The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II

by Don Bassingthwaite

  We might have uncovered his secrets, the presence pointed out. We don’t even know if we’ll find anything—if we find these Spires of the Forge at all. And even if we do find all the answers you’re looking for, what are you going to do with them?

  Dandra lifted her chin. Whatever I have to.

  Tetkashtai’s light flickered with a little of her old fire. You’re a fool, she said with disdain.

  Maybe I am, but at least I’m doing something. Would you rather end up like Medala or Virikhad? Dandra spun out a memory of her last, fleeting mental contact with Tetkashtai’s one-time friends: Medala harsh and raging, Virikhad desperate and consuming, both of them driven utterly mad at Dah’mir’s hands.

  Tetkashtai countered with another memory. In her mind’s eye, Dandra saw the flash of silver-white light that had destroyed Medala’s body as the two kalashtar, forced together by Dandra’s hand, struggled for control of it. No, said Tetkashtai dryly, I’d rather not. You will do whatever you have to, won’t you?

  Shame and anger flushed Dandra’s face. Tetkashtai gave her a mental sneer—and rage flared in Dandra. She reached up to the cord that held the psicrystal around her neck and tore it off, flinging the crystal across the room.

  Tetkashtai vanished from her mind. Dandra closed her eyes and drew a breath between her teeth, grateful for a moment’s respite from the presence’s taunting, terrified influence. Tetkashtai’s absence left her feeling hollow, like a part of her was missing, but she also felt in control of herself for the first time.

  The feeling didn’t last long. She’d barely had time to sit down on the edge of the room’s bed when there was a pounding on the door. The ogre leader shoved it open. “The General will see you,”

  She nodded and stood again, then hesitated. “Just a moment,” she told him. She darted across the room and retrieved her crystal. As she settled the cord around her neck once more, Tetkashtai blossomed inside her, shaking and frail. Dandra … she whined in fear.

  Dandra thrust her away. Keep your thoughts to yourself for a while, Tetkashtai. She turned back to the ogre. “I’m ready. Take me to the General.”

  The ogre seemed vaguely in awe of the confidence in her voice. He ushered her back out into the hall and along to a grand door at its end where two more ogres wearing the blue star of Tzaryan Keep stood guard. They stood to attention at their leader’s approach. He seemed to take no notice of them, though, instead reaching easily over Dandra’s head and tapping at the doors with a delicacy that made the wood shake. “General,” he called.

  A harsh voice answered. “Send her in, Chuut.”

  The ogre opened the door. Dandra stepped inside.

  The General had claimed the largest room in the inn for his use. It was as sparsely furnished as Dandra’s own, though at one time it must have been grand. Two worn chairs sat beside a large fireplace. One was empty. The other was occupied by a man who stood as she entered. He wore simple clothing: high boots, sturdy brown trousers, a light coat over a good shirt. There was a plain sword at his belt and he wore no ornamentation except for a blue star badge pinned to his coat.

  He also, however, wore scarves wrapped around his head and over his face. All that Dandra could see of the man himself were dark, old eyes that peered between the shrouding scarves—and those eyes were narrowed in suspicion, wrinkles deep around them. “The kalashtar,” he said.

  Dandra’s belly felt light and fluttering, but she forced herself to remain calm. Pressing her hands together, she bent over them in greeting. “You’re observant, General.”

  “I don’t like kalashtar,” said the man. “They get inside your head. I told Chuut to bring me the other woman.” He let out a long, slow breath. “Well, you’re here now.”

  He sat down again, a little awkwardly. Dandra saw that his right leg and arm were stiff. When he gestured for her to take the other seat, she noticed as well that his right hand—hidden, like his left, in a fine black glove—was clenched into a claw. She forced her eyes away from it as she sat down, but couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the man that he should take up service under a Droaamish warlord.

  When she looked up, she met his eyes again. They were hard, daring her to say something about his concealed infirmities. Dandra sat still and held her tongue. After a moment, the General’s gaze dimmed. He eased back in his chair.

