The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II

by Don Bassingthwaite

  “That was Singe’s argument, too,” said Orshok. “We’re doing what he wanted for exactly the reason he said we should.”

  Geth opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. He gave Orshok another glare. This time the orc smiled. So did Ashi. Geth glowered. “Come on,” he grumbled, “Let’s see what we can see.”

  They followed the crowds, less out of any random choice than out of another principle handed down by Robrand d’Deneith: where there were people, there would be something interesting. Geth’s old commander’s wisdom didn’t fail them. They wandered through a market where merchants from beyond the Shadow Marches offered the finest items from across Khorvaire. They passed a theater where criers called out the coming evening’s bill, while mummers on the other side of the street gave a show for thrown coins. At a shrine dedicated to the Sovereign Host, they stopped and went inside so that Orshok and Ashi could marvel at a faith unfamiliar to both of them. Geth stood by the door, nodding to the priests tending the shrine, as the druid and the hunter stared at the shining images of the nine gods.

  Orshok gave him a solemn look as they left the shrine. “When the daelkyr came from Xoriat to invade Eberron during the Daelkyr War, the Gatekeepers fought them. We sealed the gates to Xoriat and bound the surviving daelkyr in Khyber. What did the Sovereign Host do?”

  “I don’t—” Geth ground his teeth together. “Ask Singe. He’s the clever one. Who’s hungry?”

  The streets of Zarash’ak were dotted with vendors selling cheap food that people bought and carried with them, eating as they walked. Geth had seen the process when they had been in Zarash’ak before: he led Ashi and Orshok to one stall where they bought thick rounds of ashi bread, then on to another to buy roast vegetables or spicy grilled meat to stuff inside. The meat was snake—Orshok insisted on checking stalls until he found some that he declared fresh enough to eat. The orc tending the grill gave them a hearty grin and extra slatherings of the hot and sour sauce that spiced the meat.

  The sauce numbed Geth’s mouth and brought tears to Orshok’s eyes, but Ashi just ate her meal in solemn silence as they wandered. Geth recognized this area of Zarash’ak—they were heading toward the deep water docks where ships coming up from the ocean found berths. If they wanted news of the world beyond the Shadow Marches, this would be a good place to find it. His eyes were on Ashi, however. Her body was tense, her posture guarded. Geth frowned over his food, “Is something wrong?” he asked her.

  The tall woman’s face twisted. She answered with blunt honesty. “I don’t like cities.”

  Geth look around them as he took another bite of food. For all that Zarash’ak was an isolated island of civilization, it was also the only city of any size in the Shadow Marches—in the whole southwest of the continent of Khorvaire, in fact—and attracted an astounding diversity of inhabitants and visitors. The crowd on the street was made up mostly of humans, orcs, and half-orcs, but there were also elves and halflings and bandy-legged goblins. He could even spot another shifter on occasion, striding confidently among the other races. Their trio of orc, shifter, and human savage wasn’t at all out of place.

  “It’s the crowd, isn’t it?” Geth said. “So many people in one place?”

  Ashi nodded tightly. “Having so many strangers around me—so many outclanners …”

  She bit off her words, but Geth understood. Shifters were descended from the mingled bloodlines of humans and shapechanging lycanthropes. Their lycanthropic heritage gave them useful gifts, but also a predator’s instincts. Crowds weren’t that much different from herds and herds were either prey or a threat. It had taken him time and effort to ease the edge of being around strangers. Ashi was a hunter. She had the same instincts. He grunted. “You’ll get used to it,” he told her. He looked at Orshok. “What about you?”

  The orc wrinkled his thick nose. “I like Zarash’ak,” he said. “I miss Fat Tusk, though.”

  “At least you’re welcome to go back to it,” said Ashi.

  “Do you miss the Bonetree?” Geth asked her. “Do you regret turning against your clan?”

  “Do you miss your people?” she snapped at him in return.

  Geth’s gut knotted as Adolan’s face flickered before him: his friend had died under a Bonetree hunter’s axe. His lips twitched back, baring his teeth reflexively, and he growled at Ashi. The hunter jerked back and her hand went instantly to her sword—then fell away as a flush crept up her face.

