But the shaarat’khesh’s attack had given Ekhaas the moment she needed to draw her own sword. The elven blade met the deep-toothed edge of the heavy hobgoblin blade with a crash that jolted Ekhaas’s arm. She wouldn’t last long in a fight against this warrior! Twisting her sword, she locked the two weapons for an instant and kicked out under them desperately. Her boot sank into the elf’s stomach. The elf staggered back. Chetiin leaped again, this time catching the elf around her neck from behind and using his weight to drag her off balance and backward.
Ekhaas stepped back, turned her sword, and swung the weapon in a flat arc. She felt the sharp edge of the blade shear through mail, into the flesh underneath, and back out through mail again. The elf wailed-the first sound she had made-then fell back, letting her scimitar drop and groping feebly for the terrible wound in her torso before sliding to the ground, eyes wide in death. Ekhaas spun to face the remaining elves.
The powerful burst of song had shaken them, but they were pressing in now, bows abandoned for scimitars in the close fight. Lacking the shield he usually carried in combat, Dagii had drawn his sword and waited for their attack. Marrow snarled and circled to their side, limping on three legs, but still moving like a deadly shadow. One of the elves turned to face her.
Dagii roared and charged, sweeping his sword out and driving the two elves apart. Marrow darted in at one, teeth snapping, to force him back. Chetiin jumped atop the fallen tree and ran along its mossy trunk, joining Marrow. Ekhaas moved to fight at Dagii’s side. The warlord’s sword was swinging and hacking in deadly blows, but the elf managed to parry each one, his curved sword a blur of bright metal. He’d learned from the dead elf’s mistake and was careful not to put his blade in a position where Dagii could bind it. Dagii, however, gave him no room to return his blows. They turned around and around each other, locked in a deadly dance.
As Ekhaas joined in, however, the elf’s eyes darted at her, then his free hand dipped into his close-fitting robes and emerged holding a rough ceramic flask no bigger than her fist. Ekhaas’s ears rose sharply and Chetiin’s words came back to her. To them, a victory is a victory, no matter how it is achieved.
She whipped up with her sword, aiming for the elf’s wrist.
Dagii did the same, striking down.
The elf, perhaps thinking to seize this opening, thrust his blade forward.
Dagii’s blow struck first, slashing through the elf’s forearm-and driving down the hand that held the flask. A fraction of a heartbeat later, Ekhaas’s blow caught the severed limb and spun it up. Dagii twisted in close and the elf’s thrust skimmed past his back, shock only just registering on the elf’s face. Dagii shoved him hard with his elbow and sent him reeling back half a dozen paces.
The ceramic flask fell free of the spinning hand. Hardly thinking, Ekhaas snatched at it in midair and flung it after the dazed elf.
It hit his armored chest and shattered. Green smoke burst out, writhing up around his shoulders and head. The elf wheezed, shuddered once, and collapsed. The green smoke dissipated, leaving only thin threads of gray drifting from smoldering hair, robes, and veil.
A snarl and a broken wail brought Ekhaas’s attention back to the last of the elves. Marrow had her jaws around the elf’s sword arm and was shaking her shaggy head. Sword already lost, the elf jerked back and forth- then, with a wet tearing, the arm pulled free of its socket. Armor held the limb in place, but the elf’s face went white and his body limp. Marrow shook her head once more and flung him away
Chetiin was on him instantly, drawing his knife expertly across an exposed throat.
The sounds of combat from the camp were growing. Dagii turned for the game trail they had followed into the wood, pushing his way through tree branches and undergrowth. For the first time, Ekhaas saw the arrow-meant for Marrow-that protruded from high on his shoulder, lodged in armor and flesh. “Dagii!” she called after him. “You’re wounded. Let me heal you.”
He glanced back at her, then reached over his shoulder and snapped the shaft of the arrow between his fingers, breaking it off short. He threw the fletched wood to the ground. “Heal Marrow,” he said. “Follow when you’re able. Chetiin, stay with Ekhaas. Watch for more ambushers.” Then he turned again and plunged on through the trees.