  “You have me at a disadvantage, kalashtar,” he said. “You know more about me than I know about you. That should be corrected. What’s your name and what do you and Master Timin want at Tzaryan Keep?”

  Singe had suggested that Dandra choose a false name just as he had. She hadn’t thought that she’d need one, but now she was glad that he had insisted. “My name is Kirvakri,” she told the General. “Timin and I are traveling to Tzaryan Keep to ask Tzaryan Rrac’s permission to study the Dhakaani ruins in his territory.”

  “You know that Tzaryan Rrac is no common lord?” The General sounded vaguely amused.

  Dandra allowed herself a fleeting smile. “We had heard something to that effect.”

  “What’s your interest in the ruins?”

  Once again, Dandra was glad for Singe’s coaching. The story that the wizard had concocted was close enough to the truth that it rolled easily off her tongue. “Master Timin holds a position in Queen’s College at the University of Wynarn. His area of specialization is history and legend. Recently, we discovered that the clan one of our guards came from tells a tale about an ancient quest to ruins in Droaam. We believe the tale refers to Taruuzh Kraat, the ruins near Tzaryan Keep. Timin wants to confirm the legend.”

  “And you?” the General asked. His voice might have been harsh, but his questions were quick and astute.

  She spread her hands. “I’m Timin’s assistant and student. I go where he goes.”

  The General’s eyes gleamed. “He seems young to have inspired such a dedicated student.”

  “He’s gifted.”

  “And wealthy? You arrived in Vralkek on a Lyrandar elemental galleon.”

  Dandra shrugged casually. “We’ve been in the Shadow Marches, speaking with our guard’s clan. When we left Zarash’ak, the captain of the galleon owed us a favor.”

  The General sat back and considered her, then after a moment added, “Tzaryan Rrac doesn’t like treasure hunters.”

  In coming up with the tale that they would present to the warlord, Singe had learned from the conclusion Chain had drawn about their group: such an eclectic mix of peoples and backgrounds was undeniably odd. Even claiming Geth, Ashi, Natrac, and Orshok as their guards left Singe and Dandra suspect. Rather than simply deny the assumption, Singe had incorporated it into the story. “Robrand d’Deneith,” he had told them, “used to say that a distraction is better than an outright lie. If someone thinks they know something secret about you, they’ll ignore everything else and focus on that.”

  Dandra did her best to look outraged. “We’re not treasure hunters!” she said to the General in a tone of injured pride—a tone that rang entirely false, confirming more than her words denied. Dandra thought she saw a smile tug against the scarf covering the General’s face.

  “Of course you’re not,” he said politely. “I’m just warning you. Tzaryan will likely want to speak to you and Master Timin—he enjoys the company of scholars—and if he discovers that you’ve come to loot his ruins …”

  “Timin is looking forward to speaking with him as well,” Dandra replied. “Tzaryan’s reputation for learning precedes him.”

  The General snorted. “I’m sure his reputation for other things has preceded him as well. If you’re smart, you’ll pay closer attention to those.” He rose, gripping the arm of his chair for support. “You’ve answered my questions,” he said. “Return to your room and sleep. I’ll give you a moment in the morning to speak with Master Timin—you might want to pass on my warning—but you’ll ride with me.”

  “Your hostage,” said Dandra as she stood up.

  “To put it simply, yes,” the Gen
eral admitted. “Chuut will show you back to your room.”

  He held out his left hand. Dandra shook it clumsily, thought she couldn’t quite manage to keep her eyes from flicking to the man’s clenched and twisted right hand. The General’s face tightened and he released his grip sharply. Dandra held back a wince at having offended him. “Good night, General,” she said and turned to go.

  She was reaching for the door when he said abruptly, “House Jorasco.”

  Dandra blinked and looked back at him. “General?”

  He held out his right arm. “House Jorasco did this. And this.” The General lifted his other hand to touch the scarves around his head and face. “You’ll forgive me for covering myself.”

  Words froze on Dandra’s tongue. “House Jorasco carries the Mark of Healing,” she said after a moment.

