The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II

by Don Bassingthwaite

  Natrac bellowed like an angry bull. His hand opened, scattering copper crowns across the walkway, and clamped around the goblin’s scrawny neck, wrenching him off his feet. The goblin kicked and struggled, but Natrac simply held him away. He raised the knife on his right wrist. “Now,” he said, “which way do we really go?”

  His eyes bulging, the goblin pointed in another direction. Natrac growled and started to set him down.

  “Maybe not yet,” said Singe. Down the other walkway, goblins were edging back into the light of the glowing coin, their fear fading fast as they realized that the magic was nothing that would hurt them. A few were turning bright eyes back to the group of bigfolk that had intruded on their territory. Natrac glanced at the goblin in his grip.

  “If you think they care enough to see you stay safe, you’d better tell them to stay back.” He lowered the goblin to the ground and eased his grasp on his throat. The goblin drew a rasping breath and shouted something frightened in its harsh language. The other goblins paused and pulled back.

  “Good,” said Natrac. “Now let’s find that exit.” Keeping a firm grip on the goblin’s shoulder, he steered the little creature along the walkway. Singe and Geth took the rear of the group, keeping their eyes on the goblins behind them.

  The way back to the upper streets of Zarash’ak, a flight of steep stairs that rose up to the edge of a narrow courtyard, was actually remarkably close but not particularly easy to spot. The goblin gang, Singe thought, probably did good business ambushing those looking for it. Natrac dragged the goblin along with them up the stairs, then released him once they were all in the courtyard above. The goblin disappeared back into the webs with a series of barking curses that Singe could only imagine were promises of vengeance if they were ever caught in the webs again.

  Natrac ignored him and looked around. “This way,” he said.

  They had emerged from the webs in a part of the city unlike the others Singe had seen. The buildings were older and the orc influence on them—and the people—more obvious. The street rang with loud music, rough laughter, and the guttural Orc language. The odors of food and drink drifted on the evening breeze: gaeth’ad, ale, and the spicy grilled meats of the Shadow Marches. At an open window above their heads, an old woman with the heavy build and pronounced jaw of a half-orc sat, slowly chewing something and staring at them as they passed. Many of the people on the night-dark street gave them at least a curious glance. Singe had the feeling that travellers seldom came to this part of Zarash’ak.

  Natrac stopped them before a large, ramshackle house, most of its many windows wide open to the evening. A good deal of shouting and banging was coming from inside, as if a horde of children had been turned loose within. Singe glanced at Natrac curiously. “What is this place? An orphanage?”

  “Not exactly.” The half-orc strode forward. The door of the house was decorated with an iron door knocker in the shape of an egg. Natrac lifted the hammer and rapped it against the striking plate vigorously.

  The sounds of a scuffle broke out on the other side of the door, broken up by an angry voice and a wail of protest. A moment later, the door opened. The half-orc boy who stood on the other side was as tall and heavy as a human adult, but his face still had the greasy complexion of an adolescent. Behind him, two young girls—orc tusks thrusting up from their lower jaws, identical except that one of them had a hand pressed over her ear—stood and stared at the visitors.

  “Kuk?” asked the boy.

  “Bava osh?” Natrac asked in return. The boy looked him over, then nodded.

  “Dag.” He turned away from the door and bellowed out, “Nena!”

  From somewhere inside the house, a woman’s voice shouted back in harried frustration. Singe couldn’t quite catch what she was saying, but he could imagine the meaning well enough—I’m busy! Who is it? The two half-orc girls exchanged silent, sly looks as the boy and the unseen woman shouted back and forth. Finally footsteps came rapping toward the door in a brisk march and the woman’s exasperated words grew clearer. “Diad, choshk sum bra—”

  The woman who stepped around a corner and into sight of the door was human. Generously built and well-endowed, she had thick, dark hair held back from her face with a colorful scarf and wore a fine, matching dress. She was older, middle-aged, perhaps of an age with Natrac. She held an infant, but she took one look at Natrac and thrust the baby on the older boy, then leaped forward to wrap her arms around him. “Natrac! When I got your message yesterday … Lords of the Host, I thought you were dead!”

