The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II

by Don Bassingthwaite

  Robrand looked back to Chuut. His mouth opened. He drew breath—

  He never had the chance to speak. Over the edge of the balcony, a fiery glow like dawn appeared. Tentacles of flame rose up out of the darkness and struck with the speed of serpents, one wrapping Chain’s throat, the other around the arm that held the dagger. They wrenched on Chain, tearing him back away from Robrand. The old man fell forward. Chain stumbled backward and into Hruucan’s arms as the fiery dolgaunt climbed over the edge of the balcony. More tendrils enfolded the bounty hunter. Chain’s eyes opened in pain and a high, thin cry whistled from his constricted throat—then he burst into flames, writhing and struggling in Hruucan’s embrace.

  His struggles ceased in only moments and the dolgaunt let him go. Chain’s burned corpse hit the ground in a spray of glowing embers.

  Ogres stared in shock. Robrand sat frozen on the ground. Natrac’s face was pale. Orshok was shaking. Singe’s heart simply felt like a lump of stone. He lifted his head and stared at Hruucan. The dolgaunt’s inscrutable, eyeless face stared back at him.

  “What was that?” roared Dah’mir from below.

  “Mutiny,” Vennet called back. “It’s been dealt with.” He strode across the balcony and hauled Robrand to his feet. “I know you weren’t going to do anything stupid, were you, General? Get your crew moving!”

  Robrand tore his eyes away from Chain. “Company forward,” he said, his voice strained.

  If Singe had felt subdued before, he felt wretched now. They descended the stairs and crossed the great chamber. As they drew closer to Dah’mir, Singe could see that the passage beside which the dragon crouched opened through the tall statue of Taruuzh. The statue’s legs and the blade of the sword it held had been a cleverly hidden door, though now that door seemed to have been torn off and thrown aside. The ancient bones that had been Marg had been crushed and scattered. Singe couldn’t see more than a few feet into the passage, though; the light that shone out of it came from further inside. Heart beating wildly, he shouted out, “Dandra? Ashi?”

  The ogre holding him grunted and gave him a jaw-rattling shake, but there was an answer from inside the passage—though not one he expected. “Singe!” Geth called back. “We’re here!”

  “Enough of this,” said Dah’mir. He lifted one foreleg—Singe saw that it bore the long gash of a fresh wound—and pointed at the Grieving Tree. “Bring the prisoners around to face the passage and put them up on the platform.”

  The ogres obeyed the dragon without further orders from Robrand. Singe found himself dumped on the broad platform on which the grieving tree stood, Natrac on one side of him, Orshok on the other. The ogres stepped back, leaving only Robrand standing below them like a grim honor guard. Dah’mir moved aside and Singe stared down the passage. Near its end, Dandra stood, one hand holding her spear, the other a fading torch. Her face was slack, her eyes on Dah’mir and Singe choked back a curse. He should have realized that she would have been caught by Dah’mir’s presence.

  She had protectors, though. Around her stood Ashi, Ekhaas, and Geth. For just a moment, Singe actually felt buoyed up by the sight of the shifter. “Geth! Twelve bloody moons, you didn’t run!” He glanced down at Robrand—and felt a twist of confusion.

  Their old commander’s face was flushed red with rage as he stared into the passage. “Impossible!” he spat. “Impossible!”

  Vennet, meanwhile, sauntered up to the mouth of the passage and peered inside. “Well, there you are, Geth!” he said. “We were wondering what had happened to you.”

  The shifter only growled at him. Vennet laughed and turned back around. “Tzaryan, what are you waiting for? Get your ogres in there!”

  Alarm crossed Tzaryan’s face and he swung around to Dah’mir. “My ogres would be at a disadvantage!” he protested. “The space is too tight. Dah’mir, you can’t make them—”

  “At ease, Tzaryan,” said Dah’mir. “No one is going in. Geth is going to come out and give me what I want.”

  In the passage, Ekhaas started and leaned over to murmur something to Geth and Ashi. Singe saw Geth’s eyes go wide. “Tiger’s blood!” the shifter cursed.

  Dah’mir gave an indulgent chuckle. “The hobgoblin has guessed what will happen. Tzaryan, who is she?”

  “Her name is Ekhaas. She’s a duur’kala.”

  “Ah.” Dah’mir peered into the tunnel. “Watch closely, duur’kala, and you’ll see something out of your legends.” He sat back and looked to the prisoners on the platform. “Do you know what it is you sit beneath?”

  A chill spread through Singe. Ekhaas wasn’t the only one who could guess what would happen. “It’s a Grieving Tree,” he said to Dah’mir. “It’s a Dhakaani execution device.”

  “Not just a Grieving Tree, Singe,” Dah’mir said. “The Grieving Tree. The very first one, created by Taruuzh. It’s also more than just a device. The original Grieving Trees were alive in their own way. They grew—that’s one reason why this one is so big. And like any living thing, they needed to be fed.” His acid-green eyes flashed. “This tree hasn’t been fed in a very long time.” He spoke a word that sounded like Goblin.

  Singe felt a stirring at his back and twisted around.

  The Grieving Tree was moving, the strangely curved stone segments that made up its trunk and limbs grinding as they rotated against each other. They shuddered and dipped as the tree flexed. Singe’s blood ran cold. Natrac choked and tried to squirm away. Dah’mir spoke another word.

  A thick branch bent down and curved stone curled around the half-orc, whisking him up into the air and passing him from limb to limb until he hung in the shadows high above the ground. Sharp ridges and thorny spikes rippled—and dug into his flesh. Natrac flung back his head and screamed.

