“When the elders of the Gatekeepers learned of the danger, they knew that it was greater than their magic alone could contain. They dispatched one of their number, a seeress named Aryd who had foreseen the devastation that the legion would cause if left unchallenged, to appeal to Taruuzh for aid. At his forge in the shade of the Grieving Tree, Taruuzh listened to Aryd’s appeal and agreed to help the Gatekeepers. He banished all of his apprentices from the forge while he worked with Aryd at his side through two seasons.”
“When the seasons turned again, they were ready. Taruuzh and Aryd set forth from Taruuzh Kraat, gathering an army as they traveled—and just in time, for the legion of the Master of Silence had grown into its strength. On a night of eight moons, in the place where the land rose above the swamps, the legion of the Master of Silence and the army of Taruuzh and Aryd faced each other.”
Ekhaas’s words seemed to weave images in Geth’s mind. In his imagination, he saw a dark plain lit by moonlight. On one side of the plain massed the ordered ranks of Dhakaani hobgoblins in heavy armor with swords and spears of purple byeshk, with milling crowds of orcs on either flank wielding only axes and armored only in their faith. At the head of the army, a hobgoblin man in a smith’s apron and heavy gauntlets and an orc woman in rough leather robes. On the other side of the plain, waited a shadowy horde, all writhing tentacles and dead white eyes. There were dolgrims among them, and dolgaunts. Dark silhouettes took the place of lunanaes and psaretti and kagges—creatures he had never heard of, but whose names struck a strange primal fear into his soul.
“Madness was a tide that rolled before the legion of the Master,” said Ekhaas, “but Aryd and the Gatekeepers raised their voices in prayer. Nature answered them and from the night, white moths poured forth in unending numbers. At the same time, Taruuzh spread forth the weapon on which he had labored for two seasons: a thousand blue-black stones, each no large than a finger, each wrapped in a filigree of gold. Like snow falling on mountain tops, Aryd’s moths settled on Taruuzh’s stones, a dozen or more to each, and bore them toward the Master’s legion. Because they were small creatures without minds, the dread powers of the legion could find no hold on them, but as the moths passed among the legion, the stones of Taruuzh inflicted a deadly toll. Whenever a stone touched the flesh of an illithid or a lunanae or a psarett or a kagge, that creature’s mind—the seat of its powers—was drawn into the crystal and bound there. With mind and body separated, they were helpless.”
Geth felt Dandra stiffen at his side. One of her hands was wrapped tight around her psicrystal. “Light of il-Yannah,” she breathed. “Binding stones. A thousand binding stones that worked by contact alone.”
Ekhaas continued as if she hadn’t heard. “The legion was broken. The scattered survivors were run down by the army of Taruuzh and Aryd. When the sun rose, the legion was gone—dead or fled into the court of the Master of Silence—and the battlefield glittered with Taruuzh’s stones. The Gatekeepers gathered them, each and every one, and ground them into dust. With that dust, they made a mortar, and with that mortar built a seal, weaving their magics to bind the Master of Silence and all his court into the depths of Khyber. In the place where the land rose above the swamps, they raised a circle of stones to mark the site of the battle. And Taruuzh looked at his stones as they were ground into dust and said, ‘Of all my works, this was second only to the Grieving Tree.’”
She looked up at them, her face calm and almost shining. “Raat shan gath’kal dor,” she said. “The story stops but never ends.” Her ears twitched. “Does that answer your questions, human?”
Singe swallowed. “Yes,” he said. “I think it does.” His voice was strained. Geth dragged his gaze away from Ekhaas to look at him—and growled in surprise. The wizard’s face was pale and dotted with a light sheen of sweat.
“Singe!” said Dandra. She started forward, but Singe raised a hand and stopped her. He looked at Ashi. “The first time I saw the Bonetree mound, you told me that a Gatekeeper circle stood there before Dah’mir shattered it to build the mound.”
Ashi nodded slowly and a look of fear passed over her eyes. Geth felt it, too. “Tiger, Wolf, and Rat,” he said softly. “The Bonetree clan’s territory is dry, a place where the land rises above the swamp. Do you think that when Dah’mir talked about his master he meant …?”
He left the thought unfinished.
