The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II (46 page)

Geth stepped in front of all of them, Wrath’s twilight blade held across his body. “Use your acid and you destroy the sword,” he said. His gauntleted hand pointed back behind him. “The sword and Dandra.”

Dah’mir’s eyes narrowed and his lips twisted. “Do you think you’d still be alive if I hadn’t thought of that? Dark lords of Khyber, the unsolvable Riddle of Taruuzh—answered by a shifter! I thought I knew all the secrets of Taruuzh Kraat, but you’ve surprised me. I should have known there was some power about that sword the first time I felt its bite.” His eyes flashed. “Give the sword to me!”

The air itself seemed to darken with the intensity of his presence. His will engulfed her—engulfed all of them. It dragged Dandra’s gaze to Wrath and she felt an urge to take the ancient sword away from the shifter and present it to Dah’mir. On the edge of her vision, she saw both Ekhaas and Ashi struggling against the same urge.

In her gut, she knew that she shouldn’t have been able to resist the command any more than she should have been able to resist the dominating fascination of the dragon’s presence. And yet she did. Her arms and legs tried to move, but didn’t. Dah’mir’s power seemed to break before it reached the core of her being, like waves dashing against rocks, like a storm surge driven into a swamp—

Like a song lost in screaming. Like a focused will broken by insanity.

Tetkashtai
, she said in amazement. Her creator answered only with another wail, but in her mind’s eye, Dandra could see Tetkashtai’s light churning as it absorbed Dah’mir’s power. Tetkashtai’s madness was protecting her. Madness, she guessed as well, must have also been what allowed Medala to stand at her new master’s side without succumbing to him. She felt a kind of awe rising inside her. Madness, the power of Xoriat, drew kalashtar in and trapped them. Once they had themselves
succumbed to madness, they were Xoriat’s servants. It was simple. It was brilliant.

She stood on the threshold, struggling to hold back Tetkashtai’s terrified madness, protected by it, yet powerless. Dandra felt a rising terror of her own.
Light of il-Yannah, give me strength!
she whispered.

With a low cry, Ekhaas lost her struggle. She staggered forward, reaching for Geth. The shifter’s eyes never left Dah’mir, though. His face twisted and the Gatekeeper collar around his neck seemed sharp and distinct in the torchlight, as if it was more real than anything else amid the nightmare of Dah’mir’s power. “You’ll
never
have this sword!” Geth snarled.

The intensity of Dah’mir’s presence snapped. Ekhaas stumbled, then looked up, stunned. Dah’mir’s displeasure rumbled out of his belly—and was cut short by a cold, echoing moan from the depths of the caves. The dragon’s eyes opened wide, then narrowed. “What have you woken in the caves?” he asked. “No wonder you don’t retreat!”

At Dandra’s side, Ashi bared her teeth and spat at him. Dah’mir’s lips twitched. “A defiant gesture, Ashi. I’ll tell the Bonetree clan about it so they can add it to their stories of your treachery!” His gaze fixed on the sword. “That sword is a
lhesh shaarat
, isn’t it?”

Geth kept his mouth closed. So did Ekhaas.

Somewhere out on the great chamber beyond Dah’mir, there was a rush of heavy, running footsteps, and voices called out “Master!” and “Dah’mir!”

“Vennet! Tzaryan!” Dah’mir sat back a little bit. “Come forward and bring the prisoners. I’m sure they’d like to say hello their friends.” Cruel playfulness flickered in his eyes as he glanced back into the tunnel. “Let’s see just how strong your will is, Geth.”

Dah’mir’s first roar had come while they were still in the tunnel approaching the great chamber. Vennet had let out a cry of “Master!” and Robrand had called out an order for a faster pace. The ogres surrounding them had broken into a shambling run, the guards watching over the prisoners simply scooping up their charges and carrying them along. With the dragon’s second roar,
Singe’s stomach had risen in fear, any hopes of finding a way to warn Dandra crushed.