  “I’m … sorry,” she said. “Blood in my mouth, it was not a good thing to ask.” She hung her head. “I miss friends among the Bonetree. If they were dead, I wouldn’t miss them as much.”

  Other faces joined Adolan’s in Geth’s memory, the faces of people he—and Singe—had served with in the Frostbrand. People he’d last seen in the northern Karrnathi town of Narath. People who were dead because of him. He clenched his jaw tight. “I understand,” he said through his teeth.

  Ashi’s hand dropped back to her sword, though this time only to rest on it. The weapon had belong to her grandfather, absorbed into the Bonetree clan after being found wounded in the marches. Singe had identified the weapon as an honor blade of the Sentinel Marshals of House Deneith. That Ashi carried the blood of Deneith was one of the surprises they had discovered among the Bonetree. “Singe says that I’ll have a new clan in House Deneith,” she said. “Do you think that they’ll take me in?”

  “Ashi,” Geth said, “I think House Deneith is going to be as surprised to learn about you as you were to learn about it.”

  The crowd thinned around them as the street they had followed opened onto the docks. Orshok’s eyes went wide at the sight of the sailing ships gently rising and falling with the water. “Kuv!” he said in awe.

  “You didn’t see these last time you were in Zarash’ak?” Geth asked, turning to saunter along the docks.

  “No.” Orshok shook his head. “I stayed where Batul directed me to go, watching for the Servant of Madness. I didn’t see much of the city.” The druid stared at the ocean-going vessels they passed. “I’d heard they were big, but I did really imagine …” He looked ahead of them and his eyes grew even wider. “Look at that! What kind of ship needs no sails?”

  “A Lyrandar elemental galleon,” mumbled Geth as he stuffed the last of his bread and meat into his mouth. He looked up to follow Orshok’s gaze—and the food in his mouth seemed to turn dry and tasteless.

  Only three berths along, Lightning on Water nestled against the wood of the dock, the great elemental ring that drove it glinting like blue glass in the sun. A much smaller boat—a river craft—was tied up beside it and the galleon’s crew were busy loading it with supplies as though for a voyage. The hair on Geth’s forearms and on the back of his neck rose. Black herons rode the breeze around and above the Lyrandar galleon, perching boldly on its rails, among the rigging of nearby ships, and atop the piles of the docks.

  Dah’mir’s herons. Vennet d’Lyrandar’s ship.

  Beside the laboring crew stood two figures. One wore a dove-gray coat and had long blond hair that fell in a tail down his back. The other wore robes of fine black leather.

  Their attention was on the crew, but as Geth stared Vennet and Dah’mir started to turn, walking toward them.

  Barely thinking, he grabbed Orshok and Ashi and shoved them into the shelter of a narrow alley between two buildings. Orshok’s gray-green face was flushed dark.

  “That was …” he croaked in frightened disbelief.

  “I know,” Geth told him. “Be quiet!”

  Ashi gripped the hilt of her sword. “Geth, we could end this! There’s three of us and two of them.”

  “But one of them is a dragon!” he hissed at her. “Fighting Dah’mir would be suicide. Now be quiet and get back!”

  Neither Vennet or Dah’mir had seen them and there was light at the alley’s far end—he hadn’t just hidden them in a dead-end. Geth thanked Grandfather Rat for a moment of good fortune. If they tried to make a break for it though, their movem
ent was certain to draw the men’s attention. The floor of the alley was covered in foul litter. Geth ignored it—he dropped to his belly and lay flat. Behind him, he heard Orshok and Dandra press back as well.

  The black stones of Adolan’s collar went cold around his throat. A moment later, Dah’mir and Vennet passed by the mouth of the alley.

  Geth could barely bring himself to look up, but he did and caught a brief glimpse of the two men. Vennet looked the same as he had the last time Geth had seen him, though there was a hint of tension in his face. Dah’mir, on the other hand … When they had seen him before, the dragon’s human shape had been always been elegant, graceful, and perfect. Inhumanly perfect. Now, however, he moved stiffly and there was a draw on his features. He looked tired. He looked like he was in pain.

  The two men were talking. Geth strained his ears to catch their words.