“Land can change in nine thousand years,” Natrac said into the silence. “And the ancient Gatekeepers built circles all over the Shadow Marches.” He sounded like he was trying to reassure himself.
Orshok shook his head. “But they never built them without a reason.”
“Twelve bloody moons.” Singe took a deep breath. “We wondered why Dah’mir would leave Taruuzh Kraat for the Shadow Marches, didn’t we? I think maybe we know now.”
Ekhaas’s eyes were darting between them. “What is this?” she demanded. “What are you talking about?”
“A story to repay yours when we have the time,” said Singe. He stepped backward out of the cell and bowed to the chained hobgoblin. “Thank you. You kept your end of the bargain. We’ll keep ours and talk to Tzaryan.” He straightened up and glanced at the rest of them. “Someone should stay here to make sure Lor doesn’t come down and start before we get back.”
Geth’s hand dropped to his sword. There was another story he wanted to hear from Ekhaas, and if Singe convinced Tzaryan to free her, he might never have another chance. “I’ll stay,” he said.
Singe looked him over with narrow eyes. “No,” he said tightly. The others paused.
“Singe!” Dandra said. She stepped between the two men, staring at the wizard with a harsh expression. “Why not?”
“I don’t trust him.”
Dandra’s eyebrows rose high. “You don’t trust him? You’ve fought beside him! He rescued both of us.” She twisted around to look over her shoulder. Geth dropped his gaze to the floor rather than meet her eyes. Dandra let out a hiss of frustration. “Il-Yannah, I’ve had it with this feud of yours!” He saw her shift as she turned back to Singe. “What did Geth do that was so terrible you can still hold it over him nine years later?”
Geth’s head snapped up, his heart leaping into his throat. “Dandra, don’t—”
It was too late. Singe’s eyes flashed. “He abandoned his post,” the wizard seethed. “The coward abandoned his post at Narath and because he did, the Aundairians got into the town behind our lines.” Singe looked past Dandra to glare at him. “The massacre at Narath is his fault. More than a thousand people died because of what he did. Geth killed the Frostbrand. Geth killed Narath.”
Silence. Geth could feel the weight of Natrac’s gaze, of Ashi’s and Orshok’s as well. In the cell, Ekhaas watched, her ears pricked forward.
Dandra turned slowly. “Geth, is that true?”
He ground his teeth together.
Dandra stood fast, her dark eyes wide. “Is it true?” she asked again.
Geth looked at her—at all of the people he’d called friends—and the secret that he had only ever spoken before to Adolan slipped between his lips. “Yes.”
CHAPTER
14
Bastard.” Singe’s voice was cold. He picked up one of the torches Robrand had left behind. “You know what? If you want to stay here, you can stay. I don’t want to look at you.” He threw a glance into the cell. “Ekhaas, we’ll be back.”
The hobgoblin said nothing and Singe didn’t wait for a reply. He turned to the others. “Come on.” He started down the dark hallway toward the stairs without looking back.
Ashi and Orshok looked confused but they followed him. So did Natrac, though he turned to glance back with a strangely bleak expression in his eyes. Geth twitched his head away.
Dandra lingered. “Geth, I—”
He bared his teeth and snapped at her. She flinched back, then turned and darted after Singe and the others.
After a long moment, Geth turned to look at Ekhaas, still sitting silentl
y in the cell. The hobgoblin’s eyes glittered as she watched him. “Truth tears its way out of the belly.”
“Shut your mouth,” Geth snarled, but Ekhaas just sat back.
“I owe you no kindness, shifter. I’m here because of you.” She looked at him with cold anger—and nodded toward his sword. “I know why you asked to stay and I’m pleased that your curiosity stung you.”
Rage swept over him and he strode into the cell, ripping the Dhakaani sword from his scabbard. “Tiger’s blood, if I’m going to suffer for curiosity, then I want an answer!” He held the naked blade in front of her, the torchlight from the hallway casting dark gleams into the twilight-purple byeshk. “I drew this in Zarash’ak and a gang of goblins scattered. I drew it against you and you tried to take my head off.” He twisted the sword. “What is it?”
Ekhaas’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a lhesh shaarat, a warlord’s blade. Goblin, hobgoblin, or bugbear, any descendant of Dhakaan recognizes a lhesh shaarat. They’re the weapons of kings and heroes. Anyone who dares draw one proclaims his power. The goblins you faced in Zarash’ak probably fled in fear at the mere sight of you holding it.”
