The Binding Stone (The Dragon Below, Book 1) (4 page)

BOOK: The Binding Stone (The Dragon Below, Book 1)
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Geth shifted his weight as the beast's tentacles swept at him again, swaying back, but not giving ground. The tentacles came close enough for him to hear the hiss as they lashed the air. Guided by sound rather than sight, Geth jabbed out sharply with the woman's spear--piercing the wide pad of the beast's tentacle and pinning it to the earth of the valley floor. The beast roared and tried to wrench the pinned tentacle free, simultaneously raking at Geth with the other. The shifter roared just as loudly with the scourging pain of the blows that hammered at his back, but he reached down and wrapped his hand around the tentacle. As the beast roared out again, he pulled hard on it, hauling himself forward. The displacer's beast's eyes went wide in sudden panic. Following the taut, struggling tentacle, Geth swung his axe in a powerful overhand blow.
The blade hacked straight into the beast's narrow skull.
A shudder passed through its body, then it collapsed to the ground and lay still.
Geth let go of the axe and staggered back. "They're both dead?" he wheezed as Adolan came trotting over.
Adolan glanced at Breek as the bird flapped down from above, settled onto a tentacle, and began to tear at the limp flesh with his hooked beak. "Breek says yes," he said.
"Good." Geth sagged to his knees and released his hold on his shifting-granted endurance. As it drained away, the wounds he had suffered seemed ten times as painful. He clenched his teeth as the shifting tugged on the worst of the injuries, but it was still too much. He gasped out loud and almost fell over.
"Easy," murmured Adolan. Geth felt the druid touch his bloodied back, then heard him murmur a prayer.
Nature's power swirled around them like a summer breeze. A sweet ache throbbed across Geth's back as his wounds closed. He groaned with relief and opened his eyes. "Twice tak," he said.
Adolan smiled briefly, then slapped Geth's newly healed shoulder. "A pair of displacer beasts between two men and a bird," said
the druid. "We're lucky the beasts were still young!"
"Young?" Geth forced himself to his feet. "They would have gotten bigger?"
"Not necessarily. But they would have gotten smarter." Adolan knelt down beside the fallen woman and touched her face lightly with the tips of his fingers. She groaned quietly. Geth pulled her spear out of the ground and shook the beast's tentacle off of it, then moved over to stand above Adolan.
"How is she?" he asked.
"She'll be all right," Adolan replied. His fingers probed the back of the woman's head underneath her hair. Her face contorted and she stirred uneasily. Adolan's eyes drifted shut and he spoke a second prayer of healing. Once again, Geth felt nature itself stir to the druid's call. The dark-haired woman's face eased. Her breathing drifted and became regular. Adolan lifted his hand away. "I can feel her exhaustion. More than anything, she needs sleep," he said. "She'll stay this way until we can get back to Bull Hollow." He studied her face. "She's not like anyone I've ever seen. And the spell of fire that she cast was strange, too. That strange sound that came with it wasn't like any priest's prayer or wizard's invocation."
Geth tilted his head and looked closely at the woman. Her bronze-brown face was long and almost too elegant, her skin smooth and flawless, though darkened by long exposure to the sun. A twisted band of polished bronze circled her head and wide, decorative bracers of the same metal wrapped her forearms. A simple cord around her neck supported a woven spiral of thick bronze wires. Caught within the spiral was a cloudy green-yellow crystal the size of two of his fingers held side by side. Her clothes, as well as the sandals on her feet, showed the strain of long travel, though the woman was hardly dressed for it: she wore only a short, light shirt and tapered pants, with a fringe that wrapped around her waist. In spite of the wear on it, the fabric of her clothes was a rich, deep red embroidered with gold-colored thread in strange and exotic patterns. Geth glanced at the spear in his hand. The shaft below the crystalline metal of the head was worked in similar patterns.
"I don't think she's a wizard or a priest, Adolan," he said. "And that was no spell. I've seen her kind before."
Adolan looked up at him. "In the Eldeen?" he asked, his voice low and cautious.
Geth shook his head. "No. It was ... before I came to Bull Hollow." Geth's jaw tightened. He gestured to the woman's distinctive clothes and spear, to her fine features. "She's a kalashtar."
Only the vaguest kind of recognition flickered in Adolan's eyes. "Kalashtar come from the east," Geth explained. "Far to the east--across the Dragonreach and the Sea of Rage, from Sarlona." He glanced down at the sleeping woman. "I saw some of her kind in Rekkenmark in Karrnath. A wizard told me that they have powers that aren't like any magic we know." He touched his forehead. "It's some kind of mind-magic."
Adolan's eyes narrowed and his nose crinkled. "Do they all float like that when they fight?" Geth shook his head. "What do you think she's doing in the Eldeen Reaches?
"I don't know," said Geth. He drew a deep breath. "But I don't think it's safe to take her back to Bull Hollow. We should leave her here."
"Geth!"
"Trouble followed every kalashtar I ever saw, Adolan." Geth gestured to the carnage around them.
"She stumbled across young displacer beasts looking for prey. We already knew they were dangerous." Adolan stood up. "And she's asleep. What trouble can she bring down on us?"
"She'll wake up sooner or later. There must be some reason she's stumbling through the hills in exhaustion."
Adolan crossed his arms and fixed him with a glare. "She's most likely lost. We can't just leave her, Geth. The displacer beasts were the most dangerous things in the forest, but they weren't the only danger. We need to take her with us." When Geth glowered, he raised his eyebrows. "Are your fleas bothering you again, furball?"
Geth bared his teeth. "I don't like it," he said.
