded. “Would you like to watch the start of the games together?”

The thought of a fight after the long period of mourning was good-it certainly seemed like a fitting tribute to Haruuc. Ashi looked back to the tomb, then nodded. “I’ll tell Vounn.”

She glanced at the arch and the moving crowd beyond one last time. Someone had been watching her. That didn’t mean it was Chetiin. With such a large crowd, it could have been anyone.

When the bugbears of the White Stone tribe, savaged in the dark woods by a huge wolf that could only have been part demon, returned to their camp to find every hut ablaze, their children alive only by the dark gods’ whim, and the prisoners who had started it all escaped, their only choice was to flee. The wolf-demon had settled for the moment to feast on the bodies of fallen warriors. Their camp was on fire. The trolls that lived in the cursed valley below, that had for years kept to themselves in return for carcasses thrown down from the bugbear camp, were raging. Overnight, their haven in the Seawall Mountains had become too dangerous to hold.

So they fled, slipping away down the western approach to their high vale with the flames of their burning camp leaping high into the sky behind them. Then they started looking for someone to blame.

Makka, who had been the chib, the leader, found himself on the other side of their anger.

“Makka kept the lowlanders that the trolls were chasing!” said Guun, who had been his closest friend. “He should have sent them back, but he kept them! He was greedy for the treasure they sought in the valley!”

“When the lowlanders’ friends challenged us from the woods, Makka led us out,” said Utaa, whose skill in a fight was a close second to Makka’s. “The human woman had a dragonmark-her magic must have summoned the wolf. Now our camp is gone, seven warriors are dead, and we have nothing!”