“You didn’t flee.”
“I know that the weapons of heroes can be stolen by cowards, shifter.”
His lips drew back. “My name is Geth,” he spat. “Use it.” He lifted the blade and light ran along it. “And I didn’t steal this. I fought for it. Do the Dhakaani remember a ghost fortress called Jhegesh Dol?”
“Jhegesh Dol?” Ekhaas’s ears lay back. “What do you know about Jhegesh Dol?”
“More than I want to.” Geth drew a breath between his teeth, then looked down at Ekhaas again. “I found this sword there. A Gatekeeper told me it was the sword of the hobgoblin who killed the daelkyr master of Jhegesh Dol. Do you know anything more about it?”
“Nothing I can recall.” A hungry expression crept across Ekhaas’s face. “Why?”
Geth showed her his teeth. “Because I took a good chunk out of Dah’mir with it.”
Ekhaas blinked and surprise broke through her hostility for the first time. “Khaavolaar. The dragon? You injured him with the sword?”
Geth nodded and Ekhaas’s ears flicked forward—then lay back sharply.
“But you didn’t kill him?”
“If I’d killed him, I’d be back in the Eldeen instead of talking to you and we wouldn’t have anything to worry about,” Geth said. He turned the sword and slammed it back into its sheath.
Ekhaas watched him with something like amazement in her eyes.
“What?” he growled at her. “Suddenly I’m worth talking to?” He turned away from her and stared back out into the corridor.
There was light coming down the stairs into the dungeon—the light of a torch, but accompanied by the sound of only one pair of feet.
Unease stirred in him. The footsteps that echoed down the stairs were quick and lively, but also heavy. A man’s footsteps. A half dozen possibilities for who might be making those footsteps flicked through his head. The steps were too heavy to be Dandra and surely Singe wouldn’t be coming back to face him. They were too loud for Ashi—the hunter moved in near-silence. Neither Orshok nor Natrac would have need for a torch. Tzaryan’s orc slaves wouldn’t have needed a torch either, and Geth hadn’t seen any of the slaves move in anything more lively than a worn shuffle. The steps were definitely too light to belong to an ogre.
Robrand had come for him.
He swallowed. He shrank back into Ekhaas’s cell. The hobgoblin’s ears twitched. Geth motioned her to silence and closed his eyes for a moment, preparing himself for the confrontation he had been dreading for nearly a decade.
But the footsteps stopped well before the cell and a voice called, “Chain?”
There was a muffled reply, but Geth’s eyes sprang open as horror knotted his gut. He knew that voice. Slowly, cautiously, he peered around the edge of the doorframe and down the hallway.
Vennet d’Lyrandar stood with a torch in one hand, wrestling the bar from across the door of Chain’s cell with the other. Geth stifled a curse.
Behind him, Ekhaas shifted. “What?” she said, her voice pitched lower than a whisper. “What is it?”
He glanced back, put a finger across his lips, and gave her a shake of his head, then glanced back out into the hall. Vennet looked like a nightmare. His clothes were dirty and stiff with dried blood, his eyes fever bright, his long blond hair tangled and wild, yet at the same time the half-elf stood tall and proud, as if utterly unaware of how he looked. As Geth watched, he hauled the bar away from the cell door and let it fall with a thud that echoed along the hallway, then swung the door wide. “I’ll expect the return of a portion of your fee, Chain,” he said. “I didn’t think you would need rescuing.”
Chain emerged from the cell, squinting against the light of the torch while at the same time trying to stare at the sight of Vennet. The bounty hunter looked as shocked as Geth felt. “Vennet, what are you—?” he began, then caught himself and stood up straight. “I’m working on your contract,” he said in a tone more like his usual gruffness. “I’ve followed your target here and come close to capturing her.”
Vennet’s hand snapped out and slapped the big man. “Don’t whistle and call it wind.” He gestured to the bar. “Close the door and put that back, then come with me. There might be a use for you yet.”