  “—will find enough fresh water to sustain the crew while we’re gone.” Vennet was saying. “Two weeks? You’re certain.”

  “At most,” answered Dah’mir, and the sound of his oil-smooth voice sent shudders along Geth’s spine. “By the way, you might not want to pick your best men to accompany us, captain. The journey can be dangerous—”

  His words cut off sharply. “Lord?” asked Vennet. “What is it?”

  Geth’s heart felt like it had stopped beating. The light from the mouth of the alley vanished as Dah’mir stepped back, his nostrils flared as if he smelled something bad.

  For an instant, time seemed to stop as Geth and Dah’mir stared at each other, and Geth’s attention focused on a single detail: the blue-black Khyber dragonshard that had glittered on the chest of Dah’mir’s leather robes before was gone, shattered by Geth’s sword, its place marked by a wet stain and a crudely mended tear in the leather.

  Then Dah’mir’s acid-green eyes flared. His lips peeled back, “You!”

  A predator’s instincts might have been focused on hunting and fighting—but predators knew when to flee, too.

  Geth thrust himself away from Dah’mir, twisting to his feet as he moved. “Run!” he roared at Ashi and Orshok. “Run!”

  CHAPTER

  3

  Orshok needed no encouragement. He sprinted down the alley faster than Geth would have thought possible. Ashi, however, stood frozen for a moment, torn between flight and the desire to fight. Geth didn’t give her the chance to think about it—he just ran straight at her. The alley was too narrow for them to pass each other. “Go, Ashi!” he screamed as he charged at her. “Move!”

  She spun around and ran. Geth put his head down and focused on moving his legs as fast as he could. With each pounding stride, he expected to hear the dragon’s deafening roar and to feel hot, acidic venom spatter against his back. Trapped in the alley, they were all three an easy target. He’d seen the dragon’s acid melt orcs and dolgrims alike on the battlefield at the Bonetree mound, flesh and bone dissolving into a hideous slop. Any time now, he thought to himself with mounting horror, any time now.

  He heard Vennet shout for his crew, ordering them into pursuit. He heard a strange sharp whistle. He didn’t hear a dragon’s roar. He didn’t feel acid drench him.

  He burst out of the end of the alley and onto a quiet laneway. Orshok grabbed his arm, whirling him to a stop. “Which way?” gasped the orc.

  Geth twisted around, looking back down the alley. Vennet stood at the far end, his cutlass raised, waving to someone—probably his crew—back on the docks. Beyond him, Geth could see Dah’mir, still in human form, standing and glaring. The shifter gulped and leaped away. He looked both ways along the laneway, then thrust a hand in the direction that seemed to lead back to a busier part of the city. “This way!” he said. “Grandfather Rat, if we can get into a crowd before Vennet’s men are through the alley, we might lose them!”

  “Men aren’t the only thing we need to worry about!” Ashi pointed upward.

  Black herons were rising into the sky above.

  “Rat!” Geth cursed again. Bonetree hunters had once used the birds to track Dandra from the air. With Dah’mir to command them, he didn’t doubt that they’d perform the same task for Vennet’s crew, guiding the sailors right to them. He clenched his teeth. “We still don’t want to be caught in the open! Come on!”

  They’d almost made it out of the laneway and into the busier street at its end when shouts erupted behind them. Geth looked over his shoulder and saw a knot of sailors pouring out of the alley. “They’ve seen us!” he called to Ashi and Orshok—then they were all plunging into the crowd on the street.

  For a panic-stricken moment, the shifter feared he had lost the druid and the hunter, only to find them right beside him. He struck out for the middle of the street, moving as quickly as he dared. Full out flight through the crowd would only draw attention to them, and getting through the milling throng quickly seemed unlikely at best. He looked behind them. The sailors were standing at the side of the street, looking around with a blank stare. Overhead, the herons spun in wide, lazy circles, as if still trying to pick out their targets. Geth drew a slow breath. Maybe they had a chance.

  Vennet’s voice rang out above the noise of the street. “There! There they are!”

