The+Silent+Wolf

//"War...Crime? This Human term is unknown to me. There is crime, and there is war. In the history of the Dar, the only 'crime' in war is losing."// ~ **Mariin Dhakaan**, to Ambassador **Ka'vanau**, 997 YK

=Choraan, 5 Eyre 998 YK:=

Under dark, cloudy skies through which the glow of Eberron's twelve moons were all but invisible, Choraan stared down into the darker recesses of the tiny valley -- more a shallow box canyon, really -- where as many as fifty Dwarves and Orcs were camped, hoping to escape justice. The Goblin looked tiny atop his massive dire wolf, Taarka; together the two were still, silent as their Clan name. They were perhaps twelve 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 his Dhakaani ancestors ruled this land.

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. His quarry were good foes; hardened mercenaries from the Mror Holds, but leaderless since he had slain the Orc called "Quiet Grave" and Choraan's Dwarf ally Golandar 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 the //vor'khesh delkaan//, the "quiet time" when one can truly be alone with his thoughts.

Before leaving with the party tasked to hunt down these fugitives from the Battle of New Cyre -- a group that included Golandar, Thomas the Aundairian Wizard, a priest of Dol Arrah called Elendor, a //Khoravar// archer nicknamed "Ivan Ho," 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 a lone representative of House Deneith known simply as "Nomad" -- Choraan had dined one last time with the aged //Ghaal'dar//, Ambassador Ka'vanau, 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 by dragonfire during the battle. Fortunately the empty stable behind the house had survived, and Choraan and Taarka had chosen to sleep there the past two nights since the Swords of Liberty had been defeated. The Ambassador still had three servants, all Goblins; his Hobgoblin staff, a deputy and two bodyguards, had died nearly two months ago trying to carry a diplomatic parcel from Darguun to the Brelish capital, Wroat. Two of the Goblins were terrified of Taarka; the other, 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 to obscure 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'vanau 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, the jungle 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 his people's most celebrated societies, the Order of the Chain. An order to which Choraan himself belonged. Once the //Khesh'dar// had come out from their ancient self-imposed exile, many had joined the order as a way of integrating with the new nation.

Ka'vanau's ears were open, tips down, indicating that he was receptive and relaxed in the presence of a stranger. He tapped his armor lightly with closed fist, offering a salute to his visitor as he said "//Saa'atcha//." Choraan returned the gesture and softly said "//ta muut//" before kneeling on the proffered cushion. 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'vanau 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'vanau as he poured the wine. "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 paused to look more closely at the uneaten half. It was darker than traditional, and as he ate the rest he tasted a hint of sweetness.

Ka'vanau popped a ball into his mouth and crunched loudly. "You like? These were 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 in my hands 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, drank a potion, 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 his foul necromancy, and 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 Siege of New Cyre: Killing 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'vanau 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. The table was set for two, and there were several serving platters with //Dar// cuisine: Meats on skewers, vegetables boiled in ale, another bowl of //noon// balls, and matching flasks of hot wine and cold water. One chair was higher and made for Goblins; the other was well-worn, and creaked loudly as Ka'vanau settled into it. They ate quietly, until Ka'vanau pulled 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 again -- the equivalent of a shrug among the //Dar//.

"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 assignment. I will speak no more on it."

"//Cho//," said Ka'vanau 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 Dkakaani clans 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 //Ghaal//'//dar// 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, and Haruuc would be dead. I will say that death by wasting illness is...unworthy of him. Haruuc should die as he lived, with blade in hand, staring his killer in the eye."

"//Mazo//. Well said." Ka'vanau paused, taking a drink from his wine cup. "Many would say it is our destiny to reclaim all of old Dhakaan; to them, Darguun is just 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 clans like the //Kech Volaar// and //Kech Shaarat//?" The twelve Dhakaani clans, including the two comprising the //Khesh'Dar//, 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 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 was the long-awaited sign for the Kechs to come out; while they had never acknowledged Haruuc as their leader, neither had they actively opposed him. Most Dhakaani clan strongholds were deep in the Seawall Mountains, in secluded valleys and vast cavern complexes; some were closer to Zolanberg, Sterngate or New Cyre than to Darguun's capital, Rhukaan Draal.

"Yes, these Heirs of Dhakaan are a concern. 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'vanau 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 flask 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."

Over dinner, Ka'vanau 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 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 late 969 YK, when Ka'vanau was gravely injured by Karrn necromancy and his Manticore killed. Back then, his second-in-command was Kogaa of the //Gan'duur//. "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, even though it was not his fault, ended Ka'vanau'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'vanau said. "Our Lhesh suddenly needed diplomats in 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 that 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, his 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." The old //Dar// shook his head. "It helped that I respected the Cyran people and culture. Unlike my former subordinate, who went from respect to an obsessive, even revolting, fetish."

"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 the //Dar//."

"And that's the plan? Lhesh Haruuc is freeing slaves taken 30 years ago?"

