The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II

by Don Bassingthwaite

  Dandra gasped and stepped forward as Bava moved back out of the way. “You have a map of Droaam two hundred years ago?” They all gathered around the table, looking down at a big stained parchment that had been mounted to the stiff leather for support.

  “Closer to three hundred actually,” Bava said, “and technically it was still western Breland then, but I think it will be good for what you need.”

  Singe gazed down at the old map with awed respect. The parchment looked like it might be brittle, but the inks upon it were still bright and clear. The map was a work of art, the text written in an elegant script, the features of the landscape drawn with a careful hand. Illuminations marked major landmarks and decorated the map’s margins. The whimsical figure of a fleeing traveler marked the route through the Graywall Mountains toward Sharn. A hideous cockatrice stood guard over the fabled ruins of Cazhaak Draal, the Stonelands; a banner held by a statue with an expression of horror on its petrified face warned would-be travelers to turn back. Dozens of other banners highlighted other areas of danger or interest.

  “Twelve bloody moons!” he said. “This is perfect!” He whirled and wrapped his arms around Bava, planting a kiss on her cheek.

  “Easy!” she cautioned him. “You haven’t found what you need yet.”

  “But we will.” He bent over the map, studying it. “Batul said that a season’s journey east of the Bonetree territory would put someone in the western half of Droaam.” He held his arm above the map, bisecting it, and began scanning all of the banners, illuminations, and labels to the left. Dandra and Natrac clustered close as well. The others just stayed out of their way. Geth tried to look over the map from the side until Singe snarled for him to get out of their light. The shifter gave up and wandered away to peer through the windows at the moonlit roof tops of Zarash’ak.

  It didn’t take long for Natrac to curse. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Don’t say that,” said Dandra tightly without looking up.

  Singe held his tongue, but there was already an unpleasant doubt gnawing at him. He went back and examined labels a second time, peering at the map until his eyes stung and his head ached. There was nowhere marked as the Spires of the Forge. Or the Hall of the Revered. He put an arm around Dandra’s shoulders. “Dandra …”

  The kalashtar sighed. “I know.” She turned away from the map. “Nothing. Il-Yannah, I don’t believe it!”

  Bava stood up from where she was sitting with Orshok and held out her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said. Dandra accepted her embrace of consolation.

  Singe raked fingers through his hair. “Maybe the Spires of the Forge aren’t in Droaam,” he said. He looked to Ashi. “Could the story be wrong? Could the hunters Dah’mir sent to the Halls of the Revered have been gone longer than a season? Could they have gone in another direction?”

  The hunter shook her head. “The Bonetree preserved its stories carefully.”

  “Maybe the Spires of the Forge,” Geth said suddenly, “aren’t what we think they are.”

  They all looked at the shifter. Geth still stood at the windows, looking out over the city. He gestured with a thick, hairy hand. “Come here. Look outside. What do you see?”

  Singe went to stand beside him and look out through the carved screens over the window. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Here.” Bava pulled on the screens over a pair of windows and they swung open, revealing doors and a small balcony surrounded by a wooden railing. Singe stepped outside into the moonlight. Bava’s house wasn’t much taller than many of the buildings around it and the view wasn’t particularly spectacular. The most Singe could see was a forest of chimneys thrusting up from the roofs around.

  He looked back to Geth. “What? I still don’t see anything.”

  The shifter wore a grin that exposed all of his sharp teeth. “Think about the Bonetree camp. They lived in huts. They didn’t have chimneys. How do you describe chimneys to someone who has never seen one?”

  “I know what a chimney is!” protested Ashi.

  “But maybe your ancestors didn’t!” Singe ran back to the map and whooped. “Here!” He held his finger above a banner far in the south of the territory on the map and read the notation on it, “Taruuzh Kraat. Ancient ruins supposed to be the remains of chimneys of a Dhakaani stronghold below.”

  “I know the word kraat,” said Geth. “It’s Goblin for a smithy.” He moved to Singe’s side and peered at the map. “Grandmother Wolf! ‘The Hall of the Revered lies below the Spires of the Forge.’ Do you think it could be this Dhakaani stronghold?”