They burst into the great chamber hard on the heels of Vennet and Robrand, Hruucan and Chain. The bounty hunter and Singe’s old commander paused for a moment, struck by the size of the chamber that spread out below them, by its vaulted ceiling and abandoned forges, by the weird sculpture of the grieving tree. Vennet and Hruucan didn’t stop, though. Hruucan hurtled off the balcony in an acrobatic swirl of flame to land lightly on the floor below. Vennet seized one of the torches from the orc slave who had accompanied them and raced down the stairs, calling for Dah’mir. An instant later, a gust of wind ruffled Singe’s hair and Tzaryan’s flying form soared overhead. “Dah’mir!” he shouted.

“Vennet! Tzaryan! Come forward and bring the prisoners.” So large that he took up half the space at the great chamber’s end, Dah’mir was a silhouette against a feeble light. The dragon crouched before the narrow mouth of a passage like a cat before a mouse hole. “I’m sure they’d like to say hello their friends.”

Tzaryan settled to the ground and turned around. “General!” he bellowed. “Troops forward! Bring down the prisoners!”

Robrand stiffened and turned back to look at Singe. The anger that had been in his face before had faded; he wore the expression of someone caught between two hard decisions. Singe’s stomach managed to rise again. For the first time since they’d been captured, their enemies had left them—only the ogres remained and they listened to their General. Once they were free, they still faced daunting odds, but they’d have a chance. They might still be able to rescue Ashi and Dandra and escape together. “Now, Robrand!” he hissed. “Help us now!”

The old man hesitated a moment too long.

With a look of desperation on his face, Chain stepped up behind him. Singe saw the flash of a dagger, then Chain had one arm around Robrand’s neck and the other at his back. “Let them go!” he ordered.

Robrand looked startled. The nearest ogres stood straight, their weapons snapping up. Chain wrenched Robrand around so that they could all see the dagger he held. “I can kill him with a thrust,” he said. “I haven’t seen a Deneith dragonmark that could stop a dagger that’s already tasting blood.” He jerked his head at
the ogres holding Singe, Natrac, and Orshok. “Let them go now and get out of my way!”

“Chain?” called Vennet. The half-elf froze on the stairs and turned back to stare back up at them. “Storm at dawn, Chain, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Leaving, you bloody lunatic!” Chain snapped. He glared at the ogres. “I said let them go and get out of my way.”

“Chain, no!” Singe choked. “This isn’t what I meant—”

The ogres behind him stirred and parted. Chuut stepped out and faced Chain and his captive. “What do you want us to do, General?” he asked.

Robrand’s gaze darted to Singe, his eyes hard and flat. Singe’s stomach clenched. If Robrand chose, he could order them released. They would be free and his duty to Tzaryan would remain uncompromised. But there would be a price, Singe knew. “No,” he whispered. “Ashi … Dandra …”

Robrand looked back to Chuut. His mouth opened. He drew breath—

He never had the chance to speak. Over the edge of the balcony, a fiery glow like dawn appeared. Tentacles of flame rose up out of the darkness and struck with the speed of serpents, one wrapping Chain’s throat, the other around the arm that held the dagger. They wrenched on Chain, tearing him back away from Robrand. The old man fell forward. Chain stumbled backward and into Hruucan’s arms as the fiery dolgaunt climbed over the edge of the balcony. More tendrils enfolded the bounty hunter. Chain’s eyes opened in pain and a high, thin cry whistled from his constricted throat—then he burst into flames, writhing and struggling in Hruucan’s embrace.

His struggles ceased in only moments and the dolgaunt let him go. Chain’s burned corpse hit the ground in a spray of glowing embers.

Ogres stared in shock. Robrand sat frozen on the ground. Natrac’s face was pale. Orshok was shaking. Singe’s heart simply felt like a lump of stone. He lifted his head and stared at Hruucan. The dolgaunt’s inscrutable, eyeless face stared back at him.

“What was that?” roared Dah’mir from below.

“Mutiny,” Vennet called back. “It’s been dealt with.” He strode across the balcony and hauled Robrand to his feet. “I know you
weren’t going to do anything stupid, were you, General? Get your crew moving!”

Robrand tore his eyes away from Chain. “Company forward,” he said, his voice strained.

If Singe had felt subdued before, he felt wretched now. They descended the stairs and crossed the great chamber. As they drew closer to Dah’mir, Singe could see that the passage beside which the dragon crouched opened through the tall statue of Taruuzh. The statue’s legs and the blade of the sword it held had been a cleverly hidden door, though now that door seemed to have been torn off and thrown aside. The ancient bones that had been Marg had been crushed and scattered. Singe couldn’t see more than a few feet into the passage, though; the light that shone out of it came from further inside. Heart beating wildly, he shouted out, “Dandra? Ashi?”

