The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II (23 page)

“Twelve bloody moons,” Singe cursed under his breath. “What are they doing here?” He eased back to the table. The others did the same, those who were standing crouching down a bit to make themselves less conspicuous.

Through the open door, Singe could see the silhouettes of at
least two more ogres standing guard outside. The ogres inside the Barrel scanned the silent room. The gnoll barkeep hurried up to the largest of the monsters. The ogres that flanked him raised their weapons at her approach but lowered them again at a glance from their leader. He and the gnoll exchanged words.

Her hand rose and pointed straight to Singe and the others. The ogre leader nodded and made his way across the room. The Barrel’s patrons pressed back out of his path.

“Tiger!” hissed Geth. “What do we do?”

Singe swallowed. “Act calm,” he said. He sat up straight in his chair and the ogre leader leaned across the table. Even cleaned up, the monster’s breath reeked of decayed meat.

“Are you Timin Shay? he asked.

Timin Shay had been a childhood friend killed in a cart accident as a young man. Singe had taken to using the name as an alias long ago. He’d given it to the innkeeper of the Barrel. “Yes,” he said. “I am. What’s this about?”

“You’re looking for a guide to Tzaryan Keep?”

The ogre pronounced each of its words with care, as if taught to speak the language properly. Singe nodded. A hint of relief, as if he was pleased that he had found the right human, flickered in the ogre’s eyes. He stood straight. “I serve Tzaryan Rrac. By order of the general, you are invited to travel with us as we return to Tzaryan Keep.”

Singe blinked in surprise, then looked left and right to Dandra and Geth. The kalashtar and the shifter both wore started expressions as well. He looked back to the ogre. The general … Bava and Natrac had said that Tzaryan Rrac had hired a veteran general of the Last War to train his troops. Judging by the utter change in the ogres standing before them, his training was extremely effective. Singe licked his lips, trying to think of what to do.

“What’s your general’s name?” he asked.

“He is the General,” the ogre said.

Singe clenched his teeth. “Fair enough,” he said. “How does the General know I’m looking for a guide to Tzaryan Keep?”

The ogre looked as if he was trying to find an answer to an unexpected question in an unfamiliar language. “The General hears about your looking,” he said awkwardly.

“The General hears quickly,” said Dandra. “What is he doing in Vralkek anyway?”

The ogre’s face tensed in frustration. “The General brought us to Vralkek to test our discipline.”

Singe heard someone else’s voice behind the ogre’s word; he had probably learned the response by rote after listening to orders from his commander over and over again. The presence of Tzaryan’s troops in Vralkek was an annoying coincidence, but it was plausible. Placing troops into an urban setting to test their discipline was a common enough training practice. Robrand d’Deneith had done the same thing to him and Geth when they were being trained in the Frostbrand. He glanced at the shifter again.

Geth narrowed his eyes and shook his head. Don’t accept.

Singe looked Dandra. She shrugged. Maybe.

His gut told him that the General’s invitation, if unexpected, was a boon to them. In the company of ogre troops, they would be safe from virtually any danger they might encounter. There would be no doubt that Tzaryan Rrac would know they were coming. They would probably even be escorted right to the ogre mage if they asked for it.

On the other hand, his head told him to be wary. The thought of traveling with this unknown general, among ogre troops, directly into the presence of someone they were, after all, trying to deceive, seemed too dangerous. It was far too simple and far too convenient. They were putting themselves directly into Tzaryan Rrac’s power.

He bent his head toward the ogre. “Thank the General for his invitation, but we prefer to travel on our own.”

The ogre looked completely confused. His sloping forehead rippled into furrows deep as a plowed field. “By
order
of the general, you are invited to travel with us as we return to Tzaryan Keep,” he repeated, this time with greater force—and a different emphasis. He gestured and the ogres with him moved to stand beside the table.

“Singe,” growled Geth quietly, “I don’t think this is exactly an invitation.”

