The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II

by Don Bassingthwaite

  That Dah’mir had panicked at his wounding and fled to distant safety where his attackers couldn’t follow—Vennet could believe that, too. He’d watched Dah’mir’s frustration as the strength drained out of him. The priest tried to hide it, but Vennet knew that every command he issued to the crew made him weaker. He’d seen him attempt magic and watched his spells falter. The key to regaining his strength lay in returning to the Bonetree mound, the heart of his power. That was what he needed Vennet for.

  There was something else though, Vennet knew. Suspicion crept in at the back of his mind, lifting the hairs on the back of his neck. He prayed to Khyber that he’d made the right decision in siding with the priest.

  There was one thing about Dah’mir that he had worked out for himself, however. “Lord,” he pointed out, “if Geth is in Zarash’ak, Dandra probably is, too.”

  Dah’mir’s mouth twisted in anger, the expression darkening his face like a cloud across the sun. He cut Vennet off with a snap. “I had guessed that myself, captain! Zarash’ak has too many hiding places, though. We can spare no more time. I must return to the Bonetree mound. That is my only concern. I want to leave as soon as the boat is ready.”

  For the first time, Vennet heard an edge of desperation in the priest’s voice. He bent his head, holding back a sly, self-satisfied smile. “I know, lord. I anticipated it. But just because we can’t stay to look for her and her companions doesn’t mean that someone else can’t search them out and hold them until we return. I took the initiative of contacting someone and offering him the job.” Vennet gestured for the heavily-muscled man who had been standing back in the shadows to join them. “I know his reputation. He’s said to be one of the best bounty hunters available.”

  “I am the best,” the man growled as he came forward. He met Dah’mir’s eyes boldly. “I’ll get you your people.”

  “Lord,” said Vennet, “meet Chain d’Tharashk.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  They left the courtyard the same way they had entered. At the end of the narrow passage, Natrac muttered a few words in Orc to the merchants whose stalls hid the entrance to the bolthole, and the crates that blocked the curtain were shifted. Singe pushed past the curtain gratefully—after the stifling heat of the enclosed courtyard, Zarash’ak’s open streets felt cool as a spring morning. The ring that he wore, an inheritance from his grandfather, protected him from fire, but it did nothing to shield him from simple heat. At that moment, there was nothing he wanted more than a dunking in cool water. A swim, a bath, even a pump that he could stick his head under …

  A horse trough, he thought, I’d take a horse trough.

  They didn’t have time for even that dubious luxury. The crowds on the streets were thinning with the end of the day. They’d hidden in the courtyard for as long as they’d dared but there was still a good chance that Vennet, his crew, or especially Dah’mir’s herons might still be abroad, and the thinning crowds left them that much less cover. As soon as they had all emerged—sticky and sweating—from the bolthole, they set off down the street at a brisk pace. They moved in two groups, trying their best to blend in, all of them alert.

  Natrac took the lead, Singe and Geth at his side. They hadn’t gone far before Geth growled under his breath. “You’re taking us back to the bridge.”

  The half-orc nodded but didn’t slow down. Singe looked up at the sky. There were no herons visible above the street, but the arc of sky overhead was relatively narrow, constrained by the buildings on either side. Once they were on the bridge—and in the plaza beyond—they would be exposed.

  “Natrac,” Singe said, “the idea was to get under cover. The bridge and plaza—”

  “We’re not crossing the bridge,” said Natrac.

  “Running alongside the canal doesn’t seem much better,” Geth pointed out.

  “We’re not doing that either.” Natrac’s voice was on edge. “We’re going down into the webs.”

  Singe shot a glance at him. Natrac’s face was set as tight as his voice, as though he was preparing himself for something unpleasant. Before he could ask him more, though, Natrac held up his right arm, gesturing for them to stop. The bridge on which Geth, Ashi, and Orshok had escaped from Vennet was just ahead, the casual flow of people around it giving no hint of the panicked, tangled mob that had flooded across earlier. Singe scanned the bridge, the plaza, and the sky for signs of observers or an ambush.