  “How can it be below ground, though?” asked Orshok. “According to the story, Dah’mir also told the hunters to look in the shade of the Grieving Tree. A tree can’t grow underground.”

  “A tree can’t grieve either. It could be a metaphor, the same way the Spires of the Forge could actually be chimneys.” Singe looked to Bava—and to Dandra, still held in the large woman’s arms, her face wide with hope. “Bava,” he said, “do you have a contemporary map of Droaam? I want to see what’s in this spot now.”

  Bava turned Dandra loose, glanced at the ancient map, then hurried to the map cabinet. Dandra stood before Singe and Geth. “You think this might be it?”

  “I can’t be certain,” the wizard said carefully. “We might have to make the trip there to be sure, but I have a good feeling about this.”

  “You might want to change that feeling,” said Bava. She laid another map, newer and emblazoned with the crest of House Tharashk, on the table and pointed to the location the ancient map labeled as Taruuzh Kraat. The new map marked the site as Tzaryan Keep.

  Singe frowned. “What’s wrong? Taruuzh—Tzaryan. It could be a development of the same name.”

  Bava shook her head. “No. Tzaryan Keep is the stronghold of one of Droaam’s warlords, Tzaryan Rrac.”

  “That’s bad?” asked Dandra.

  “It’s not good,” said Bava. “He’s an ogre mage—as big and powerful as an ogre but with magical powers, too. And Tzaryan Rrac’s smart. They say he’s an alchemist and a scholar and that he’s trying to civilize himself. He’s adopted a personal insignia like a human lord.” She tapped her finger on a four-pointed blue star drawn on the map beside name of the Keep. “He’s even hired an old general who served one of the Five Nations during the Last War to train the ogres who serve him as troops.”

  “I’ve heard that, too,” agreed Natrac.

  Singe looked from the half-orc to Bava and back.

  “Not to be rude,” he said, “but how do you know all this?”

  Natrac cleared his throat. “A few months ago, Tzaryan caught some dragonshard prospectors from House Tharashk poaching in his territory and sent them back to Zarash’ak—minus their hands. But Tharashk wants to stay on the good side of the powers of Droaam, so instead of protesting, they sent an envoy to Tzaryan with gifts and goods. It was a big spectacle, the talk of Zarash’ak.”

  “Did the envoy come back?”

  “Yes,” said Bava. “Apparently, Tzaryan likes receiving visitors—at least when they come openly and with big gifts. According to the envoy, he holds court like a lord and debates like a sage. After the envoy returned, Tharashk had nothing but praise for Tzaryan.”

  “But did they send anyone else to visit him?” asked Geth pointedly. Bava shook her head. The shifter grunted.

  “Light of il-Yannah.” Dandra leaned against the table, staring down at the two maps. “We think we know where we need to go—but we can’t get there.”

  “No,” said Singe. “I think we can.”

  Dandra, Geth, and the others all looked at him. He gave them back a smile. “We go the same way House Tharashk did. We pay Tzaryan Rrac a visit.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  Grandfather Rat,” said Geth. He stared at Singe and only one thought came to his mind. “That’s insane. That’s so insane that even a madman wouldn’t try it.”

  “Why not?” Singe asked. He stepped back from t
he table and paced around Bava’s studio, hands pressed together in front of his face as he thought. “If House Tharashk could do it, why can’t we?”

  “Because they’re a dragonmarked house! They have resources. They’ve got a name.” Geth flung out his arms and bared his teeth. “What have we got besides a story and a dragon hunting us?”

  Singe stopped his pacing and turned to Ashi. “Does the Bonetree story mention an ogre mage at the Spires of the Forge?” The hunter shook her head. Singe spread his hands wide. “So presumably Tzaryan Rrac came to the area after Dah’mir left. He might not know Dah’mir was ever there. We just need a reason to visit the ruins.”

  “It doesn’t sound like Tzaryan is particularly fond of treasure hunters,” Geth growled. “Remember what he did to the Tharashk prospectors?” He held out one hand and chopped at his wrist with the other.

  Natrac shifted uncomfortably. “Could you please not do that?” he asked.