“Figured that out, did you?” Singe asked. Six of them, six ogres, he thought—they were evenly matched, at least until the
troops outside the Barrel came in. They were also surrounded and in a very cramped space. Even if they could fight their way free, though, they would have earned themselves an enemy close to Tzaryan Rrac.

He looked up at the ogre leader and smiled. “I misunderstood,” he said. “Of course, we’d be honored to accept the General’s protection in our travels. Would it be possible for me to meet him to offer my thanks in person?”

The ogre looked relieved but his answer to the request was blunt. “No,” he said. “But she can.” His eyes settled on Dandra—then wavered to Ashi. For a moment, he looked confused again, then he thrust a finger at Dandra. “Her,” he said decisively. “The General asks her to ride with him on the journey.”

Singe stiffened. “What? No!”

Dandra, however, was already rising. “I’d be honored,” she said—even as the
kesh
brushed Singe’s mind.
Don’t worry
, she told him silently,
I’ll be fine
.

You’ll be a hostage!
Singe warned her.

I escaped Dah’mir and the Bonetree clan. I can escape this General if I need to
. An image of her using the long step to vanish from one place and appear in another flickered through the
kesh
.

If anyone was going to be a hostage, Singe had to admit that Dandra made a good choice.
Be careful
, he told her.

The ogre leader stepped up to wrap one meaty fist around Dandra’s arm, then gestured for his troops. “Take them to their rooms.”

Ashi started to open her mouth, but Singe quickly put an elbow into her side. Her protest didn’t go unnoticed, however. The ogre leader glared at her, then looked down at Singe. “You should sleep. We leave early in the morning.”

“Of course,” said Singe. He shot a glance at Geth. The shifter moved to take a position beside Ashi, keeping her calm, as Singe led the way past the ogres and toward the taproom’s door. The others followed him, each of them shadowed by an ogre. Outside—the noise in the taproom rising once again in excited gossip—they were turned toward the stairs leading up to the Barrel’s rooms. Singe glanced over his shoulder and exchanged a glance with Dandra as the ogre leader led her off in another direction.

“Lords of the Host!” cursed Natrac. “I don’t know if this is good or bad!”

“I think,” said Singe, “it might actually be good.”

Geth growled. “If this is good, I hope things don’t get any better.”

Darkness vanished in a burst of fiery light and Vennet blinked against the radiance of the setting sun on open ocean. Far below, a ship—his ship—crawled against the plain of water. “Hold fast!” bellowed Dah’mir. The dragon’s head and neck bent, his wings followed—and his body plunged down through the air at a terrible angle.

Vennet shouted with delirious excitement. Acceleration and the rushing air pressed at him, threatening to tear him from Dah’mir’s back or Hruucan’s bundled body from his arms. The sudden brightness and the speed forced his eyes shut, but he could hear just fine. The wind screamed around him.
There’s the ship! They’re on it! Find them! Kill them!

Dah’mir pulled up out of his dive only a ship’s height above the water. Waves rushed past as they bore down upon
Lightning on Water
. “Be ready to jump when I hover!” he said.

“Aye, master!” Vennet braced himself. The ship rushed up to meet them. Dah’mir’s wings arced and scooped, beating hard just as they passed over the deck. Flat wood and screaming sailors were only a few paces below.

“Now!”

Vennet thrust himself free of the dragon’s scaly body and leaped for the deck.

Time had barely seemed to pass while Dah’mir plunged through Shadow, but some small part of Vennet realized even as he jumped that if it had been morning when they left the Bonetree mound and the sun was now setting, then he had spent hours clinging desperately to the dragon’s back. His limbs were cramped and stiff. His fingers were clenched into claws. Movement was awkward.

He hit the deck with a crash that sent agony flaring through an ankle.

He tried his best to protect the bundle that was Hruucan, but
even so he felt the dolgaunt’s inert body crumble a little bit more under the impact.

“C-captain?” A familiar face bent over him, pale with horror. Karth, Vennet realized it was Karth. Steadfast, solid—

“Traitor!” he shouted and lashed out with a backhand blow that sent Karth reeling back. Vennet dropped Hruucan and forced himself to his feet, trying to get his bearings.