  The silhouette of a heron moved across a sky red with twilight. “Is that one of Dah’mir’s?” Singe asked.

  Geth squinted, then shook his head. “I can’t tell.”

  “We only need to get across the street.” Natrac pointed ahead. “There are stairs leading down to the canal just to the left of the bridge. That’s where we’re going.”

  Singe twisted around and looked for Dandra and the others. They were less than a dozen paces away, pressed back against a wall. Singe caught Dandra’s eye and gestured to the stairs Natrac had indicated. She nodded. He turned back to Natrac. “Let’s go.”

  Darting across the street and down the stairs for no other reason than the distant presence of a bird actually felt vaguely ridiculous. A half dozen similar—but much more deadly—situations that he had experienced over his years as a mercenary flitted through Singe’s mind. Running for cover on a battlefield in Cyre as arrows fell. Infiltrating an enemy camp. Leaping aside as a hostile wizard hurled bolts of lightning at him. Retreating through the shadows of Narath as the soldiers of Aundair, countrymen he had left behind when he joined the Blademarks of House Deneith, flooded the streets …

  Dodging around strolling shoppers might have felt ridiculous, but his heart was still racing as he paused on the stairs to be sure that Ashi, Orshok, and Dandra made it into hiding as well. Dandra came last, shepherding the others before her even though, he knew, she could easily have outpaced them both. He fell in beside her as they hurried down the long flight of steps toward the canal below. “You saw the heron?”

  She nodded. “Do you think it saw us?”

  “I hope not.” Singe gave her a closer look. There was a particular set to Dandra’s chin and the line of her jaw that Singe had come to recognize as an expression of her unstoppable determination. It was an expression that she wore only when she was up against formidable resistance—most particularly internal resistance. His eyes flicked to the yellow-green crystal hanging around her neck, then away. “Is Tetkashtai bothering you?” he asked.

  “Does it show?”

  “If you know what to look for.”

  Dandra grimaced, but nodded again. “She’s terrified at even being in the same city as Dah’mir,” she said. “All she wants to do is get away from him.”

  “I can’t say I entirely blame her. Even if Geth’s right and he’s weak, I don’t like knowing he’s this close.” He twitched his shoulders. “It puts me on edge.”

  “You might be on edge,” Dandra said tightly, “but I know you’ll step back. Every time Tetkashtai gets this way, she comes closer to falling over.”

  Her eyes flickered as some inner dialogue passed between her and the presence. Singe raised an eyebrow as her face tightened a little more. Tetkashtai could hear what Dandra heard. “What does she say?” the wizard asked.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Singe bit back the curiosity that her answer roused in him. The very first time that Dandra had touched his mind in the mental link that kalashtar called the kesh, she had shown him Tetkashtai as she saw her: a formless aura of yellow-green light, at the same time both part of her and something separate. That was as close as he could come to experiencing the union that Dandra had with the presence—and he knew that it was as close as he should come, too. Dandra was the only one who could stand up to Tetkashtai. Geth had tried drawing on the presence’s power once and almost ended up a prisoner in his own body. Singe knew better than to try.

  Even though it cut him to see Dandra struggling alone with such a shadow across her fiery, determined
personality.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the wooden island of a landing spread out. Only one edge of it faced onto the canal—the rest of it extended back beneath the platform of the street above. Skiffs skirted the landing, making deliveries and ferrying passengers along the canal, but when a boatman called out to Natrac, offering his services, the half-orc just dismissed him with a wave and a scowl. Instead, he led them away from the stairs and further into the gloom below the city. The massive pillars and stilts that supported Zarash’ak rose above them like naked trees. The last hints of the fresh smell of the herb market were cut off, replaced by the stink of the silty water that moved sluggishly past their feet.

