Don Bassingthwaite - World of traitors

The brown body of an insect-a locust-landed on her arm. Its eyes were the same milky white as Pradoor’s. The drone turned into a thrum that reverberated in Ekhaas’s belly. The horses picketed before the tomb whinnied and shifted in fright.

And a vast swarm of the white-eyed locusts rose up from behind the ridge.

They came whirring down like a blizzard, only a few at first, then more and more. Daavn’s bugbears and hobgoblins shouted and fled, dropping tools and weapons. Ekhaas sprinted to Ashi and Aruget. “Makka has gone into the tomb!” she shouted over the thrumming of the locusts’ wings. Daylight was growing dim as the swarm clustered around them.

“I saw him,” said Ashi, “and I saw Pradoor chanting. I think this swarm is-” She broke off with a hiss of pain and plucked a locust away from the thin bloody scratch across her belly. “It bit me!” She hissed again.

So did Aruget. Blood matted Geth’s thick hair. The locusts seemed to be settling on it like leeches. The changeling could have been doing a bizarre dance as he swatted at them. Another locust settled on Ekhaas but this time it brought with it a stinging pain. She slapped it away and it left a smear of red blood behind. Her blood.

Two more locusts landed on the same spot. The thrumming of the swarm rose in pitch. Ekhaas’s fear rose with it. She grabbed for Aruget and Ashi and pulled them close, ignoring the bites of the locusts as they settled on her. “Cover your ears!” she ordered, then drew a breath through barely parted lips and sang a burst of sound directly on top of them.

The song blew back the swarm like a stone thrown into a pond. Ekhaas felt the sound pulse through her body but it did more damage to the locusts than to her. The brown insects dropped in drifts all around them. For a moment, daylight returned and the thrumming vanished.

Only for a moment. Pradoor’s shrill voice rose. “Devourer, aid your servant! Let your hunger be manifest!” The thrumming returned, and the sun dimmed as a new swarm settled over them.

“Ekhaas, we have to get into the tomb!” said Ashi. “Geth and Chetiin need us!”

“We’d never make it,” Aruget said, and spat as a locust crawled into his mouth.

Ekhaas held tight to both human and changeling and drew them down into a tight huddle. Forcing her voice deep into her throat, she started to hum with the same pitch and resonance as the swarm. It was hardly a song, but when she drew up magic from deep inside herself, it took on strength and substance.

The thrum of the swarm became a roar, but no locusts landed on them. Ekhaas felt Ashi raise her head and look around. “Rond betch,” she said in amazement.

Aruget-shifter’s features melting back into a hobgoblin’s-raised his head, too, but he looked at Ekhaas. She could guess what he was thinking because she was thinking it, too.

Which would last longer: her hum or Pradoor’s chant?

Geth tumbled across the floor of the tomb, bashing aside treasures and scattering coins. He still felt Midian’s second crossbow bolt pass uncomfortably close to him. He landed beside a broad polished shield bearing the crest of House Deneith and snatched it up, ducking behind it like a turtle retreating into its shell. The high opening of the stairs leading up out of the tomb was a half dozen paces away. Tenquis stood there, still directing the dim light of his moonstone up at Midian.

“Drop the stone, Tenquis!” Geth shouted. “You’re a target!”

The tiefling flinched and flicked the stone away. Shadows lurched crazily. Geth seized the moment and ran for the stairs, still covering himself with the shield. In spite of the shifting shadows and the shield, another bolt from Midian’s hand crossbow glanced off the stone right beside his moving feet. Geth yelped and skipped, diving the last of the way into the cover of the passage.

“You’re only making this a challenge, Geth.” Midian’s voice drifted down from his perch above. “I’m a very good marksman.”

Geth, panting for breath, looked up at Tenquis. “Where did he get a crossbow?”

“If I was him,” said Chetiin from nearby, “I would have left a cache of weapons and supplies behind.”

Both Geth and Tenquis flinched this time. Geth twisted around and spotted Chetiin squatting against one wall of the stairs. “I thought you were still somewhere out there in the cave!” he said, almost choking.

“I thought we should talk without having to shout our business.” The shaarat’khesh elder stood up and added quietly. “I’ll deal with Midian.”

“You’re not going to get close to him,” Tenquis said. “He’s a good eight paces up and he’ll have clear aim on you.”

“You’re whispering,” Midian called out to them. “Speak up.”

Chetiin glanced up at Tenquis. “I’ll deal with him,” he said again, then looked to Geth. “When you have your opening, take it. Get the rod and run. Don’t wait for me. Just take it and run as far from Rhukaan Draal as you can. I’ll find you.” He put a fist to his chest. “Paatcha, Geth. Swift travel.”

Geth repeated the gesture. “Paatcha, Chetiin.”

The old goblin moved closer to the mouth of the passage and raised his strained, scarred voice. “Midian!”

This time the gnome made no response. Geth peered around the edge of the passage and up into the gloom near the cavern ceiling. Although the moonstone now lay on the floor somewhere beyond Haruuc’s withered corpse, its light still revealed Midian’s hiding place. The pale shape of his face was still there, and still partly obscured by the darkness of his small crossbow. “He’s waiting for you,” Geth murmured to Chetiin.

“I know.” Chetiin stepped a little further into the cavern, a shadow standing among shadows. “Midian, we have unfinished business!”

Midian’s first contact with Tariic had come in a letter. Master Davandi, it had read, mutual friends recommend your knowledge as an expert on the history of the Empire of Dhakaan.

Midian had smiled. He’d been expecting the letter. Their “mutual friends” had been other agents of the silent masters of the Trust, the body that served the Triumvirate-or was served by them, according to some suspicions, but that in any case served the interests of Zilargo. He’d been proud to take the assignment.

Both he and the Trust had underestimated Tariic’s ambitions, but regrets made poor excuses. The game wasn’t over yet.

Midian kept the crossbow aimed at Chetiin’s chest, kept his hands still and his breathing slow. This time he would finish the job-he’d cursed himself many times over the last several days for not making sure the old goblin was dead the first time. He’d had the stolen dagger, the stealer of souls, the Keeper’s fang. He should have used it on Chetiin as well as Haruuc.

Of the three figures in the tomb below, Chetiin was the most dangerous. Geth was fast but he couldn’t evade the bolts forever. Tenquis… the tiefling barely even merited aiming.

Chetiin stepped out of the passage leading to the stairs and into the cavern. The shadows cast by Tenquis’s moonstone gave him cover. The crossbow waved between two shadows. Midian clenched his teeth. Wait.

“Midian, we have unfinished business!” Chetiin called.

Now.

He squeezed the trigger of the crossbow. The light weapon kicked in his hand as the bent arms sprang straight and the taut string sang. His aim was good. He heard Geth try to call a warning. Too late. The bolt pierced Chetiin-and porcelain shattered, spilling coins across the tomb floor.

A tall vase. Not Chetiin. Midian’s jaw tightened. The scholar in him remembered the vase from his explorations when he’d first wormed his way into the tomb-Dhakaani, late empire, Riis dynasty. Beautiful work.