Chain stared at Vennet as if ready to punch him back, but Vennet glared back at him without fear. After a moment, Chain swallowed and looked away, pushing the cell door closed with one hand and reaching for the bar with the other. Geth eased back into the darkness of Ekhaas’s cell and listened as he laid it back into place. Two sets of footsteps climbed the stairs. The light of Vennet’s torch faded from the hall.
“You look frightened,” said Ekhaas.
Geth shook his head. “You have no idea.” Horror gnawed at his stomach. What was Vennet doing here?
And if Vennet was here, where was Dah’mir?
The half-elf had moved with some stealth. It didn’t sound as if he’d revealed himself to any of the others. Dandra and Singe probably didn’t know he was there yet—but Vennet had to know they were in Tzaryan Keep.
Geth pushed himself away from the wall. “I have to go, Ekhaas. I have to find Dandra and Singe.”
“Wait! Don’t leave me here.” Ekhaas leaned forward, rattling the chain that bound her to the wall. Her eyes were frightened, but also piercing. “You don’t look like someone who expects to come back.”
He hesitated, then growled. He stuck his head out of the cell and glanced at the equipment Lor had left waiting. Hung on the wall beside the ogre’s brazier was a black iron key. He snatched it and stepped back to fumble with the collar around Ekhaas’s neck. The key fit into a heavy lock. Geth gave it a twist and the collar snapped open. “There,” he said. “Make the most of it.”
Leaping out of the cell, he grabbed the torch that had been left behind and raced down the hall. At the bottom of the stairs, he paused, looking up and searching the shadows for any sign of Vennet’s torch. There was none. Either the half-elf was far ahead of him or had turned aside. Geth went bounding up the stairs as fast as he could, taking two tall steps at a time.
Just as he reached the upper corridor that led to the ogre barracks, however, a bulky figure stepped out of the shadows and into his path. Geth bared his teeth and raised his gauntlet before he recognized Chuut. He staggered to a stop on the last step below the corridor. “Chuut,” he said, “have you seen Singe—I mean, Master Timin?”
Chuut looked down at him, his chin resting against his chest, and shook his head solemnly. “No,” he said, shaping the word as carefully as always.
Desperation put an idea in Geth’s head. “What about the General?” he asked. “Have you seen him? Do you know where I can find him?” Normally he wouldn’t have even considered going to Robrand for help, especially now that his secret was out in the open. Even if Robrand had no love for him, though, the old man would
try to stay the moons for Singe.
And this time, Chuut nodded. “Go that way,” he said, pointing. He stepped back out of Geth’s way.
“Tak!” Geth climbed up the last step and turned.
Just down the corridor, Robrand waited with his arms crossed and his eyes hard. Geth stopped still, startled.
Something moved in the corner of his eye. He started to turn, to lift his gauntlet, but Chuut’s mace was faster. The heavy weapon slammed into his head just behind his left ear and sent him reeling into a wall. His torch fell out of his hands and rolled across the floor. Geth tried to clutch at the stones, to keep himself on his feet, but they slid away from him. Shadows swirled in the corridor. Ogre hands seized his arms and legs—Chuut to his right and Lor to his left. He shook his head and roared. Or tried to. With a coordinated precision, Chuut and Lor swung him headfirst into the wall. Shadows collapsed down onto him.
He heard footsteps, heard a cold voice say, “Follow me,” and felt movement. His body tilted—the ogres were taking him back down the stairs. He raised his head and blinked. Shadows gave way to hazy shapes of light and dark. He saw two of everything. Two of Chuut. Two of Lor. Two of the back of Robrand’s head. Two of the torch the old man had picked up.
Two of Ekhaas as she crouched against a wall, her sword in her hands, scraps of frayed rope at her feet. Robrand and the ogres stopped. “Well,” said Robrand. “Geth, you were busy.” He gestured to Ekhaas. “If you can get out of Tzaryan Keep without being seen, you’re free. You’re of more use to me if you’re not here.”
“We could just kill her,” said Chuut. Ekhaas stiffened.
“It’s not worth the fight.” Robrand flicked his hand sharply. “Go, Ekhaas!”
The hobgoblin’s ears drew back in suspicion, but she slid around to one side of the old man. Geth tried to focus on her, to beg for her help as she eased past Lor, but neither his eyes nor his voice seemed to work so well. Ekhaas paused though and glanced back at Robrand.
The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II Page 27