Ekhaas looked at Chetiin, but the goblin elder only jerked his head at Marrow. Her ears laid back flat, Ekhaas turned to the panting worg, pressed her hand against the beast’s wounded flank and sang as she tugged on the arrow embedded there.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
25 Sypheros
There’s no sign of the rod,” said Daavn. “And no sign of Geth. Maabet, Tariic, he shouldn’t have been able to walk away from the fall he took, but he did. The guards I have searching haven’t found him. No one has seen him. The streets were practically empty this afternoon-anyone who was out had gathered to see you after your coronation.” He pursed his lips and added, “If we could be more specific in our description, it might help. ‘A wounded shifter wearing a black steel gauntlet’ might jog more memories than just ‘a wounded shifter.’”
“No,” Tariic said.
The lhesh stared out of the window into the night. Unlike Tariic, Makka found more to look at inside the chamber than out. The final transition of power in Khaar Mbar’ost seemed to find a reflection here. What had been Haruuc’s royal quarters were now Tariic’s. Old trophies of war had been shuffled out and luxuries brought in. Makka couldn’t have guessed where the rich goods came from other than somewhere beyond Darguun’s borders. Thick carpets in strange patterns. Furniture carved with delicate vines and flowers. Small chests of hammered metal inlaid with bright stones. Sweet-scented candles of uncommonly smooth wax in stands of fine ironwork. All had been haphazardly placed or tumbled about the room, abandoned when Tariic had ordered the servants out.
A grin of pleasure spread across Makka’s face. He belonged to the Fury. He knew the currents of vengeance. When Tariic had told Pradoor about Geth’s treacherous theft of the Rod of Kings, asking if she knew any prayers or divinations to locate lost objects, he’d recognized the hands of the Six. Pradoor knew no such prayers.
As if sensing the smile, Tariic turned and met his eyes. His ears went back. “Pradoor, I permit your servant’s presence. I won’t suffer his insolence.”
“He isn’t my servant, Tariic,” said the old goblin. Pradoor perched on top of a spindly little table, her fingers idly tracing the deep carvings of the dark wood. “He serves the Six. Surely his insolence is no greater than yours.”
Tariic bared his teeth, speaking between them. “Have care, Pradoor!”
“Or what?” Pradoor turned white eyes in the direction of Tariic’s voice. “Perhaps you don’t believe you need to humble yourself before the Six, but you need me. My words brought you the people. My words can take them away.” She smiled and her blind gaze softened. “But there is nothing in that for me, lhesh,” she added. “Continue to show favor to the Six as you promised and I will be your most loyal councilor.”
Tariic’s eyes narrowed, but his ears and face relaxed a little. “You use me, Pradoor.”
“As you use me, lhesh,” said Pradoor, inclining her head. “Consider this my best advice: why do you seek the Rod of Kings with such vigor when you possess what you need? The rod you hold has power even I can feel. All accept it as if it were the true rod. Rule with it and find Geth in your own time.”
“The rod was a triumphant gift from my uncle to the nation. It is my duty to recover the true rod. It would be a shame upon him if I didn’t.” A harsher tone crept into his voice. “And as long as I don’t possess the true rod, there is the risk that the false rod will be revealed. I must have the Rod of Kings in my hands as quickly as possible.”
If Makka hadn’t been looking directly at Tariic-and if Tariic hadn’t been looking at Pradoor as he spoke, his reactions attuned more to her blindness than to anything else-he would have missed the momentary tightening of the lhesh’s face and the darting of his eyes to the false rod where it rested alongside the spiked crown of Darguun on a velvet covered sideboard.
The grin on Makka’s face slipped away. Tariic’s glance had the look of greed, of a hunter who had made a good kill, but still wanted more. Makka felt a twinge of unease.
Tariic seemed to regard the fading of his smile as nothing more than proper concern. The hobgoblin’s ears rose and he nodded to Makka. “Yes,” he said, “there’s nothing amusing in that, is there?” He gathered the tiger skin cloak that was still fastened around his shoulders and sat down in a nearby chair. “Until the rod has been retrieved,