The ogre holding him grunted and gave him a jaw-rattling shake, but there was an answer from inside the passage—though not one he expected. “Singe!” Geth called back. “We’re here!”

“Enough of this,” said Dah’mir. He lifted one foreleg—Singe saw that it bore the long gash of a fresh wound—and pointed at the Grieving Tree. “Bring the prisoners around to face the passage and put them up on the platform.”

The ogres obeyed the dragon without further orders from Robrand. Singe found himself dumped on the broad platform on which the grieving tree stood, Natrac on one side of him, Orshok on the other. The ogres stepped back, leaving only Robrand standing below them like a grim honor guard. Dah’mir moved aside and Singe stared down the passage. Near its end, Dandra stood, one hand holding her spear, the other a fading torch. Her face was slack, her eyes on Dah’mir and Singe choked back a curse. He should have realized that she would have been caught by Dah’mir’s presence.

She had protectors, though. Around her stood Ashi, Ekhaas, and Geth. For just a moment, Singe actually felt buoyed up by the sight of the shifter. “Geth! Twelve bloody moons, you didn’t run!” He glanced down at Robrand—and felt a twist of confusion.

Their old commander’s face was flushed red with rage as he stared into the passage. “Impossible!” he spat. “Impossible!”

Vennet, meanwhile, sauntered up to the mouth of the passage
and peered inside. “Well, there you are, Geth!” he said. “We were wondering what had happened to you.”

The shifter only growled at him. Vennet laughed and turned back around. “Tzaryan, what are you waiting for? Get your ogres in there!”

Alarm crossed Tzaryan’s face and he swung around to Dah’mir. “My ogres would be at a disadvantage!” he protested. “The space is too tight. Dah’mir, you can’t make them—”

“At ease, Tzaryan,” said Dah’mir. “No one is going in. Geth is going to come out and give me what I want.”

In the passage, Ekhaas started and leaned over to murmur something to Geth and Ashi. Singe saw Geth’s eyes go wide. “Tiger’s blood!” the shifter cursed.

Dah’mir gave an indulgent chuckle. “The hobgoblin has guessed what will happen. Tzaryan, who is she?”

“Her name is Ekhaas. She’s a
duur’kala.”

“Ah.” Dah’mir peered into the tunnel. “Watch closely,
duur’kala
, and you’ll see something out of your legends.” He sat back and looked to the prisoners on the platform. “Do you know what it is you sit beneath?”

A chill spread through Singe. Ekhaas wasn’t the only one who could guess what would happen. “It’s a Grieving Tree,” he said to Dah’mir. “It’s a Dhakaani execution device.”

“Not just
a
Grieving Tree, Singe,” Dah’mir said.
“The
Grieving Tree. The very first one, created by Taruuzh. It’s also more than just a device. The original Grieving Trees were alive in their own way. They grew—that’s one reason why this one is so big. And like any living thing, they needed to be fed.” His acid-green eyes flashed. “This tree hasn’t been fed in a very long time.” He spoke a word that sounded like Goblin.

Singe felt a stirring at his back and twisted around.

The Grieving Tree was moving, the strangely curved stone segments that made up its trunk and limbs grinding as they rotated against each other. They shuddered and dipped as the tree flexed. Singe’s blood ran cold. Natrac choked and tried to squirm away. Dah’mir spoke another word.

A thick branch bent down and curved stone curled around the half-orc, whisking him up into the air and passing him from limb to limb until he hung in the shadows high above the ground.
Sharp ridges and thorny spikes rippled—and dug into his flesh. Natrac flung back his head and screamed.

Wherever a branch embraced him, the grooves carved into the stone turned dark and red, catching and channeling his blood. A shudder like an unseen, unfelt breeze shook the tree. Natrac’s scream fell into a deep moan.

Dah’mir’s voice was light. “Death on a Grieving Tree is slow. The tree takes only a little blood at a time. A strong person could linger on the tree for days. I recall a legend of a fallen Dhakaani hero who hung on the tree for two weeks before she died.”