"It is part of the grand bargain, yes. The Cyrans and Zil freed by the Marguul were just the start. Haruuc intends to free thousands more -- not just the aged, but many born since the Rebellion -- in exchange for trade rights and recognition of sovereignty over Darguun. For my own Clan, being able to sell 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'vanau took a breath, lowered his ears and said, "Apologies for the outburst. I was going to say that Prince--I mean, 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'vanau 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 the Lhesh himself. 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 mountains, led by guides like Ghoori, for whom Ka'vanau 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.

Back in the foothills it started to rain. Choraan broke from his reverie and looked around. Taarka chuffed softly, and stared 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'vanau's blasphemies, or Ghoori the smuggler...the worg. More than a sexual convenience, after all.//

Hundreds had died or been injured during the battle, from common plow-horses to magebred Vadalis stallions. The day after the battle Choraan had joined the other person with a Dire Wolf companion -- the female Human from the faraway Eldeen Reaches, Nina Moondown. Together they inquired about about 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. Voices were raised, the quartermaster drew a curved shortsword while Nina and Mama stepped back. He had been seconds away from death, until the Aundairian wizard, Thomas, had 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 actually 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 anchored next to New Cyre 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, though, had volunteered his stealth and scouting skills...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 canyon slope. Without warning Taarka jumped back and yelped with pain, and Choraan had to grip the thick fur atop the Dire Wolf's neck with both hands to keep from being thrown. He nudged Taarka with his knees, and he whirled and sprinted up the sloping 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, 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 Dire Wolf's injury. After a few seconds the wound closed, but the poison from the bolt was still there. Time was short.

//Had to have been one of the sellswords//, Choraan thought as he helped Taarka stand. //He was very good or very lucky, with 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 find 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 rose from behind a 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 around to a position downhill from them.

"Well met, Choraan of the //taarka'khesh//," said the first to rise. He was tall, 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 female, clad in dark leathers; her visible fur was gray or brown -- the two colors appearing nearly identical under darkvision -- and scribed with black lines as if seared with a red-hot poker.

"Three //guul'dar// from three clans -- all far from home." Choraan took a step 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 shook his head, 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 used 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 knew 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'vanau."

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 with his ears at the simple display of sorcery. Raavik growled in response. //This talk is not going the way Raavik planned//, Charaan 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 growl cut Broomm off -- full of menace, from somewhere behind the Bugbears, further up the hill. She nodded once, ears down, and said no more.

"Magic 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 sellwords 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// spits in the face of ten thousand years of Dhakaani history."

"Haruuc is but one //Dar//, not our Emperor," rasped Broomm. "It is not for him to end our...peculiar institution. Yet even now he succumbs to illness, despite his prowess and //duur'kala// magic."

With an effort Choraan suppressed his 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, away from Taarka, climbing the hill until the boulder was visible again. In those few seconds a fourth figure had appeared, sitting on the boulder. The others had moved aside to give the newcomer space. It was as large as a Bugbear, but looked like a Goblin wearing rags. Its eyes glowed bright in Choraan's darkvision. It was busy loading a heavy crossbow that looked small in its claw-tipped hands. It then set the weapon down and spoke, its voice raspy like Broomm's, louder than Nasheer's -- and full of menace.

"I am called Diizina -- of the //Draar'Mac//."

Choraan's calm evaporated as if a midsummer sun had suddenly appeared overhead. He couldn't think, he simply turned and fled down the hillside, away from the boulder and the hateful thing atop it. 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.

"What of the //Draar'Mac//?" Choraan had asked Ka'vanau. 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 the goblin raiders killed two Cyran families three months back, of course the Prince summoned me to express his disapproval. His words were harsh, disrespectful, but I am a diplomat." As he said it, Ka'vanau 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 bandits had encountered. This, I soon learned, was false." The old //Dar's// ears drooped.

"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. The bandits wanted something from that monument, and killed the family to get it. Before that they had killed a family who were rebuilding an abandoned grain mill to be used by the new Cyran farmers when their crops came in. This was their forward base."

"What were they looking for?"

"The broken haft of a spear used by Emperor Sulaaco Ku'un when he led Dhakaan's legions into battle with the Daelkyr -- not too far from where we sit, or so I'm told. It was embedded in the cornerstone of the monument. Druid 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."

"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 Karrnathi undead soldiers, crossbows with bayonets from Zilargo, alchemy brewed by a Cannith excoriate -- and magebred wolves from House Vadalis. All paid for with ancient Empire coin -- many thousands of gold pieces. 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. But after the last Daelkyr Incursion they 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 a Morgrave professor -- links in a chain, she said. Somehow, something of that forgotten clan had reemerged. 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.

//Much of the background information on Darguun was inspired by Don Bassingthwaite in his **Legacy of Dhakaan** trilogy. The "Goblin" language came from a D&D online article published about the time the first book in the trilogy appeared ("The Doom of Kings", 2008).//

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