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Chapter Text

Under dark, cloudy skies through which the glow of Eberron's twelve moons were all but invisible, Choraan taarka'khesh stared down into the darker recesses of the small but deep box canyon where as many as fifty dwarves and orcs were camped, hoping to escape justice. The goblin looked tiny atop his massive black and gray dire wolf, Taarka; together the two were still, silent as their clan name. They were perhaps twenty human miles to the east of New Cyre, deeper into the Seawall Mountain foothills. The sides of the fugitives' chosen lair were steep and choked with bushes, tall grasses and stunted trees. The only sound was the rushing of water from below, where a narrow stream carrying annual smowmelt from the towering mountain peaks further east flowed. Snowmelt had created this little canyon over thousands of years, from the time when the Dhakaani ruled this land and his ancestors had patrolled it.

The sound might hide the noise of enemy movement, but Choraan and Taarka stood downwind on the southeast edge, and the goblin was confident his dire wolf would pick up the scent if anyone came too close. In just a few short weeks goblin and wolf had bonded after he'd helped liberate it from a collapsed barn at PrairieHearth. He'd heard of "magebred" animals, how the humans of House Vadalis could make creatures stronger, faster, tougher, smarter or better producers of meat, milk, wool and leather. He never thought he'd partner with one. Though but a yearling by Choraan's estimation, the dire wolf was already as large as a horse, lean and strong, so perfectly-formed that any name would diminish his majesty...so Choraan simply called him "Wolf."

His quarry down below were good foes; hardened sellswords from the Mror Holds, but leaderless since he had slain the orc called "Quiet Grave" and Choraan's dwarf ally Golandar Kolkarun had dispatched his onetime friend Rock Silverbreath in spectacular fashion. It seemed clear they planned to spend the rest of the night here. Still, Choraan waited, because what seemed clear often proved to be deception. He had been on many such scouting missions, and as he waited he recognized this as a vor'khesh delkaan, a "hushed time" when one can truly be alone with his thoughts.

Before leaving with the party tasked to hunt down these fugitives -- a group that included Golandar, Thomas the Aundairian Wizard, a priest of Dol Arrah, a khoravar archer from northwest Breland called Ivannio Thiembe, about a dozen Cyran militia led by a Brelish Army officer, a squad of King's Citadel agents led by the Dark Lantern Ariel Elenwyd, and Ullracht Markar, a House Deneith representative brought along because both groups claimed to have Deneith charters -- Choraan had dined with the aged ghaal'dar, Ambassador Ka'vuun, at his modest home in town.

The home, on a street still called "Embassy Row" even though most every foreign diplomat had abandoned New Cyre weeks ago, had been partially burned during the battle. Fortunately the empty stable behind the house hard against the town's north wall had survived, and Choraan and Taarka had chosen to sleep there those first nights after the battle. The Ambassador still had three servants, all goblins; his hobgoblin staff, a deputy and two bodyguards, perished some two months ago while carrying a diplomatic parcel from Darguun to the Brelish capital, Wroat. Two of the goblins were terrified of Taarka; but a female called Ghoori had approached the dire wolf with proper respect, and soon was rubbing his muzzle and brushing his fur. She gave Choraan the same respect, and had spent the previous night in the stable too. Now, under the dark clouds, Choraan thought of Ghoori and whether his clan vows might allow him to court her as a mate rather than a convenience. Except....

Back then, at dinner, the old Dar greeted Choraan still wearing the elaborate armor he'd worn during the battle, which fought its own valiant battle against his expansive gut. Pinned over his heart on a tabard embroidered in Darguun's colors were some twenty ribbons, medals and other military honors earned during his Last War service: Some bore the House Deneith chimera, others the crown and bell of Cyre; the rest were unknown to Choraan. Above them Ka'vuun wore two larger medallions: The swirling flames symbol of his Gantii Vus clan, next to the blade-edged crown of Lhesh Haruuc's birth clan, the Rhukaan Taash. His bright green cloak clashed with his dark orange skin -- together they reminded Choraan of the Khraal jungle of his childhood, along the coast between the rivers Torlaac and Ghaal -- and was clasped with still another honor, a short length of platinum links signifying his mastery of the spiked chain and membership in one of Darguun's most celebrated cross-clan societies, the Order of the Chain. An order to which Choraan belonged; once the Khesh'Dar officially emerged from their ancient self-imposed exile, many had joined the order to help integrate into the new nation. That both clans had been well paid years before to silently infiltrate the modern hobgoblin clans, posing as servants and underlings to escape notice, was left unsaid. Choraan's family were among those deep agents, or p'lauun, named for the tiny, stealthy rodents that infested the Khraal and, in turn, fed many of the jungle's predators. It's said a Silent Blade p'lau learned of Haruuc's intent to rebel against the Cyrans before he told his own sword-brothers, Choraan thought.

