The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II

by Don Bassingthwaite

  Geth stiffened instinctively and shouted back, “Commander! Yes, commander!” before he even thought about it, then jerked and caught himself. He looked up at Robrand in shock. The old man looked startled as well. A grimace of distaste crossed his face.

  “Old habits don’t die easily,” he said.

  “No,” said Geth. “I guess they don’t.” His stomach roiled so intensely that he thought he might be sick.

  To one side of them, the air seemed to fold and then part as Dandra stepped out of it, spear at the ready, the droning chorus of whitefire surrounding her. She blinked at the sight of Chain’s unconcious form and the chorus faded. “We heard Robrand—” she began, then her eyes darted to Geth’s hand, the crossbow bolt still piercing it. “Geth!”

  The distaste on Robrand’s face vanished and suddenly he was once more the personable, pleasant old soldier he had been on the journey from Vralkek. “Get Geth out of the hole, Dandra,” he ordered. “Singe! Send Orshok up first to tend Geth’s wounds.”

  The next few minutes were a flurry of activity. Robrand cut the cord of Chain’s snare, freeing Geth. Dandra took his free hand and hauled him free of the hole. A moment later, Orshok emerged, dusty and pale. As the others followed, the druid drew Geth away from the hole and examined his wounded hand, then took out a knife and carefully trimmed one end off the bolt so he could slide it free from the wound. Renewed pain burned through Geth’s hand, but he clenched his teeth until Orshok spoke a healing prayer. Magic like a cool breeze closed the wound.

  Geth let out a sigh and flexed his hand. “Twice tak,” he said.

  “There’s probably going to be a scar,” Orshok apologized. “The wound was almost too much for my magic. Batul or Krepis could have done more.”

  “I can live with another scar,” said Geth. He jerked his head at Chain. The big man was groaning as Singe and Natrac tied his arms with his own cord. Blood and dirt had mixed to make a dark, patchy mess on the bounty hunter’s face. “Especially if I’ve given him more than he gave me.”

  Singe finished tying Chain and stood up to face Robrand. “It’s lucky you came along, old man, but somehow I don’t think it’s an accident you were out here. And I don’t think Tzaryan knows you’re here. If this was his business, you really would have ogres with you.”

  “I was looking for you, Etan,” Robrand said bluntly. “It’s Ekhaas. Tzaryan’s getting impatient. I think he thought you would talk to her before you started exploring the ruins.”

  “There wasn’t time.”

  “There’s going to be even less time. Tzaryan’s given orders to begin her interrogation.” He contemplated the hole in the ground. “Is this Ekhaas’s work, too? Tzaryan’s not going to be pleased with that.”

  Singe let out a hiss. “He said he’d let me talk to Ekhaas before he tortured her—and you said he honored his word.”

  “He has limits.” Robrand looked back toward the keep. “The ogres are waiting for my return—I was able to hold them back that long.”

  “Then your timing’s good. We were going to talk to her when we got back anyway.” He pressed his lips together, then added, “We found what we needed in the ruins, Robrand. We’ll be leaving tomorrow. We have to get back to the Shadow Marches.”

  Robrand nodded. “You can take the horses you rode here on. I’ll arrange for supplies—”

  A loud groan from Chain interrupted them. The big man’s eyes opened and fixed on his bound hands. His muscles tensed as he strained at the cord. Nothing happened. He looked up to stare at them all angrily. His gaze settled you on Robrand and his lips twisted. “How—? You were close! I couldn’t have missed.”

  Singe picked up a pebble and flicked it at Robrand. There was a tiny flash of light and the pebble dropped to the ground without touching the old man. Chain scowled. “Deneith!” he spat in digust.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Robrand told him. “I’ve been outwitting marksmen longer than you’ve been alive. If it means anything, you’ve got a steady hand.”

  Ashi gave the old man a puzzled look. “You used your dragonmark to protect yourself?”

  Robrand nodded.

  The hunter tilted her head. “Why not just use it to protect Geth?”

  “He was safe enough.” Robrand waved his hand dismissively. “It’s exactly what I told Chain—if he killed Geth, he had nothing left to bargain with. But by using my mark on myself, I was able to surprise him and free all of you. Sometimes shielding yourself is the best way to shield someone else.” He gestured for Ashi and Natrac to get Chain on his feet. “Bring him along. Tzaryan’s going to want to have a word with him. I don’t think he’ll be bothering you again.”