  Geth winced. “Sorry.” He looked back at Singe. “You see what I mean?”

  Singe shrugged. “We don’t go as treasure hunters. We go as researchers, interested in the history of the ruins. Tzaryan fancies himself a civilized scholar, so that’s how we approach him.” He stood up straight. “I didn’t attend Wynarn and come away with nothing.”

  Geth looked around at their group. Ashi, Orshok, himself … a savage, an orc, and a shifter. He snorted and rolled his eyes. “He’s not going to believe that we’re all scholars!”

  “My bright young assistant,” said Singe, reaching out an arm to Dandra. “And our brute bodyguards.” He swept his other arm past the rest of them. Geth bared his teeth. Singe tilted his head and smiled. “Droaam’s a dangerous place. A scholar who wants to study Dhakaani ruins needs muscle to back him up.”

  Geth started to snort again, but stopped himself and looked at the wizard again. He’d known him too long to picture him easily as anything other than a rapier-wielding, spell-flinging mercenary—but if any of them could play the part of a scholar, it was Singe.

  Grandmother Wolf knows he’s good enough at making me feel stupid, the shifter thought. “Say we do it. We don’t actually know anything about Taruuzh Kraat. Tzaryan probably does. What if he challenges you on something?”

  “Then I yield to his superior knowledge and he feels smug. I’ve never met a scholar who doesn’t enjoy feeling he knows more than someone else.”

  “Except Tzaryan’s not a dusty lecturer with an audience of students,” said Natrac. “He’s a Droaamish warlord with ogre soldiers waiting to mangle people for him.”

  Singe glanced at Dandra, then at Ashi. “Well?”

  Dandra drew a deep breath and let it out slowly—then nodded. “It’s risky, but it sounds good.”

  Ashi nodded as well. “It sounds a lot easier than trying to fight our way in. I think we should try.”

  Geth turned to Orshok. “What about you?”

  Surprise spread across the young orc’s face. “You’re asking me?”

  “You’re coming, aren’t you?”

  Orshok grinned, then nodded vigorously—though Geth doubted that he would have done anything else. He looked at Ashi. The hunter gave him a hungry smile and said, “I’ve never had the chance to fight an ogre before.”

  Geth crinkled his nose. “I’m glad there’s a bright side for you.” He looked down at the maps on the table, the old and the modern. “So how do we get there? I don’t think we want to stay in Zarash’ak any longer than we need to.”

  “You go by sea.” Natrac tapped the modern map, pointing to the coast of Droaam. “A town called Vralkek. It’s not much, but it’s the only real port in Droaam. It’s not too far from Tzaryan Keep, either.” He measured out the distance with his fingers. “A little less than a week overland, I think.”

  “Then tomorrow we try and find ourselves passage to Vralkek,” said Singe.

  Bava insisted that they stay the night in her house. Geth had to admit that the offer was more than agreeable—especially when Bava produced more wine to celebrate their discovery, the first bit of good luck they’d had all day. While they talked and drank in her studio, Bava got out a pen and ink and made copies of both her maps for them.

  Eventually—the wine finished and the ink on Bava’s maps dry—they found space on the floors below and went to sleep. Or at least the others went to sleep. Geth lay awake, their narrow escape from Vennet playing out again and again in his mind. Sleep didn’t come. After a time, he rose again and headed back upstairs to Bava’s studio. He didn’t bother to uncover Bava’s everbright lantern. He opened the tall doors that led onto the little balcony and stepped outside to look out over the night-shrouded City of Stilts. Night in Zarash’ak was different from nights in the swamps—or in the forests of the Eldeen Reaches. Lights broke the shadows, spilling out from taverns and bobbing along in the hands of torch boys, but to shifter eyes that could see in the dark, the extra light made little difference.

  What he noticed was the noise. In the swamps and in the Eldeen, nights had been silent, broken occasionally by an animal’s call. In Zarash’ak the noise was constant, even at a late hour. Dogs barking, voices arguing, the slam of doors, the clatter of footsteps. Laughter, singing. A distant scream.