Ka'vuun's ears were open, tips down, indicating he was receptive and relaxed in the presence of a stranger. He tapped his armor lightly with closed fist, saluting his visitor as he said "Saa'atcha." Choraan returned the gesture and softly said "ta muut" before kneeling on the proffered cushion. Inside the home showed little sign of the fire that had scarred the exterior. On a low table sat a tray bearing a silver flask, two matching cups and a bowl filled with starchy noon balls in a brine sauce. Choraan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the smells of home cooking and boiled wine, choosing not to notice how slow Ka'vuun was to kneel on his own cushion, or the grimaces crossing the old Dar's face from the pain of his injuries.

"Interesting days, wouldn't you agree?" said Ka'vuun as he poured the wine. His voice was gravelly and without accent, words crisp and enunciated. His thinning hair was black, but the tufts in his ears where almost white. "We truly held the sword by the blade, defending these chaat'oor."

Choraan took a noon ball and one of the cups, nodding as he sipped. The starchy snack crunched when he bit into it, and he looked closely at the uneaten half. It was darker than traditional, and as he ate the rest he tasted a hint of sweetness.

Ka'vuun popped a ball into his mouth and crunched loudly. "You like? Made from belwheat, a Cyran grain. When Darguun was born, the Gantii Vus were given hundreds of farms north of The Gathering Stone, along the new border from Olkhaan to Gorgonhorn. After The Mourning those farms became the only source of belwheat in all Khorvaire. But the Five Nations will not buy from us because our farmers are tuuvoto -- Cyran slaves."

"I'd heard you fought like a hero of old Dhakaan against these gath'aatcha so-called Swords of Liberty...yet you speak about grain." Choraan took another ball from the bowl and ate it with a sip of wine.

"You offer me aatcha when I was simply doing my duty. I am here to represent our Lhesh and protect his interests -- in this case my muut was to defend New Cyre. Though I must admit it felt good to hold the chain again. There was a Cyran woman in the street just outside, fending off four attackers with a short blade as I dealt with the ones trying to set this house on fire. She stabbed one through the heart, but an orc knocked her out with his club. Then I was on them. I tripped one human, and as he fell I put a spike through his throat. The orc missed with a two-handed smash, then I wrapped the club in my chain and stripped it from him. He fell back and the fourth chaat'oor cut me in the left leg and hip. I sliced at him from high and low, left and right, as he waved his sword in useless parries. Six cuts and he fell. The orc, worthless sellsword that he was, fled. It was then that I noticed the blood flowing down my leg, so I picked up the woman and brought her inside, to this very room. I set her down, poured a potion down her throat, drank one myself, helped my servants put out the fire -- and by then the streets had been cleared. In truth, I was exhausted. Maabet! Thirty years since that Karrn paaldaask hit me with her foul necromancy, yet still I feel it. But enough about me; your aatcha was far greater than mine in this battle."

And so Choraan told a shortened version of what he'd seen and done during the Battle of New Cyre: Killing the expert orc assassin Quiet Grave, engaging the traitor Dover d'Vadalis, fighting the dragons and foul creatures summoned by the Manifest Legion, assisting in bringing down the Red Owl herself -- all while using his spiked chain. He helped himself to more wine, and soon both flask and bowl were empty. Ka'vuun listened intently, interrupting only to ask for more details on the tactics and Choraan's chain-fighting styles and maneuvers. When the goblin was finished, the hobgoblin leaned back and said with great solemnity, "Raat shan gath'kal dor: The story stops but never ends. Well told!"