  Geth spun back around. Vennet and fully half of his crew were ahead of them. The half-elf must have known a shortcut through the twisting alleys—and he and his crew didn’t need to worry about being stealthy. The sailors came hurtling through the crowd like stampeding cattle, ignoring the cries of the people they shoved aside.

  The shifter twisted to look back the way they had come—and saw the other sailors closing, too, drawn by Vennet’s shouts.

  A crooked sidestreet opened nearby. It was empty. “Down there!” he told Orshok and Ashi. He pushed them past the people who stood like confused cattle, staring at Vennet and his men, and down the street. He followed—but not before snatching a long bolt of colorful fabric away from a woman standing on the corner. Her shouts followed him around the first sharp bend in the street.

  “Ashi!” he called. “Stop and help me! Orshok, run slow—you’re our bait!”

  He saw the young orc swallow, but keep going. Ashi stopped and whirled around. Geth grabbed her and pulled her into the shelter of the bend. He thrust the free end of the bolt of fabric into her hands. “Hold tight to this.”

  Shouts echoed along the street. The first group of Vennet’s men had come after them. Geth and Ashi pressed back. Geth drew a deep breath, reached inside himself—and shifted.

  Instincts, reflexes, and animal features weren’t the only legacy to shifters from their lycanthropic ancestors. Although they couldn’t take the true beast forms of their ancestors, shifters could take on bestial aspects. Some could grow claws or fangs. Some could put on incredible speed or enhance their senses. Geth’s shifting ability wasn’t so flamboyant or deadly, but he had always thought it was even more useful.

  As the shifting swept through him, his skin toughened. His hair bristled and seemed to grow thick. A sensation of invulnerability pounded in his veins.

  When Vennet’s men came pounding around the bend in the alley, their eyes fixed on Orshok, Geth roared and leaped out behind them. Startled, the men froze for just an instant. That was long enough for Geth. He darted forward, jumping around the men, the bolt of fabric unraveling behind him in an unlikely banner. Ashi realized what he was doing and ran around the other way to meet him, drawing the noose of fabric tight. Vennet’s men found themselves abruptly clustered together, pinned by the colorful cloth before they could draw their blades. Geth and Ashi turned almost in unison and threw themselves against the trapped men, laying them down with a flurry of hard, fast punches and kicks.

  One sailor managed to squirm free and pull out a knife as the fabric noose fell slack. He lunged at Geth. The shifter swatted his attack aside, but the knife still connected. The blade slashed his arm—and left no more than a score in his shifting-toughened skin. Geth growled and smashed his elbow across the sailor’s face. The knife might
have done no lasting damage, but it still hurt.

  The man dropped like a stone, the last to go down—and just in time. Vennet’s voice swept down the street. People were staring down from windows above. A short distance along the street, Orshok was waiting, hopping from one foot to the other, ready to run again. Geth let go of the fabric and grabbed Ashi. “Come on. Half a dozen down is only a start.”

  Ashi’s eyes were bright as they sprinted after Orshok, whipping around another bend in the street. “It was too easy,” she hissed between her teeth. “They moved slow. Did you see their eyes?”

  Geth scowled. “I wasn’t looking at their eyes!”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, though, he could see in his memory exactly what Ashi meant. The sailors’ reactions had been slow, almost as if they had been drinking. Their eyes had been focused, but also strangely distant—as if a part of each man’s mind had been under the control of someone else. Another growl escaped him. “Dah’mir’s influence!”

  “Where do you think he is?” asked Orshok. “Word of Vvaraak, why hasn’t he come after us?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to take to the sky over a crowded city,” said Ashi.

  Or, Geth thought, maybe he couldn’t. The dragon’s stiff movements, the haggard look of pain on his human face … maybe Dah’mir couldn’t fly. Tiger’s blood, he wondered, how badly did I injure him?

  He kept the thought to himself. If Dah’mir was somewhere behind them, they couldn’t led their guard down. Vennet and his men were still following, their shouts echoing along the twists of the street—once they lost them, they could worry about Dah’mir. Geth glanced down each of the alleys that split off from the street, but without exception, they were all even narrower than the street itself—and now was not the time to risk blundering into a dead-end.

  Assuming that the twisting street wasn’t itself a dead-end.