  Dandra winced and Geth knew she was remembering Bava’s story of the Tharashk prospectors who had run afoul of the lord of Tzaryan Keep. “Is that necessary? Maybe there’s something less drastic.”

  Robrand shook his head. “Tzaryan takes his authority very seriously, Dandra. No one crosses him and gets away with it.”

  Chain went pale, struggling and cursing as Ashi and Natrac hauled him to his feet. The hunter and the half-orc didn’t look any happier at escorting him to an unpleasant fate. Geth saw Dandra glance at Singe with a beseeching look in her eyes, but Singe just gave her a slight shake of his head. Geth understood the wizard’s dilemma: there wasn’t much use arguing with Robrand once the old man had decided on something.

  He was half-surprised himself that Robrand had bothered to rescue him from Chain at all.

  At the gates of Tzaryan Keep, a call from Robrand brought ogres racing down the broad stairs to take charge of Chain. The ogres were far less gentle than Natrac and Ashi. They put an end to Chain’s struggles with a quick slap to the back of his head and a couple of brutal twists on his arms. The big man looked small and maybe even forlorn in their grasp. Geth felt a twinge of pity for him. He wouldn’t have wanted to be in his place.

  They all followed up the canyon of the stairs to the upper levels of the keep, then through halls Geth didn’t recognize until they came to the head of another flight of stairs plunging back down into the keep’s innards. Unlike the broad stairs that led up from the gate, these were steep, plunging sharply down. The oversize steps—built for the feet of ogres—made navigating them difficult. Geth noticed that Dandra gave up trying to walk and let herself skim above the steps, sliding down them like a child on a smooth hill, supported by her psionic power.

  There was no natural light at all in the depths of the keep. Orc slaves summoned by Robrand carried torches ahead and behind. The flickering light made the stairs especially treacherous, but without them, Geth knew, he would have been as night-blind as a human. Only Orshok and Natrac, with their orc-blood ability to see even in absolute darkness, seemed comfortable, though Natrac once again reacted with ill-concealed disgust to the presence of Tzaryan’s slaves.

  When the first flight of stairs ended, they passed along a hallway that was thick with the stench of ogre bodies and echoed with the sounds of rough leisure.

  “The troops’ barracks are that way,” Robrand explained, gesturing off into the darkness. He turned in another direction, and they descended another steep flight of stairs before stopping in a second hallway that smelled even worse than the first. Geth’s nose wrinkled at a mixture of hot coals, damp stone, and stale waste.

  Robrand stopped at a thick wooden door and pulled it open. “This will do,” he said. “Put him in here until Tzaryan decides his punishment.”

  The ogres brought Chain forward and muscled him through the door. The best bounty hunter in Zarash’ak looked substantially more frightened than he had chained in the hold of Lightning on Water. He ran at the door as the ogres forced it closed.

  “Help me!” he shouted. “Don’t let them—”

  The door closed in his face and the ogres dropped a heavy bar into place across it. Singe looked to Robrand. “I don’t like him, but do you think you can get Tzaryan to release him without doing anything too permanent?”

  In the li
ght of the torches, Robrand looked older than he was and even more harsh. “I’ll try.” He gestured and the two ogres retreated up the stairs.

  Nearly a dozen paces farther along the corridor, a brazier full of hot coals stood beside another door. An older ogre with stringy gray hair tended it, stirring the coals with a heavy poker. The hilts of several knives protruded from the brazier, their blades buried inside it. A hobgoblin sword and other gear—Ekhaas’s presumably—lay in the shadows nearby. The ogre looked up as Robrand and the others approached. His nose was missing, lending a strangely flat quality to his voice when he spoke. “As you orders, General. Waits for you.”

  “Well done, Lor. Leave us for now.”

  The ogre looked disappointed. “Leaves?”

  “Tzaryan’s guests will speak with the prisoner first. I’ll summon you back when they’re finished.”

  The old ogre’s scarred face fell, but he pushed past Geth and the others and headed for the stairs. Geth choked and held his breath as the ogre passed—the smell of smoke and burned flesh clung to him. Dandra closed her eyes for a moment and looked away.