The two moved to a small dining room where a table was set for two, along with a fine-smelling selection of Dar cuisine: Meats on skewers, vegetables boiled in ale, another bowl of noon balls, matching flasks of hot wine and cold water, and a small plate with two shaa’taar, pastries filled with honey cream. One chair was higher and made for goblins; the other was well-worn, and creaked loudly as the old hobgoblin settled into it. Ka'vuun ate with gusto; Choraan sampled everything, offering compliments on each dish. Only when he was ready to bite into a shaa'taar did Ka'vuun pull a slip of parchment from under his tabard.

"I wanted to wait before mentioning this news because I wasn't sure where the Khesh'Dar, your Silent Folk, stand when it comes to Darguun," the hobgoblin said. The tips of his ears rose, then drooped -- the equivalent of a shrug.

"The taarka'khesh and shaarat'khesh stand where they have for thousands of years: Apart. We take no sides, offer our services equally to any who can pay."

"So you've been paid to come to Breland?"

"Someone paid my clan. I was given this mission. I will speak no more on it."

"Cho," said Ka'vuun with a nod. "But what of you, Choraan? What do you personally think of our Lhesh?"

The goblin kept his voice level, his ears neutral. Such questioning from a high-ranking ghaal'dar was expected; the emergence of the Dhakaani clans -- or kechs as they preferred -- had surprised Darguun as much as the human-led Five Kingdoms. "I respect Haruuc for his prowess in battle, his leadership. It was not easy to bring your lowland clans together, to point their blades in the same direction. Haruuc has earned aatcha for this achievement. But if my elders told me I must kill him, I would not hesitate, even though we Silent Wolves are not assassins."

"Do you suppose his sudden illness, so like the one that killed the Brelish king, Boranel, came from such an assignment?"

"If the Silent Blades had been hired, neither of us would ever know, yet Haruuc would be dead. I will say that death by wasting illness is...unworthy. Haruuc should die as he lived, with blade in hand, staring his killer in the eye."

"Mazo. Well said." Ka'vuun paused, taking a drink from his wine cup as Choraan finished the pastry. "Many would say it is our destiny to reclaim all of old Dhakaan; to them, Darguun is but the necessary first step. Some think our Lhesh is content with the lands he's taken, and must step aside or be replaced so that we can continue on this path."

"You speak of the Dhakaani, like the Kech Volaar and Kech Shaarat?" The twelve Dhakaani kechs, including the two all-golin'dar clans, had gone into seclusion as the Empire collapsed. In their hidden strongholds they held to the Empire's traditions, language and customs, passing them down generation to generation through the Desperate Times, the conquests of Karrn and Galifar, and into the Last War. They protected Dhakaan's history, collected its artifacts, and preserved the magical arts of the duur'kala and dashoor. Darguun's violent birth, fully recounted by the p'lauun in their midst, was the long-awaited sign for the kechs to emerge; while they never acknowledged Haruuc as their leader, neither had they actively opposed him. Most kech strongholds were deep in the Seawall Mountains, in secluded valleys and vast cavern complexes; many were closer to Zolanberg, Sterngate or New Cyre than to Darguun's capital, Rhukaan Draal.

"Yes, these Heirs of Dhakaan are a concern. They act as if the Five Kingdoms present no greater challenge than the feral gnomes and tribal orcs the early Empire pushed aside. They sing of battles against the Daelkyr, but have never faced warforged, Karrnathi undead, Silver Flame templars, Arcanix-trained war wizards...or floating forts." Ka'vuun waved an arm in the direction of Dejarn, anchored west of town like a mountain peak broken free of its stony roots. "Their bravado spreads among the younger warriors, and may lead to tragedy. But our Lhesh also has enemies much closer. The kind that shout his name in public, but plot and scheme in the dark. The kind that might exploit Dhakaani visions of grandeur to recruit for this fraudulent Draar'Mac clan, the so-called 'Dark Hands.'" When Choraan said nothing, the hobgoblin grunted once and continued. "Well, whoever wanted him dead has failed. I received two sendings from Rhukaan Draal this morning." He waved the slip of parchment, then held it close to his eyes, cleared his throat and read:

"The illness afflicting Lhesh Haruuc Shaarat'kor is purged. A special duur'kala ritual two nights ago cured our Lhesh of the ailment that was killing him." Ka'vuun flipped the parchment, and continued reading: "Regrettably, Ghakhuuc'duur Soorghaas died while leading the ritual, having taken Haruuc's illness into her body. She died as our Lhesh woke from his feverish coma." He put the parchment down, reached for his wine cup and raised it. "I was honored to have met Matron Soorghaas when she led our delegation to pay respects to Boranel, and witnessed her leadership when the Marguul clans threatened war. Even at the end of her life, she was...formidable."

As two goblin servants cleared away the plates and brought out fresh flasks of wine and water, Ka'vuun told Choraan of his days as commander of the Rhuul Dec ("Blood Wings"), a mercenary air cavalry unit formed by House Deneith from an alliance of two northern Manticore tribes with young hobgoblin volunteers, contracted to fight for Queen Dannel of Cyre. The Blood Wings were a legend, victors in battle after battle in Cyre and Karrnath until 969 YK, when Ka'vuun was gravely injured by Karrn necromancy and his Manticore killed. Back then, his second had been Kogaa of the Gan'duur clan. “A brilliant flyer and excellent fighter," he said, "but Kogaa was aggressive and ambitious. As I recovered at home from that paaldaask's spell, Kogaa led the Rhuul Dec in open rebellion against Cyre, declaring support for Haruuc when he claimed the lands of southern Cyre as our new nation, Darguun."

Missing his chance to earn glory in Haruuc's Rebellion, though not his fault, ended Ka'vuun's military career. He traveled to his clan's new lands and helped administer them, reestablishing the belwheat farms, rebuilding torched villages and trying to treat Cyran survivors as valuable assets rather than slaves to be brutalized. "Over twenty-six boring years, I became expert in growing that crop...and then the Treaty of Thronehold gave Darguun international standing," Ka'vuun said, ears flared in mock surprise. "Our Lhesh suddenly needed diplomats to all the seats of power in postwar Khorvaire: High-ranking Dar who were neither...'war criminals' nor ambitious schemers looking to line their pockets or conspire against Darguun. Even then, I was almost overlooked, until someone reminded him I was about the only surviving senior commander who had not taken up arms against Cyre -- never mind why. Soon, Haruuc appointed me 'Ambassador' to New Cyre."

"War criminals?" Choraan asked, ears showing puzzlement.

"Leaders who act without honor in battle, or something. A human term, but one they care about in Aundair or Thrane. Even though the war is over, such leaders are still subject to arrest and trial. It's said their House Medani keeps a list. I was visited by a duur'kala of the Kech Volaar late last year; she had not heard the term either. We spoke of many things, but she shared nothing of why her team was in Breland." The old Dar shook his head in human fashion. "It helped that I respected the Cyran people and culture. Unlike my former subordinate -- now 'Warlord' Kogaa if you believe it -- who went from respect to an obsessive, even revolting, fetish." The recent presence of a hobgoblin bard, leading a team no less, was intriguing, and Choraan paused to compose himself.

"Is that why you remained here, when the other nations recalled their diplomats?"

"The arrangements between Darguun, Breland, Zilargo and New Cyre were complex, and nearly undone when my deputy was slain as he carried our Lhesh's consent to the agreed terms. I'm convinced his death was connected to the battle we just won. Slaughtering the Cyran people would have left Breland little reason to accept additional Cyrans freed by our clans."

"And that's the plan? Lhesh Haruuc is freeing slaves taken thirty years ago?"

"It is part of the grand bargain, yes. The Cyrans and Zil freed by the Marguul bugbears were just the start. Naturally the guul'dar couldn't just comply, they had to rise up, threaten Sterngate and skirmish with the garrison before finally taking a bribe from the Matron herself to stand down." He paused, shaking his head again before continuing. "Haruuc intends to free thousands more -- not just the aged, but many born since the Rebellion -- in exchange for trade rights and recognition of our sovereignty over Darguun. For the Gantii Vus, selling belwheat openly will mean unheard-of prosperity." The hobgoblin chuckled. "They called me 'human lover' and 'ink dipper' because I didn't have the courtesy to die in battle. They were happy to have me do the work of running clan business, but even my family mocked me for it."