  “Bava! Careful!” Natrac twisted to hold the knife on his right arm away from her. She glanced down and let out an outraged gasp.

  “I’d heard you’d been kidnapped—”

  “Dagga,” said Natrac grimly, but he squeezed the woman tight with his left arm, burying his face in her hair. Singe caught a faint murmur as he whispered something to her. Behind them, the young girls and the older boy looked on in surprise. After a moment, Natrac and the woman separated.

  Quick as a spear thrust, the woman caught him across the face with a resounding slap. “Shekot! You’re late for dinner! The food’s almost ruined!”

  Natrac rocked back a step with the force of the angry blow, then twisted around to the woman’s side and put his arm across her shoulders to avoid another. A spot of blood showed at the corner of his lip, but he smiled at Singe and the others.

  “This is Bava Bibahronaz,” he said proudly. “An old friend. Bava, these are some new friends.”

  He introduced them all and if Bava was surprised at having an Aundairian, a savage of the Shadow Marches, a kalashtar, a shifter, and an orc all turn up unexpectedly on her doorstep, she didn’t show it. “Welcome,” she told them, then looked to Natrac and added fiercely, “I don’t know whether to slap you again or hug you. What’s going on?”

  Natrac sighed. “That’s a night’s story. Bava, we need your help—”

  Bava reached up and pressed a thick-fingered hand across Natrac’s lips. “Natrac, every time I see you, you need my help!” She turned her head sharply and called to the half-orc boy, “Diad, take care of Noori. Mine, Ose, clear your brothers and sisters out of the dining room. Our guests are here—finally.”

  “Bava, it’s not our fault!”

  Diad slouched away, the baby cradled with surprising gentleness in his arm. The little girls darted off. Singe could hear them shouting as they ran—throughout the house, the voices of children died away for a moment, then resumed in an excited buzz. Bava paid them no attention, but just shook her head at Natrac’s protests. She stepped away from him and hooked her arms around Geth’s and Orshok’s arms, pulling them through the door. “You look like men who enjoy a good meal,” she said. “I’m surprised you’d let Natrac dawdle when dinner’s waiting.” She glanced back over her shoulder to call to the Singe and the others. “Come on! Come inside!”

  Natrac stared after Bava with a look of mingled frustration and fascination on his face. Singe and Dandra glanced at each other, then Dandra asked delicately, “Natrac, how is it you know Bava?”

  The half-orc bared his tusks at her and stomped off into the house. Singe, Dandra, and Ashi followed him through the door—Singe pulled it closed behind them. Inside, the house was cool and dim. The walls and floor were worn with age and the abuse inflicted by many active children. From a flight of stairs that rose up to the house’s second floor, a series of young faces peered down. Their features varied widely, but all of them were young half-orcs. Ashi stared back at them and growled fiercely. The children darted back.

  Dandra stared around at the house as they followed the sounds of Natrac’s footsteps and Bava’s laughter. “This isn’t quite what I expected from a historian. Even a would-be historian.”

  “Me neither,” Singe agreed. He frowned. “I feel like I should know Bava’s name. I’ve heard it somewhere before.”

  “It’s a clan name of the Shadow Marches,” said Ashi. “Bibahronaz—the Howling Rabbit clan. I think they�
��re from the southwest.”

  “That’s not where I would have heard it. The Bonetree is the only Marcher clan I know.” Singe searched his memory for the reason Bava’s name seemed familiar. “I feel like I’ve known it for a long time.”

  The hall ended in a dining room with a huge battered table and mismatched chairs. Mine, Ose, and two other half-orc girls waited in a corner, staring at their guests. Natrac, seeming a little less surly now, had taken a chair and Bava was seating Geth and Orshok on either side of what was presumably her place at the head of the table. Singe’s gaze, however, was drawn to a large painting that hung on a long wall of the dining room. In strong colors and bold strokes, it depicted a feast: humans, orcs, and half-orcs in both savage and civilized clothing, all sharing a table set amid the abundant wild plant life of the Shadow Marches. The style, especially the depictions of the plants of the Marches, was distinct and instantly recognizable. He dropped into the nearest chair, still staring at the painting.