  Robrand strode past the brazier and up to the door. “Singe,” he said. “Help me.” Between the two of them, they lifted the bar that lay across the door and dropped it to one side. Robrand stepped back. “She’s all yours for as long as you need,” he said. “She’s gagged right now—you’ll want to take that off, but be careful of her spells.” He turned to go.

  “You’re not staying?” asked Dandra.

  “You don’t need me and I have to tell Tzaryan about Chain,” he said. “Come find me in the upper levels when you’re finished. You remember how to find your way back?”

  Dandra and Singe both nodded. Robrand gestured for two of the orc slaves to leave their torches behind in brackets on the walls, then left with the other slaves lighting his way.

  Singe drew a deep breath and turned to the door. “Let’s see what Ekhaas can tell us about Taruuzh Kraat.” He tugged the door open.

  The cell beyond was possibly the first cramped space that Geth could remember seeing in Tzaryan Keep. A single ogre would have been squeezed tight in the cell; two creatures of human size could have stood close within it. Ekhaas crouched against one wall, chained to it by a collar around her neck. Her hands were bound and her mouth, as Robrand had said, gagged. She still wore her studded armor, though her hair was no longer so severely drawn back. Singe glanced at Dandra, then stepped into the cell alone while the rest of them watched from the doorway.

  Above the gag, Ekhaas’s eyes were bright and hard. Her wolflike ears stood straight. “I’m going to take the gag off,” Singe told her. “Bite me or try to cast a spell and it goes back on.” He reached behind the hobgoblin’s head. The gag fell.

  Ekhaas didn’t move except to lick her lips, working saliva around her mouth. There was a bucket of water close to the brazier Lor had left behind. Geth grabbed it and cautiously scooped some liquid into his mouth. It was stale, but clean. “Singe,” he said, passing the bucket into the cell. The wizard took it and offered it to Ekhaas. She only regarded it with disdain.

  “I won’t take water from someone who intends to defile Taruuzh Kraat,” she said, the cedar-smoke voice that Geth remembered rough and cracking.

  “You might as well,” said Singe. “We’ve already been inside. We found your hole—that’s how we got in.”

  Ekhaas’s ears twitched back. Her lips drew away from sharp teeth. Singe held the bucket closer, tipping it so that she could drink.

  “Drink,” he said. Ekhaas stared at the water, then stretched out her neck and sipped, her eyes rolled up to watch Singe. The sip turned into a gulp, the gulp into a greedy guzzle. Singe let her drink her fill, then took the bucket away as she sat back.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s make sure we all understand the situation. Tzaryan Rrac is going to have you tortured. We may be able to persuade him to set you free. All you need to do is answer some questions for us and we’ll talk to Tzaryan.” He waited but Ekhaas made no response. He set the bucket aside and crossed his arms, looking down at the hobgoblin. “The General said you were a member of the Kech Volaar and that you knew something about the ruins.”

  “I am a duur’kala, a dirge-singer, of the Kech Volaar,” Ekhaas said haughtily. “I know tales of glory from times before your ignorant kind set foot on this land, human.”

  Geth saw Singe stiffen, but the wizard kept his voice neutral. “Share some of them with us then. We’ve come a long way to learn about Taruuzh Kraat. We’ve been inside. We’ve seen the writing. We’ve seen the great hall and the grieving tree.” Ekhaas’s eyes narrowed and her ears sank low. “We didn’t touch anything,” Singe told her. “We’re not treasure hunters. We just need to know about something. It’s important.”

  He crouched down before her, putting himself at eye level with her. “Tell us about Marg and the stones,” he said. “Tell us about the father of the grieving tree. Who was he?”

  Ekhaas’s ears flicked sharply. Her lips twisted and she gave a bitter laugh. “Khaavolaar! You ask the things that lull a child to sleep. You know nothing, human.” She sat back against the wall. “Go away. Leave me to my fate.”

  Singe stood up again. “I know where there’s another device like Marg’s,” he said. “I know what became of the stone that he made.”