Choraan looked away and said nothing, until Ka'vuun took a breath, lowered his ears and said, "Apologies for the outburst. I was going to say that Prin--Governor Oargev sought my expertise on belwheat, and...other matters. Even before the grand bargain, Cyrans in Darguun have sometimes found their way...out."

The goblin now stared intently at the hobgoblin, ears forward. "Meaning...?"

"How do you like Ghoori? She says good things about you and your fine wolf." The abrupt change caused Choraan to do a double take, to which Ka'vuun chuckled again. "Some few among the tuuvoto have passed through the mountains. Them with families here who could pay, or that Oargev could ransom, or with some connection to the Dragonmark Houses. Young Ghoori has been a...guide for many. She knows the routes, has braved many hazards."

Finally Choraan spoke. "I have heard of such a thing. Dar willing to smuggle tuuvoto away from their clans, for coin. They are called 'worgs,' yes?"

"'Worgs,' indeed. Do you object?"

"For most clans, helping a slave escape is punishable by death."

"True, but most clans don't miss a slave here and there, and the coin they receive usually makes up for it. Now of course, freeing slaves has been endorsed by our Lhesh. If Ghoori and the other worgs in and out of Darguun are put out of business as a result, it is an acceptable loss. I could leave this life satisfied I have done my duty, showing our people they can prosper without conquest, without subjugation."

Before The Mourning, freeing a Cyran slave had been a simple matter of bribing a guard to sneak across the well-patrolled northern border. Now it required treacherous paths over or through the Seawall mountains, led by guides like Ghoori, for whom Ka'vuun offered his Embassy as a safe house. It was dangerous work, but knowing brought him no closer to defeating the Draar'Mac and cutting off their outside support.

Chapter Text

Back in the foothills it started to rain. Choraan broke from his reverie and looked around. Taarka chuffed softly, staring down into the narrow valley. Over the sound of the rain he thought he could hear raised voices. He waited, then glanced down at the dire wolf. Sleek, and well fed...now. The voices tailed off, and Choraan briefly thought about horses. Better than thinking about tuuvoto rights, Ka'vuun's blasphemies, or Ghoori the smuggler...the worg. More than a convenience, after all.

Hundreds were slain or injured during the battle, from common plow-horses to magebred Vadalis stallions. The second morning after combat ended Choraan had joined the other hero with a dire wolf companion -- Nina Moondown, a female human from the faraway Eldeen Reaches and a druid like the Gatekeepers, ancient allies against the Daelkyr. Together they requested fresh horse meat for Taarka and Nina's wolf, Mama. The Brelish quartermaster, a barrel-chested man with a graying beard and wooden leg, had objected to the goblin's presence, and wanted to continue putting the injured horses down and burning the carcasses in a big fire pit. Voices rose as the quartermaster drew a curved sabre while Nina and Mama stepped back. He had been seconds away from death, until the Aundairian wizard Thomas intervened. Grudgingly, the two wolves were offered all the flesh they could eat, but not the chance to kill the horses themselves. The compromise had been a reminder that being on the same side did not end all prejudices.

Thomas had come to Choraan and Nina with a offer to join a force charged with capturing fleeing dwarf and orc mercenaries, found in a small canyon with thick undergrowth in the foothills. Their numbers and discipline called for a unit much larger than the Kings' Citadel patrols that had fanned out from the titanic floating fortress to round up Swords of Liberty stragglers. Nina had turned him down flat, saying she was needed to save the groves of Composite trees outside town. Choraan had already volunteered his stealth and scouting skills when the dwarf, Golandar, had banged on Ka'vuun's door in the predawn hours...which brought goblin and dire wolf to the edge of this small canyon on a rainy night.

The sounds of the rain and the stream below must have masked his assailant's approach up the steep slope. Without warning Taarka jumped back and yelped with pain, and Choraan had to grip the thick fur atop the wolf's neck with both hands to keep from being thrown. He nudged Taarka with his knees, and he whirled and sprinted up the side of the valley. After a few seconds Taarka slowed, favoring his right rear leg, but kept moving until the goblin felt they were safely out of range.