  On the opposite side of the landing from the stairs, one end of a tangle of planks and rope had been secured to spikes driven into the wood. The other rose up at a sharp angle toward the shadows overhead, creating a trembling construction that was half ramp and half rope bridge. Singe lifted his head, following the lines of rope.

  Hidden in the darkness of the underside of Zarash’ak, long spans of suspended walkways bounced, shifted, and swayed in a complex network like the weavings of some enormous spider.

  “The webs?” Singe asked.

  Natrac nodded.

  “Grandmother Wolf!” said Geth, his eyes wide and shining in the dim light. “They’re incredible. Who built them?”

  “Goblins,” Natrac said. “Clever little vermin. There aren’t that many of them in the city and they like their own space. The webs are still mostly their territory but there are other groups in Zarash’ak who use them, too. I don’t think even Vennet would try looking for us down here.” He stepped cautiously onto the angled bridge. The ropes creaked at his weight but held. “Be careful,” he said over his shoulder and began to climb.

  One by one, they followed after him. To his surprise, Singe found that the bridge was actually very well constructed. It bounced and swayed as they moved along it, but only within a narrow range of motion. Under the lighter weight of goblins, the bridge might not have even shifted at all. It had been built with more than goblins in mind, though—there were two ropes on either side of the foot bed, one low for small travelers, the other higher for human hands and arms. The overhead walkways, once they reached them, were similarly well-built, though cramped. Two humans would have been forced to squeeze together if they wanted to pass on the walkway and the rough, age-darkened wooden patchwork that was the underside of Zarash’ak hung just a few feet above Singe’s head. Only the dim vista of slow water and massive pillars broke the oppression, a spectacular sight in its own way.

  For a moment, Singe was reminded of the fantastic bridges and skyways that leaped between the towers of Sharn—except that the bridges of Sharn smelled a lot better than the shadowed webs. Singe wrinkled his nose as a ripe stink welled up from below and enveloped them. “Twelve moons,” he said, taking shallow breaths through his mouth. “Does the smell just keep getting worse?”

  “There are dead spots in the flow around the stilts,” said Natrac. “Anything that gets caught in one just floats until it rots.”

  “How far do we have to go?”

  “Around to the other side of the city.” The half-orc made a face, thrusting his tusks out. “The problem is that paths through the webs don’t run under everything and they don’t always take the most direct route.”

  “Then keep moving,” Ashi said. “The sooner we reach our destination, the better.”

  As long as he could keep track of which of the patches of twilight that penetrated the darkness below Zarash’ak marked the canal where they had entered the webs, Singe felt like he knew where they were. As soon as he lost that point of reference, though—and all it took was glancing away at the wrong moment—he felt instantly disoriented. The paths of the webs were strange. The ropes and cables that supported the walkways and bridges weren’t perpendicular like the walls of buildings. They ran at odd angles. They crossed and knotted and merged. The walkways rose and dipped, flowing around the strange upside-down architecture of Zarash’ak’s underside: the hanging cellars of buildings. the enormous beams that lay beneath the streets, the huge bulges like barrels the size of ships’ hulls that Natrac said were cisterns.

  “Constructed by House Cannith when the city was still growing,” he explained. “They collect Zarash’ak’s drinking water. Those of us who can afford it have our own, but those who can’t have to fetch water from the public cisterns.”

  Their group wasn’t alone on the webs. As they moved beneath other parts of the city, goblins appeared out of the gloom, darting past them on the narrow walkways without a moment’s hesitation or a second glance. On broader ledges constructed around the massive stilts or on platforms hung from beams above, more goblins—and other folk—gathered. On one crowded multi-level collection of platforms, apparently the webs’ version of a tavern, Singe spotted humans and half-orcs, along with a knot of hobgoblins. The goblins’ larger kinfolk were taller and bulkier than a human man, with small yellow eyes, orange-brown hair, tufted ears, and flattened faces. Singe was just as happy that they didn’t see more of them.