  “Healing and harming aren’t so different, especially in the fire of war,” said the General. “Consider that the next time you meet a halfling.” He sat down again. “Good night, Kirvakri.”

  “House Jorasco?” Geth grunted as he heaved a saddle onto the back of one of the horses the General had provided for them, then looked back to Dandra. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know,” she said. “His right arm and leg, his right hand, his face. What could healers have done to him to leave him like that?”

  Geth looked over his shoulder at the ranks of ogres—thirty of the big, smelly monsters—that were forming in Vralkek’s street. The morning was still cold and misty. Few of the town’s inhabitants seemed interested in rising so early to watch Tzaryan Rrac’s troops move out. The General’s ogre lieutenant, Chuut, stood close by, the reins of Dandra’s horse in his hand, his gaze shifting between the General’s “guests” on the journey and the other ogres. The General himself had yet to make an appearance. Geth wanted to lay eyes on this tormented soldier himself.

  Singe scratched at his beard, his eyes narrow as he mulled over Dandra’s tale of her discussion with the General. “There have been rumors,” he said. “A dark shadow to Jorasco …” He shook his head. “It might be that he was injured and Jorasco could only do so much. He might just blame them for whatever scars he’s left with. It’s not important.” The wizard glanced at Chuut, then lowered his voice. “Kesh,” he said.

  Concentration passed over Dandra’s face and a moment later, Geth felt her thoughts touch his—and those of the others as well. Hurry, Dandra said. I can’t hold all of us in the kesh for long.

  Do you think the General believed our story? asked Singe.

  Completely, Dandra told him.

  Natrac thrust out his tusks as he fussed with his gear, trying to disguise his part in the silent conversation. We really are only a hair away from being treasure hunters, he said. What are we going to do if Tzaryan doesn’t give us permission to investigate the ruins?

  Let’s worry about that if it happens. Singe bent to his own saddle. Do you think you’ll be all right? he asked Dandra.

  If there’s any problem, I’ll call you or take the long step back to you. I’ll be fine. Dandra reached out and laid a hand on Singe’s shoulder for a moment, then the brief connection of the kesh faded from Geth’s mind as she turned to Chuut. “I’m done,” she said aloud. He handed her the reins of her horse and waited while she mounted.

  Geth looked up at her. “See if you can get the General talking. I’m curious to know where he served during the Last War.”

  Dandra nodded and gave them all a smile, then turned and moved toward the head of the column of ogres with Chuut striding beside her. Singe glanced at Geth. “Does it matter?” he asked.

  “I want to know what happened to him,” Geth said defensively.

  They finished saddling their horses and securing their gear. Although there were five of them, he and Singe ended up doing most of the work. Natrac’s severed hand limited him, while Orshok and Ashi simply had no idea what to do. Neither hunter nor druid had ever ridden before. “Just once,” Geth muttered as he held a stirrup for Orshok, “I would like to start a journey with everyone knowing at least how to sit in a saddle!”

  Once they were mounted, Chuut returned and led them to their place near the rear of the column. Geth bared his teeth at the thought of riding in the stinking dust of sweating ogres.

  Singe must have been thinking something similar. “Can’t we ride at the front?” he asked Chuut with a grimace.

  The ogre shook his head. “The General says you ride here. Hold your position.”

  “Where is the General?” asked Geth.

  “Taking his place now.”

  Chuut moved away back up the column. Geth twisted and looked after him. Sure enough, the shrouded figure of the General was turning his horse in place beside Dandra near the column’s head. “Grandfather Rat’s naked tail!” Geth cursed. “He moves like a ghost!”

  The General’s hand rose and fell. Chuut’s voice—echoed by the voices of one or two other lead ogres—roared out an order. “Tzaryan company, forward!”

  The column began to move with a well-coordinated precision that would have done credit to a Blademarks company. “I would have thought they’d use commands in their own language,” said Natrac.

  “It’s all in the training,” said Singe. “The General has probably taught them this way. It looks like the man knows what he’s doing.”