When Choraan hopped off, Taarka immediately laid down, shifting to his left side so the wound -- and the crossbow bolt sunk deep into the muscle -- was exposed. Choraan pulled a narrow tube from a belt pouch, removed the cap, then with his free hand grasped the bolt. Taarka winced, Choraan whispered calming words, then suddenly yanked the bolt free. Taarka whimpered but lay still as the Goblin looked closely at the bolt, saw greenish sap mixed with blood, shook his head, and tucked it into the same belt pouch (which appeared too small to hold either the bolt or the tube he'd retrieved). He squeezed a pasty salve from the tube onto the palm of his right hand, then smeared it liberally on the injured leg near the hip. After a few seconds the wound closed to a tiny round scar, but the poison remained. Taarka was strong and brave; during the battle Choraan had seen him bite clean through a spear haft, and charge a summoned creature that looked like a dragon made of shadow but belched real flames. The poison was clearly potent; time was short.

Must have been one of the sellswords, Choraan thought as he helped Taarka stand. Very good or very lucky, given the darkness, steep upward angle and cover provided by the foliage. Taarka whimpered softly as Choraan began leading him back to the Brelish camp. There was no pursuit, no additional shots. I'll fetch that priest of Dol Arrah, he thought. Then when we finish rounding up these fugitives, I'll find the shooter and kill him.

The dire wolf suddenly turned his head and stared uphill to Choraan's left, letting out a warning growl. A figure emerged from behind a house-sized boulder just at the edge of Choraan's darkvision. Then a second, and a third. Bugbears, all silhouetted as if they'd wanted the goblin to see them. For several long seconds they stared at each other, until the rain paused. Choraan considered, thinking of Taarka's injury, then took a deep breath and circled to a position closer to their level. The hillside was grassy and rain-slick, with few bushes and no nearby trees to provide cover. Just the boulder.

"Well met, Choraan of the taarka'khesh," said the first, a tall male, dark of fur and wearing a blackened chain shirt. "I am Raavik of the Rhukaan Taash." The bugbear pointed to his left and right, and spoke like they were all sitting around a dinner table. "Nasheer of the Kech Shaarat; Broomm of the Kech Volaar." Nasheer's fur was light; he wore a metal breastplate that glistened from the rain, and the hilt of some large weapon could be seen behind his left shoulder. Broomm was clad in dark leathers; her visible fur was gray or brown -- the two colors nearly identical under darkvision -- and scribed with black lines as if seared with a hot poker.

"Three guul'dar from three clans -- all far from home." Choraan took three steps away from Taarka, and gripped one end of his spiked chain with his right hand. It irked him that a Darguul bugbear seemed to be leading two Dhakaani.

Nasheer saw the movement and shook his head. "We are not here to fight you, little cousin." His voice was deeper and carried better, as if this Blade Bearer was used to giving orders over the din of battle. "In fact, a few months ago I was honored to fight at the side of a Silent Wolf...Jiindal. Do you know him?"

Choraan shrugged his ears, and Raavik looked for a long second at Nasheer, one ear raised incredulously. He turned his gaze back to the goblin when Choraan asked, "How are you in Breland?"

"There are ways over and through the mountains," Raavik said with a dismissive wave, "difficult and secret, taken by fleeing tuuvoto and the gath'aatcha Dar who smuggle them."

"The same ways the false Draar'Mac clan traveled to upset the truce between Darguun and Breland?"

"The Draar'Mac are not false," said Broomm in a raspy whisper, earning her a glare from Raavik, "The Dark Hands' lineage is of Dhakaan, same as mine...and yours."

Seconds passed. Both Silent Clans taught various ways to kill or incapacitate a guul'dar, and Choraan systematically considered each as he assessed his chances. A quick wind gust snapped at their wet cloaks. Then he said, "I asked the wrong question. I meant why are you here, this night, talking to me?"

Raavik turned his gaze back to the goblin, ears forward. "Your loyalties are not to Breland," he said casually, "nor to the Cyran vagabonds, nor to the disgraced exile Ka'vuun."