  “There weren’t many goblins in the streets above,” he said. “Do they all live down here?”

  “Dagga.” Natrac’s eyes searched the gloom and he pointed. “Do you see that?”

  As night fell across the city above, the shadows of the webs deepened. Singe could barely see through the gathering darkness, but he could make out irregular shapes clinging like giant spider nests to several pillars. “What are they?”

  “Goblin homes. Rope and board, woven together.”

  “What do the goblins do when the river rises?”

  “Most of them climb to safety and the water washes through the webs. Once it recedes, the goblins come back, dry things out, and repair anything that needs repairing.” Natrac slapped at a thick rope, making it quiver in a way that brought a stiff grimace out of Ashi. “The webs have survived the worst that Zarash’ak can throw at them. Not even fire has much effect on them—it just smolders and smells bad.”

  Geth was peering over the edge of the walkway on which they stood, a more substantial construction than most. He cocked his head suddenly. “Natrac, what’s that?”

  Singe followed his gaze. Down below, the water seemed to have given way to foul, dark mud and yet another strange shape, this one large and blocky. He actually stared at it for several moments before he realized that it was a crumbling stone building, half-sunk in the mud and leaning at a crazy angle.

  Natrac smiled. “When the Five Nations and the dragonmarked houses first started paying attention to the Shadow Marches,” he said, “they tried erecting the same kinds of buildings they knew at home on some of the islands in the river. Supposedly they were so full of brilliant plans for dealing with floodwaters that they didn’t bother talking to the local clans and tribes.” He nodded toward the leaning ruins. “Their buildings started sinking before the river had even flooded. Even after the locals suggested building on stilts, some people kept trying. Zarash’ak is built over clever ideas.” He turned away. “We’re close to where we need to be. Let’s find a way back up to the streets.”

  “Guides?” called a high, slippery voice. “You need guides?”

  Singe spun sharply, his hand going to his rapier. The lone goblin who stood on the walkway before them twitched large ears—one missing a good half of its length, bitten off to judge by the ragged scar that was left—and blinked reddish eyes. “Easy!” he said. “Big folk get nervous too easy in the webs.” He smiled, showing crooked, needle-like teeth. “You need guides to get you back topside?”

  “You move quietly for a guide,” said Singe. He examined the goblin. The little creature carried a long knife on either side of his belt. “You’re well-armed for one, too.”

  The goblin shrugged. “Not always a guide.”

  Singe raised an eyebrow. “Well whatever you are, I don’t think we need one right now.”

  “Wait.” Natrac touched Singe’s arm
and whispered, “We could use directions. It will get us out of here quicker.”

  “You trust him?” asked Geth from Singe’s other side.

  “I wouldn’t follow him across the street, but there are six of us and we’re expecting an ambush. We’ll be fine.” Natrac raised his voice. “Five copper crowns if you direct us to the nearest exit—no tricks. We can find our own way.”

  “Ban.” The goblin shrugged again and pointed along a walkway that intersected the one they stood on. “Turn left, then right. Look for the straight ladder.”

  “Thank you.” Natrac’s hand reached into a pouch and he stepped forward to give the goblin his reward.

  Singe looked down the way that the goblin had pointed. He couldn’t see much in the gloom, but the walkway looked open and clear, with no possible hiding places. Maybe the goblin had given them honest directions.

  Maybe not. Singe dipped his fingers into his money pouch and brought out a copper coin. He clenched the coin tight and murmured a word of magic into his fist—then stepped forward and flung the coin as far as he could along the walkway.

  Released from the concealment of his fingers, the coin flashed with magical light. It was no brighter than a torch, but in the dimness of the webs, it was dazzling. Singe shaded his eyes and followed the coin’s arc as the others gasped in surprise.

  Screeches of dismay erupted from the shadows and startled goblins dropped like spiders out of their hiding places among the great beams overhead, tumbling down to the walkway and scurrying away from the unexpected magic.