  “You’re Bava Bahron,” he said in awe.

  “Bibahronaz,” Bava corrected him. “No one ever got it right.”

  “I had a lecturer at Wynarn University who called you the greatest artist ever to come out of the Shadow Marches.” Bava waved the comment away, but Singe pressed her. “I’ve seen some of your paintings. They’re beautiful. Wynarn has your Golden Asp and the Royal Collection of Aundair has your Union of Tharashk. I remember staring at Wild Grapes in Ruins for hours.”

  “One of my first works,” said Bava with a nod. “Not my best, but I liked it.” She cocked her head. “I’m curious: where did you see it? It’s been in the private collection of an Aundairian family named Bayard for twenty years.”

  A nasty smile flashed across Geth’s face. Singe held back a grimace and kept his voice level. “Casual friends,” he said. “I saw it as a boy.”

  “You see?” said Natrac. “I told you that you underestimated Zarash’ak. With people like Bava, the City of Stilts can stand as high as Fairhaven or—”

  Bava smacked him in the back of the head as she walked behind the table. “Hush!” she said with a smile. She gathered Mine, Ose, and the other two girls, sweeping them before her through a door at the other end of the room.

  Dandra leaned across the table to Natrac. “How many children are there in this house?” she asked, a trace of amazement in her voice.

  “Usually around a dozen.”

  “Are they all hers?” the shifter asked bluntly.

  “No,” said Bava with a chuckle, stepping back through the door. There was a platter of meat in each hand and she held the door open with a foot so that the little girls could follow her through, each of them carrying a bowl or a few plates. Through the open door, Singe caught a glimpse of a large kitchen—and the same faces he had seen peering down from the stairs before. Bava let the door swing shut after the girls and turned to the table herself. “Not all of them, anyway. Mothers don’t always want half-orc children, even in Zarash’ak. I give them a place where they are wanted.”

  “There’s an orc legend of the Ghaash’nena, a spirit that protects lost children,” said Natrac. “Bava is the Ghaash’nena of Zarash’ak.”

  The elbow of the guardian spirit dipped as she passed and clipped him sharply on the ear. As Natrac cursed and rubbed his abused head, she smiled down at him. “Maybe instead of repeating silly stories, you could make yourself useful,” she said. “You know where the wine is. Bring some out.”

  Natrac held up his knife-hand. “One hand,” he reminded her.

  “I’ll help,” said Ose eagerly.

  “Me, too!” Mine added.

  Natrac hung his head in mock resignation and pushed away from the table, following the two chattering girls back into the kitchen. Geth laughed and grinned at Bava. “How long have you known Natrac?” he asked.

  “Almost too long to remember,” the large woman said. “It will have been twenty years soon.”

  “Impossible,” Singe said. “You couldn’t have been born then.”

  Bava wagged a finger at him. “Don’t flirt with me, Aundairian,” she said. “You’re too skinny.” But a smile spread across her face and as she turned back to setting plates out on the table, she added, “We met in Sharn. I’d been there for five years, but I found out later that Natrac had only been in the city for two.”

  “You left your clan’s territory for a city?” asked Ashi.

  The large woman looked up at her. “If you’re from the deep marshes, sheid, it must sound like a terrible thing, but I’d visited Zarash’ak many times. I knew that if I wanted to do more than paint huts and draw tattoos, I had to leave the Marches. So I went to Sharn. It was a hard decision. I think Natrac had an easier time of it when he left Graywall. Not that he had much choice in the matter—”

  “Graywall in Droaam?” Singe said. “Natrac isn’t from Zarash’ak?”

  “You didn’t know?” Bava’s face turned red. “Host. I should have thought …” She clenched her teeth. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t tell Natrac.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone.” She set down the last plate and reached for a bowl of leafy green vegetables.

  Geth, however, sat forward. “Can you answer one thing, though?” he asked. “What did Natrac do before he came to Zarash’ak? Was he a gladiator?”