Choraan heard the words "human lover" -- softly, as if carried by the wind. But none of the bugbears seemed to have said it, or heard it.

"I bear the words of the duur'kala Mariin Dhakaan," rasped Broomm. She cleared her throat loudly, and her next words were in the pleasant tenor of a hobgoblin female: "You fight for the eventual, inevitable rise of the New Dhakaani Empire." Raavik stared at Broomm as she spoke, ears waggling, before he once again focused on Choraan.

The goblin shrugged again at the simple display of sorcery. Raavik growled in response. This talk is not going the way Raavik planned, Choraan thought. I can exploit his irritation. He poised his body, ready for action. The sound of the rain returning swept across the hillside, followed by the first drops, heavier than the earlier drizzle.

"That's a fine animal you have," Nasheer said at last, voice carrying over the rain. "A Silent Wolf, indeed."

"It stinks of magic...human magic," hissed Broomm in her normal voice. When Raavik growled again she faced him and continued, "Vadalis-bred, just like the ones that--"

A louder, more menacing growl from somewhere behind the boulder cut Broomm off. She nodded once, ears down.

"Magebred or no, your wolf is injured," said Nasheer, unperturbed. "We shall not keep you, little cousin. But we all agree there is someone you should meet."

"Cho? I recognize the Blade Bearers and Word Bearers, just as they have always recognized the Khesh'Dar, by not interfering with our missions." Choraan paused, feeling the hard rain seep inside his armor, trying not to think of who else might be out here, then stared at Raavik. He nearly had to shout to be heard. "But what of you, Raavik of the Rhukaan Taash? Do you 'bear the words' of Lhesh Haruuc? Perhaps you've come to kill the faithless sellswords in the canyon?"

Raavik dropped the conversational tone. "We care nothing for those chaat'oor, or the ones hunting them. And not all in the Razor Crown worship Haruuc."

"The Lhesh...means well," added Nasheer, "but his desire to free all tuuvoto cuts to the heart of ten thousand years of our shared history."

"Haruuc is but one Dar, not our Emperor," rasped Broomm. "It is not for him to end our...peculiar institution.”

”OUR shared history?” Choraan said, ears spread wide in a flare of anger. “In the time of Empire, the Dar didn’t take slaves, didn’t need slaves.”

Broomm scoffed, which became a long hacking growl. She spat wetly on the ground. “You remember the duur’kala stories of Dhakaan at its height. After the Daelkyr, we adapted. Our racial bond broken, later emperors turned to the lesser races. The kechs in their exile took slaves when needed.” She grunted, ears dismissive.

”Think, little cousin,” Nasheer said calmly, a trait Choraan had never associated with a bugbear. The pounding rain barely reduced the resonance of his voice. “Your Silent Clans only exist because the racial bonds faded. Would the mighty, unified Dhakaan of your stories have allowed two all golin’dar clans to form, or persist for so long?”

Choraan kept his ears neutral and said nothing. At his side, Taarka gave a soft whimper.

”Enough!” Raavik barked. “The tuuvoto wont be freed. Even now Haruuc succumbs to illness, despite his prowess and duur'kala magic."

Choraan continued to suppress his expression as puzzlement changed to surprise. These three don't know of Haruuc's recovery. Instead he called out, "Who must I meet, that you keep me from tending to Taarka's injury?"

The rain had caused a mist to rise, hiding the boulder. The bugbears' heads appeared to float atop the mist, then they too were obscured. Choraan stepped forward, angling along the slope until the boulder was visible again. In those few seconds a fourth figure had appeared, leaning against the boulder. The others had moved aside to give the newcomer space. Larger than the bugbears, it looked like a giant goblin wearing rags, eyes glowing bright in Choraan's darkvision as it loaded a heavy crossbow that looked small in its claw-tipped hands. It then set the weapon down and spoke, voice raspy like Broomm's, louder than Nasheer's -- and full of malice.

"I am called Diizina -- of the Draar'Mac." It glared at him, eyes flashing, tilted its head, and said, "now run, little cousin."