He stood on the aft deck. Below on the main deck, the crew that he had left in Zarash’ak raced back and forth, driven mad with fear at the sight of the dragon that circled the ship. The ship continued to surge forward through the water, though. Even Dah’mir was hard pressed to match her speed. Vennet spun around.

Only Marolis seemed to have resisted the terror of the dragon’s appearance. He clutched the ship’s wheel, his knuckles white, his face even whiter as he stared at his captain.

Above him, the great air elemental bound into the ship howled a song of wordless power.

Vennet leaped toward his junior officer. “Stop this ship!”

Marolis didn’t speak, but just shook his head. He spun the wheel sharply, bringing the ship hard over and sending the deck canting at a dangerous angle. Terrified sailors lost their footing and slid across the wood. Hruucan tumbled and rolled, crashing into a hatch. Vennet had seen far worse in storms. He leaned against the sloping deck and ripped his cutlass from his scabbard.

“Stop!” he roared. “Stop!” He wrapped both hands around the hilt of the cutlass and swung it in a powerful arc. The weapon chopped into the angle of Marolis’s neck, cleaving flesh and jumping as it hit bone, stopping only when the blade became wedged in the ruin of the man’s chest. Marolis sagged, his dead weight dragging on the wheel, rolling the ship in the other direction. Vennet cursed and kicked his body away. He grasped the wheel and held it steady, then narrowed his eyes and called on the power of his dragonmark.

Heat flared across his shoulder and the back of his neck. Vennet channeled the magic of the mark into the wheel, feeling it skip and strike among the chips of dragonshards that had been used in the wheel’s making. Through the wheel, he sent a stern order to the bound elemental.
Full stop!

The howl of wind ceased instantly, the churning circle of mist condensing back into a solid ring.
Lightning on Water
slowed, momentum carrying her on through the water.

Moments later, Dah’mir’s herons caught up to the ship.

The birds had kept up with them in their passage through Shadow, but Dah’mir’s final burst of speed had left them behind. Now they fell on
Lightning on Water
like locusts on a field of grain. Beaks pierced and snapped at the flesh of screaming sailors. Claws raked. Ripped out of their fear, the sailors tried to fight back, but their attacks were clumsy. The greasy black feathers of the herons became sodden with blood.

Dah’mir circled around and hovered briefly above the deck, great wings beating a gale. “Find them, Vennet! Find Dandra! Find Geth! Find them all!”

“Master!” Vennet wrenched his cutlass from Marolis’s body and leaped down to the main deck. He raced through a whirlwind of screeching bird and wailing men, sliding on slippery wood, and dropped down through the hatch that led to the passenger cabins. One by one, he flung the doors open—meeting no resistance.

He clenched his teeth and pushed through the door—once shattered by Karth—of his sleeping cabin. It was empty as well. He drew a ragged breath, a dark suspicion dawning on him. “No,” he said to himself. “No. No! No!”

He tore into the hidden compartment in his floor and ripped open his strongbox, scattering coins, gems, and tradestrips of precious metal. Bloody hands emerged with a packet wrapped in pale fabric. Squeezing a fist around it, he raced back up onto the deck.

“Master!” he screamed at Dah’mir. “They’re not here! They’re not here!” He flung the packet to the deck. Pale silk, now stained, unfolded. Two large, sparkling dragonshards—one blue-black, one gold—bounced across the blood-slick deck. “We followed your shards, not them!”

In the air above, Dah’mir’s eyes narrowed. “Impossible! Check the holds!”

Vennet darted to the forward hold first, pausing at the bottom of the steep stairs to scan the shadows, then slowly pushing forward. The hold was packed with cargo that had once been destined for Trolanport. He listened closely, ignoring the creaks of a
moving ship, the sloshing of water, the last groans and whimpers of his dying crew. He could hear and see nothing. Vennet mounted the stairs and stalked grimly toward the stern and the aft hold. Dah’mir said nothing as he circled. The black herons had retreated to the rails of the ship, leaving only torn bodies behind.