  Ekhaas sat forward sharply. “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not.” He glared at her. “I’d wager that you’ve found signs that someone—or something—lived in Taruuzh Kraat for a long time about two centuries ago. His name is Dah’mir and he’s a dragon. We believe that he came to Taruuzh Kraat to study the writing on the walls and to learn how to create his own version of Marg’s device for trapping mind flayers. We know that his servants took Marg’s stone.” He bent low to stare into her face. “Dah’mir follows the Dragon Below and we think that he was trying to use the stone to create servants with the power of mind flayers and a resistance to Gatekeeper magic. And if it takes a child’s tale for us to understand more, then you’re going to tuck us in and sing us a lullaby.”

  He stood straight once more and turned away from Ekhaas. His face was flushed. Behind him, Ekhaas was still, her ears standing straight, her dark eyes intent. Geth held his breath—just as Dandra did on one side of him and Orshok on the other—waiting to see what would happen.

  Ekhaas drew a breath. “Mothers of the dirge, forgive me,” she said softly, then sat as straight as her bonds would allow. “You’ve seen Taruuzh Kraat backward, human. Marg was nothing but a jealous madman. The device he built, the stone he created, were flawed reflections—poor attempts to emulate the genius of his master.”

  Singe turned back to face her. “We know. We saw the statue. Who was Marg’s master?”

  “Taruuzh.” Ekhaas’s voice swelled with pride. “What did you think ‘Taruuzh Kraat’ meant, chaat’oor? It is the smithy of Taruuzh, a stronghold of genius against the armies of the daelkyr. Taruuzh was the greatest daashor of his time—the crafter of marvels, the inventor of wondrous weapons.”

  “A daashor is an artificer?”

  Ekhaas bared her teeth. “A daashor would make one of your artificers look like a wandering tinker.”

  “The inscription on the statue in Taruuzh Kraat called him the father of the Grieving Tree,” said Dandra.

  “The true Grieving Tree was his greatest creation. The one that stands in Taruuzh Kraat was said to be the first, but before Taruuzh died, a grieving tree stood in every city of the empire. The secret of their making was lost in the Desperate Times, but even today, hobgoblins of all clans emulate their use.”

  “What was so great about them?” Geth growled. “What did they do?”

  Ekhaas’s eyes darted to him. They burned with a zealous intensity that left him wishing he hadn’t said anything. “The Grieving Trees kill people, shifter. A criminal to be executed is hung upon a Grieving Tree. Today, the criminal must be broken and left to die, but in the time of the Empire, the tree d
rew his life out of him.”

  A chill ran up Geth’s spine. Singe blinked, the color draining from his face. “Taruuzh’s greatest creation was a way to execute people?” the wizard asked.

  “What have your greatest artificers done recently, human?” Ekhaas demanded. “Built machines of slaughter for the battlefields of the Last War? Will they stand and take pride in their work?”

  None of them said anything. None of them could meet her gaze. After a moment, Geth swallowed. “What about the stones? Why would Marg try to re-create them instead of the Grieving Tree?”

  “Because daashor across the empire knew how to create grieving trees. Taruuzh shared the secret freely. But the secret of his second greatest creation he kept to himself.” Ekhaas eased herself back. “When the daelkyr and their armies poured forth from Xoriat into Eberron, the daashor and master smiths of Dhakaan rose to the defense of the empire. They mastered the twilight metal byeshk. They forged armor to defend against the strange powers of the aberrations and weapons to kill them.”

  For an instant, Geth thought the hobgoblin stared directly at him and his sword, but her gaze drifted to his side to rest on Orshok. “They allied themselves with the Gatekeepers and between orcs and Dhakaani drove back the daelkyr. But their triumph didn’t come easily or all at once.” Her ears flicked. “Gatekeeper! Have you heard of the Battle of Moths?”

  Orshok started and stammered. “I don’t—I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “No.” Ekhaas frowned.

  “No,” she repeated tightly and sighed. “Once again, it is only the Dhakaani who remember.” Her voice rose in the measured cadence of a storyteller. “Of all the servants and the living weapons of the daelkyr lords, the illithids were the most terrible, killing with their minds alone and weaving horrors with their thoughts. They were the generals of the hordes of Xoriat, and it was a blessing that their ranks were few. But upon the Marches, in a place where the land rose above the swamps, the illithids came together in numbers with other creatures of like abilities—lunanaes, psaretti, and kagges—to pay homage to the daelkyr known only as the Master of Silence. And from them, the Master formed a legion of generals.”