Choraan's calm evaporated as if a midsummer sun had suddenly appeared overhead. He couldn't think, but simply turned and fled down the hillside, away from the boulder and the hateful thing. He paused just long enough to leap onto Taarka's back, ignoring the wolf's whimper, and rode hard all the way back to the Brelish camp.

Chapter Text

"What of the Draar'Mac?" Choraan had asked Ka'vuun at dinner. Though his voice was neutral, he noticed too late that his ears betrayed him. They were forward, interested. He relaxed, but knew the old Dar had seen it.

"When raiders crossed the border and killed two Cyran families three months back, of course the Prince -- this was just before it changed to Governor -- summoned me to express his disapproval. His words were harsh, disrespectful, but I am a diplomat." As he said it, Ka'vuun jabbed one finger into the air, ear tips fully upright. "In truth I agreed with Oargev, and told him that neither Lhesh Haruuc nor any Darguun clan had sanctioned or authorized this attack into Breland...which was true. I also told him the Murnie and Miller families had not been targeted for being Cyran, but were simply the first people the raiders had encountered. This, I soon learned, was false." The old hobgoblin's ears drooped, and the chair creaked as he shifted.

"How so?"

"The Murnies were building their cottage with the help of a warforged hireling, who brought dressed white stones down from the top of the nearby hill. Stones that had once been part of a Dhakaani monument. They wanted something from that monument, and killed the family to get it. Before that they killed a family who were rebuilding an abandoned grain mill to be used by the New Cyran farmers when their crops came in. This mill became their forward base. The warforged, who called itself 'Plow,' was not seen again."

A simple sound with two meanings, Choraan thought. A plow is a farming tool in the human tongue, but to the Dar a p'lau was a tiny rodent native to the Khraal jungle, a voracious pest. In Khesh'Dar slang it meant an asset in hiding, an infiltrator; growing up, Choraan's parents had been p'lauun. The goblin looked at the hobgoblin, who sipped from his water goblet and grunted agreement.

"You see it too. Yes, I believe the warforged was working for the raiders."

"What were they looking for?"

"The broken bronzewood haft of Guurgaal, a spear used by Emperor Sulaaco Ku'un when he led Dhakaan's legions into battle with the Daelkyr during their fifth incursion -- not too far from where we sit, or so Mariin Dhakaan told me. It was embedded in the cornerstone of the monument. Gatekeeper magic shaped the stone around the wood, preserving it nearly eight millennia. Even as Oargev's hired adventurers and militia dealt with the bandit threat, some escaped with their prize. The warforged, 'Plow' or P'lau, among them."

"These were the Draar'Mac?"

"That was the name they claimed, along with the crude black handprints painted on their shields and armor. But for mere bandits, they had impressive kit. Breastplates made for Karrn zombies, crossbows with bayonets from Zilargo, alchemy brewed by a Cannith excoriate -- and magebred wolves from House Vadalis...normal sized, not like your Taarka. All paid for with ancient Empire coin -- many thousands of gold pieces."

Now there was no hiding Choraan's interest, and the old hobgoblin chuckled.

"There's still more. While the bandits falsely claimed to be part of the Dark Hands, it's not true that there never was such a clan. When I met Ghakhuuc'duur Soorghaas at Brokenblade Castle, she took me aside and told me several things. One, it was she who whispered in Haruuc's ear that I should be posted to New Cyre. But more important, that the Draar'Mac were an ancient Dhakaani clan, influential and innovative, strong in artifice at the time of the Ku'un dynasty. But after that last Daelkyr invasion the Ku'uns were overthrown and the Draar'Mac were blamed for the Empire's losses. All Dark Hands were rounded up and executed, even the children, and the very name stricken from history, forgotten by all but the most senior Kech Volaar. Soorghaas learned much at Volaar Draal, more than her duur'kala teachers suspected. So now, just these past few months, we see the sudden wealth in Ku'un dynasty coins, the broken spear, an ancient Ku'un banner sold to that Morgrave scholar, Grigg Wunsin -- links in a chain, according to the Matron. Somehow, something of that forgotten clan has reemerged, even if their recruits were clanless outcasts and recent immigrants. I think you needed to know this...for your mission."

"Raat shan gath'kal dor," Choraan had said. The story stopped, but did not end.