  Bava hesitated then shook her head. “Not as such. Now no more!” She turned away just as Natrac, Mine, and Ose returned with wine. Singe glanced at Geth curiously, but the shifter’s eyes were on Natrac. The half-orc’s were on Bava. Singe exchanged a look with Dandra, who only shrugged in confusion.

  Bava got everyone seated with wine and food in front of them, then chased out the little girls, shut the door that led into the hall, and seated herself. “Now,” she said with the same strong confidence she had before Singe had asked her about Natrac’s past, “tell me what’s going on.”

  She listened with a careful intensity to their story, interrupting only to ask a few probing questions that brought out anything they tried to skim over. As the tale unfolded, their food grew cold and their wine remained untouched. Diad wandered into the room and took a seat at the table—Bava gestured him out immediately, her face hard and rapt with attention. When they had finished, she reached for her wine and drained the glass, then passed the bottle around the table and made sure everyone had some.

  “You don’t mind that we came here, do you?” Natrac asked, his voice urgent. “If I’d known that Dah’mir and Vennet were in Zarash’ak, I would never have contacted you in the first place. Kol Korran’s wager, I wouldn’t even have stopped in the city.”

  Bava let go of Orshok’s hand—at some point during their story, she had slipped her hand into the young orc’s grasp—and reached out to pat Natrac’s. “Don’t think of that, Natrac. You know I’m always here.” She shook her head. “And I thought the Ghaash’nena was only supposed to watch over children.”

  “Can you help us?” asked Dandra. “Do you know anything about the Hall of the Revered or the Spires of the Forge?”

  “In spite of what Natrac might think,” the large woman said, “I’m not a historian. But I think I do know why he brought you to me.” She stood. “Come upstairs.”

  When she opened the door to the hall, Diad jumped up from where he had been crouched on the floor. Bava gave him a cross look. “How much did you hear?”

  The young man’s flushed face and tongue-tied expression said everything. Bava frowned. “Don’t tell anyone anything,” she said. She nodded back into the dining room. “Clear the table and don’t let me catch you eavesdropping again!”

  The half-orc boy rolled his eyes but Bava gave him an impatient grunt and he trudged past them into the dining room.

  Natrac leaned toward Bava as they stepped out into the hall and Singe heard him murmur, “Is he too much trouble?”

  “He’s running with groups he shouldn’t, but what boy doesn’t?”

  “If there�
��s anything I can do—” Natrac started to say, but Bava shook her head.

  “You’re there when he needs it,” she said. “That’s enough.”

  Bava led them back to the stairs Singe had noticed before. The house had grown quiet as they ate and talked. Most of the children the wizard had seen and heard earlier were already asleep. As they climbed the stairs up to the house’s second floor and then to its third, he could hear the soft snoring of children mixed with the whispers of those few who were still awake. From the third floor, they climbed yet another flight of stairs, this one even narrower. Bava pushed open a door at the top and they stepped into a broad open space that smelled of oil paint. A slow breeze whispering through tall windows with carved screens stirred the air; the same windows allowed the light of the risen moons to fall in silvery patterns across the floor. Stretched canvases were pale, flat blocks in the moonlight. Sketches on paper, tacked onto one wall, rustled like sleepy birds. A half-completed painting stood fixed to an easel, the colors drained from its surface by the moonlight to leave only swirls of light and dark. Bava opened the shade on an ever-bright lantern and colors leaped back into the work. “My studio,” she said, ushering them into the chamber.

  A large cabinet with long, flat drawers stood against one wall. Bava went to it and slid open a drawer. Singe peered over her shoulder—and raised his eyebrows in amazement. The drawer held maps, laid out flat. The one on top showed a section of northern Aundair; another, as Bava flipped through them, Cyre before its destruction in the Mourning.

  “I collect them,” said Bava, without waiting for the question. “Maps were what first introduced me to art.”

  “What good’s a map of Cyre?” asked Geth. “Cyre’s gone.”

  “Maps are memories. They show you the way things were on a larger scale than any painting.” Bava found what she was looking for and slid a large piece of stiff, heavy leather from the drawer, turning gracefully to lay it out on a table. “You might as well ask what good an old map of Droaam is.”