  They passed through the still sleeping town to the slow rhythm of big, trudging feet, punctuated by the clatter of horses’ hooves. Geth watched the decrepit buildings slip away in the gray mist. Vralkek looked strangely peaceful in the silence of morning and he could almost pretend it was just another town—aside from the two gnolls lying drunk against one wall or the corpse of a harpy sprawled in the street, arrows piercing its feathered body. And where other towns of similar size often had paupers’ huts clustered on the outskirts, Vralkek had nothing but crumbling, half-burned remains.

  As even the burned huts fell behind them, another order rolled back along the column and the ogres picked up their pace, speeding up to a move at a distance-eating march. Geth growled softly. “They won’t be able to keep this up over rough ground.”

  “We’re not marching over rough ground,” said Singe, a hint of amazement in his voice. “Look down.”

  Geth glanced at the ground passing beneath his horse’s hooves and realized with a start that it was as finely cobbled and leveled as a city street. There had been no change in the hard clatter of horseshoes on stone as they left Vralkek. “A road?” he asked. “But there was no road on either of Bava’s maps!”

  “This looks like recent construction,” said Singe.

  “Who builds roads to the middle of nowhere in Droaam?”

  Orshok pointed to a tall stone marker that loomed at the side of the road. “I think that’s your answer,” he said.

  The stone was inlaid with a four-pointed blue star. Singe whistled. “Twelve moons, I think maybe we can thank Tzaryan Rrac’s interest in civilization for making our journey a little bit easier!”

  With the flat, solid surface of the road under them, distance passed swiftly. By the time the sun was fully above the horizon and the morning’s mist had burned away, they were far beyond Vralkek and riding through some of the most desolate country Geth had ever seen in his life. As far as he could see in every direction, the land was very nearly flat. In many areas, it looked treacherously boggy. In others, very low hills rose like flat shoals in the sea of bogs. The vegetation was coarse grass and thorny scrub. Scattered groves of thick, black trees stretched for the sky. Occasionally, he caught a glimpse of ruins, old and worn stones half sunk in the mire. The only signs of animal life were a few white birds that soared high on the wind.

  In his time, he’d seen many kinds of desolation, in many different places. The Last War had scourged nearly every part of the Five Nations. Only the fringes of the continent, places like the vast forests of the Eldeen Reaches or the thick marshes of the Shadow Marches had remained untouched. To the best of his knowledge, Droaam had
also seen little of the Last War, yet the barrens had the same feel as battlefields Geth recalled from Cyre and Karrnath—only much, much older, as if Droaam had been ruined by time rather than by war.

  Orshok stared around them in awe, stunned to silence. Because he was bound to the land and nature, Geth guessed, the druid could probably sense things about the barrens that the rest of them couldn’t. When the young orc finally spoke, it was in a whisper. “What happened here?”

  Singe shrugged. “Who knows? Ten thousand years ago, this was part of the Empire of Dhakaan. Hobgoblins ruled here until the Daelkyr War. After Dhakaan fell, the barrens lay empty until humans came to Khorvaire. When the Five Nations joined to form the Kingdom of Galifar, Breland was already claiming them as its territory, but its claim was tenuous at best. There have been more attempts to colonize the barrens than anyone could keep track of. Some succeeded and held on—like Vralkek—until Breland abandoned the region during the Last War. Others failed quickly. Some just vanished.” He looked out across the bogs and low hills and drew a deep breath. “Researchers from Wynarn have spent lifetimes trying to pull answers out of this land. Twelve moons, what I wouldn’t give for some of their notebooks right now!”

  “You can spend all the time here that you want,” said Natrac with a shudder. He shrank down in his saddle. “That feeling has always made me nervous, like there’s something watching and waiting for its chance to reach out of the past and grab for you. It’s not just here—it’s everywhere in Droaam.”

  Geth glanced at Singe and raised an eyebrow. Natrac had just contradicted himself. The wizard’s eyes narrowed and he gave a slight nod. He’d noticed it as well. “Natrac,” said Geth, “when we were walking through Vralkek for the first time, you said you’d always avoided Droaam before this.”