"You don't like much of anything. Think on this: we dealt with the displacer beasts
and
saved a life today. Be happy with that."
Geth's lips pinched back together. "Ring of Siberys in a mud puddle, Ado."
"With you around, someone has to be the optimist." Adolan walked over to the area of brush that had been animated by his prayer. A few long vines still squirmed across the ground. The druid grabbed them and began gathering them like some kind of strange, wild rope. "Find me two long, sturdy branches. We need to make a litter."
C
HAPTER
2
T
wilight lay purple against the sky by the time the forest opened up and Singe looked down into the shallow valley that held--so a tavernkeeper had told them two days ago--the hamlet of Bull Hollow and the end of the long western road.
Given that the "road" was really more of a vague track, Singe didn't hold out any great hope for the "hamlet" either.
Toller d'Deneith urged his horse up alongside Singe's. The young man's face twisted as he looked down. "That's it?" he asked.
"I told you not to expect much." Singe studied the valley. The buildings of Bull Hole were shrouded by trees, but at least a dozen thin plumes of rising smoke were clustered together. A short distance away from the plumes, a broad clearing opened up around what seemed to be stone ruins. Here and there, other clearings broke through the trees where small farms had been cut from the forest. He grunted. Maybe the place had potential after all.
"Let's get down there," he said. "If we need to knock on doors looking for a place to sleep, it's best to do it while there's still some light."
"You don't think they'll have an inn?"
Singe's mouth curled into a grin. "We have a saying in Aundair: cow-paths don't lead to palaces. This is the very end of the loneliest cow-path in the Eldeen, Toller. Do
you
think Bull Hollow will have an inn?"
Toller sat up a straight, needled by the comment. "A little respect would be appropriate, Lieutenant Bayard!" His hand went, unconsciously, to the hem of the blue jacket that he wore in spite of the heat, pulling it taut so that the silver embroidered emblem of the Watchful Eye superimposed on an upright sword--symbol of the Blademarks mercenary guild of House Deneith--flashed in the fading light of the setting sun.
Singe brushed back a stray lock of blond hair, crossed his hands over the pommel of his saddle, and gave the young man a lazy stare. A similar jacket, though without Toller's insignia of rank, was folded up in his saddlebags in favor of a much lighter vest. Toller was sweating in spite of the cool of evening. He wasn't.
"Singe," he said calmly. "Call me Singe. Lieutenant Singe if you have to." He sat up straight. "Commander."
Toller flushed and glanced away. "Sorry, Singe."
Singe rolled his eyes. "Twelve moons! Stop apologizing!" he groaned. He twitched his horse's reins and the animal started to move again. "If you can't do at least that, your first command will be your last!"
"Right. Sorr--" Toller caught himself and closed his mouth. Singe nodded his approval and the young man allowed himself a half-smile. "Does this mean I can actually call you--?"
"No."
Bull Hollow, when they reached it, turned out to be a cluster of well-kept, mostly wooden buildings arranged around a central common like gamblers around a cock pit. The majority of the buildings were houses, a few were simple shops of various kinds, and at least one had the stout stone walls of a smithy. That the small community managed to support more than one commercial establishment at all was something of a surprise, but Singe supposed that Bull Hollow actually served as the trading hub for a region that spread far beyond its little valley.
Toller reached over and prodded him. "Look at that."
Singe looked. On the far side of the common was a large whitewashed building with a number of windows and what looked like a low-slung stable to one side. A goodly number of folk were gathered at the ground floor and, from what he could see through
open windows, all of the visitors held mugs and tankards. He sat back. "Twelve moons," he said.
"It's an inn?" asked Toller.
"An inn or something enough like one that I'm willing to chance it." He nodded to Toller. "Maybe I was wrong about this place."
He turned his horse toward the large building, Toller wheeling his mount sharply in order to stay close. Their arrival was beginning to bring attention. More and more faces all around the hamlet's common were turning in their direction. Eyes were wide and he caught more than one over-loud whisper of excitement and curiosity. A good number were directed toward Toller and the insignia of House Deneith.
Toller was staring back. "Maybe now would be a good time to begin recruiting," he whispered. "We have their attention and they're clearly interested."
"We have plenty of time," Singe murmured back. He barely moved his lips as he nodded to a young lass in a homespun dress of a cut that looked like it had come out of another century. "Let them come to us. We'll have some dinner and give them a chance to get a few drinks inside themselves. When we've worked our way back toward civilization with a train of recruits for the Blademarks in tow, that's the time to talk fast and try to sell the benefits of becoming a mercenary. For now, relax and use your eyes. Reachers make good scouts and wilderness fighters--try and spot the best ones before they start posing for us."
"You're the veteran," said Toller. "Have you ever been out this far before?"
Singe pressed his lips together and fixed his gaze on the tavern. For a moment he was silent, then he said, "Almost. Once, years ago. During the war and much further north. My first recruiting trip--I was barely more than a recruit myself."
"And?" asked Toller.
Singe glanced at him. "And nothing," he said curtly. "It was during your uncle's command of the Frostbrand. He led the trip himself."
Toller's mouth clamped shut and his eyes dropped down to the ground under his horse's hooves.
Singe grimaced. Mention of Robrand d'Deneith was all it took to shut the mouth of half of House Deneith. None of them, not even Toller, liked to be reminded of how close he had been to the old man.
And Robrand, thought Singe, would be angrier than a hunting dragonhawk if he knew I was invoking his name just to change to a subject--though he might understand, given the consequences of that particular trip.
He forced himself to relax his grip on his horse's reins. "Drink lightly with dinner," he advised Toller, trying to ease the tension between them. "The real challenge will come after."

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