  Footsteps climbing the stairs to the studio. Geth glanced over his shoulder as Singe opened the door and started at his first glimpse of the figure on the balcony. One hand darted for his rapier, the other thrust out in the mystic gesture of a spell.

  “It’s me,” Geth called softly.

  The wizard relaxed, hands dropping, and made his way across the darkened studio with human night-blind clumsiness. “Don’t tell me you can’t sleep,” he said, voice pitched low. “I have Dandra believing you can sleep anytime, anywhere.”

  “Someone needed to stand guard.” Geth turned back to face the night.

  “Vennet and Dah’mir aren’t going to find us here.”

  “Old habits stick,” he growled. “What are you doing up?”

  Singe stepped up to lean on the balcony beside him. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Geth grunted. For a few moments, they stood in silence, then Singe asked, “What do you think it is that Natrac doesn’t want to talk about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What made you think he used to be a gladiator?”

  Geth stared into the dark and narrowed his eyes. “Just before the attack on the Bonetree mound, while we were waiting for Batul’s orcs to move into position, we could hear Hruucan beating the light out of you—”

  Singe grimaced. “I was fighting back,” he said.

  “From the sound of it, you weren’t doing a very good job,” said Geth. “Natrac read the noise of the crowd like a gambler reads a game of cross. He said it was the sort of thing you picked up in an arena and I asked if he’d been a gladiator.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t give me a straight answer. I guess everybody has their secrets.” He turned his face to look up at the discs and crescents of the moons in the sky.

  Singe didn’t say anything. Geth glanced back at him. The wizard was staring down into the street below, but it didn’t seem as if he was looking at anything in particular. One hand moved on the balcony railing, palm rubbing the smooth wood. “Singe?” Geth asked.

  The wizard spoke without looking at him. “I remember something else that was said at the Bonetree mound.” Geth’s guts felt hollow. He didn’t answer. Singe raised his head. “You said we would talk about Narath.”

  “I remember.” His words came back to him. Singe, about Narath—if we get out of this, we’ll talk. No more running.

  The promise brought back memories of the battle at the Bonetree mound, of the crush of dolgrims and Bonetree hunters, of the shock of Dah’mir’s transformation and the acrid stink of the dragon’s corrosive venom. But it also carried all of the memories of an older battle, of black ash and red blood staining the snow of northern Karrnath.

  He’d told Adolan about the massacre y
ears ago. But Adolan hadn’t been in Narath.

  Geth gripped the rail. “Singe, I—” He clenched his teeth, grinding them together. “I’m not ready.”

  Singe’s silence was cold. He stepped back, his face hard and angry. “You’re not ready? You’re not ready?”

  “Later,” said Geth. “Another time—”

  “Later?” Singe spat back at him. “It’s been nine years, Geth. How much later do you need? I hunted you for four years after Narath. I only gave up because you vanished—if I’d known where you were I would have called in every favor anyone ever owed me and brought an entire Blademarks company down on your hairy backside. If the Bonetree hunters hadn’t attacked, I would have hamstrung you that night I found you in Bull Hollow and carried you back to Karrlakton to face the lords of House Deneith. The Frostbrand company died in Narath, Geth. Robrand d’Deneith might as well have died there.”

  Geth turned away. Singe grabbed his shoulder. The shifter spun around and thrust his hand back. “I don’t want to talk about it!”

  “Bloody moons, maybe I do!” Singe’s face was blotched with red. “The Aundairians that attacked Narath shouldn’t have been able to get past the waterfront—but they did. Treykin was on the barricades. When it was all over, Robrand and I found him. He was still alive—barely. My people had left him trying to hold his intestines in his body with his hands.”

  The sound of Treykin’s braying laugh stung Geth’s ears. “Robrand said that once we joined the Blademarks, our people were the other members of the company.”

  Singe’s anger hissed between his teeth. “Don’t quote the old man’s words back to me. I tried to help Treykin and he spat at me. He wouldn’t let an Aundairian give him the mercy that Aundairians had denied him—but before he died, he told Robrand the barricades had been overrun from behind and forced open. The attacking troops had found a way into the town. There weren’t many ways through the walls of Narath. Robrand and I only had to check two of them before we found out how the Aundairians got into Narath.”