  Wherever a branch embraced him, the grooves carved into the stone turned dark and red, catching and channeling his blood. A shudder like an unseen, unfelt breeze shook the tree. Natrac’s scream fell into a deep moan.

  Dah’mir’s voice was light. “Death on a Grieving Tree is slow. The tree takes only a little blood at a time. A strong person could linger on the tree for days. I recall a legend of a fallen Dhakaani hero who hung on the tree for two weeks before she died.”

  Natrac shifted—or tried to. The effort only dragged a new scream out of him. Dah’mir spoke the Goblin word a second time. Another branch twisted, reaching for Orshok. The druid saw it coming and shouted in fear. “No!” Singe yelled. He threw himself on top of the young orc, trying hold him down, to keep the tree from dragging him up. It was no good. Carved stone slid underneath Orshok and lifted both of them. His hands still tied, Singe couldn’t grasp him. He slid and fell, landing flat on his back. The impact drove the air out of his lungs. Stunned, he could only stare up into the branches and watch Orshok thrash in agony as spikes dug into his flesh and the tree released his blood.

  “No,” he choked. He wrenched his neck around, trying to look for Geth, for Dah’mir. His eyes found Robrand. “Do something!”

  The old man looked frightened and shockingly frail. He didn’t move. Beyond him, Tzaryan wore an expression of cold curiosity, studying the tree as if calculating how he could make use of it. Vennet’s face was alight with horrid, mad fascination.

  In the passage, Geth’s face was pale and tormented—but hard. His lips were pressed tight together.

  Dah’mir began to speak the word that commanded the tree a third time …

  “No.”

  Dah’mir stopped, the word of command poised on his tongue. Singe twisted around.

  Hruucan stood over him, the fire of his body casting a bloody light up into the branches of the tree. His face was turned to Dah’mir. “No,” he said again. “The tree can’t have him. He’s mine. I claim him.”

  The dragon’s mouth curved into a frown. “Your kills end too quickly, Hruucan.”

  “This one won’t.” A tentacle of flame reached down. Singe tried to roll aside but Hruucan was quicker. The tentacle writhed after him, catching his l
eg and hauling him back. Once again, the ring that Singe wore devoured the flame before it burned him, but just as before, there was more to Hruucan’s fiery touch than heat. His leg twitched, curled, and seemed to go numb. When the tentacle tore away, it ripped something out of his very soul. Singe jerked and cried out. Patches of darkness blotted his vision.

  Dah’mir’s voice came out of one of those patches. He sounded amused. “Take him with my blessing then,” he said. “Enjoy your revenge.”

  Hruucan reached down with a charred hand and grasped the front of Singe’s shirt, hauling him to his feet. The wizard stared in the black pits of the dolgaunt’s empty eye sockets as he bared sharp teeth. “I will,” Hruucan said.

  His free hand rose and clamped across Singe’s face.

  Geth’s stomach was filled with stones. His head had been packed with broken glass. His ears hurt. His eyes burned. His fists were clenched so tight that his fingers ached. He didn’t look at Ashi or at Ekhaas, though he could hear them. Ashi’s breath came in harsh rasps. Ekhaas was singing something softly, her voice near to cracking.

  Out in the great chamber, Singe shrieked and came near to collapsing under the touch of the fiery undead thing that Hruucan had become. On the Grieving Tree, Orshok’s voice rose in a babble of pain and Natrac moaned like an echo of Taruuzh in the caves below.

  His friends were dying and there was nothing he could do.

  Giving Wrath to Dah’mir would be giving the dragon Taruuzh’s stones. He couldn’t do that. He’d thought about breaking the sword—but that would only slow Dah’mir down. He could still take Dandra and Tetkashtai and kill the rest of them. Geth couldn’t accept that either. There had to be something else he could do, something clever. Something that Singe or Dandra would have thought of. They were the clever ones. All he could do was fight.

  Another voice rose in agony. Robrand whirled around and stared into the passage. “Dol Arrah’s mercy, Geth—give him what he wants! End this! For Etan’s sake, end it!”

  Dah’mir’s eyes stirred with interest and Geth could see the looks of surprise that Tzaryan and Vennet gave the old man.

  “General! You know these two?” Tzaryan asked.

  “They were under my command in the Frostbrand, my lord.” Robrand’s voice shook. “Etan was … is a friend. I promise you, I’ve given them no information or aid since they’ve been here that would dishonor the contract between us, but this—” He took a step toward the tunnel and raised his hands to Geth. “You can stop this, Geth. Whatever the dragon wants, give it to him!”

  Geth’s throat felt raw. “I can’t,” he croaked.

  Robrand’s face seemed to collapse. “You …” he said. He raised a trembling arm and pointed it at Geth. “You are a coward. You always have been. You always will be. Even when you can’t run away, you’re too much of a coward to act!”

  The words were like blows. Only a few hours before, Geth would have curled up under them like the coward Robrand accused him of being, frightened of his old commander’s rage, ashamed of his own past.

  Not now. Fury replaced shame and fear. Geth took the blows and hit back. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, old man! You don’t know what’s at stake here—and you don’t know what was at stake in Narath! Why don’t you close your mouth and look at who you’re standing with before you call me a coward again!”

  Robrand staggered, then stood straight. He turned to Tzaryan. “My lord, your assessment of the risk in storming the passage does no credit to your troops. They can take the enemy position without undue loss.”

  A part of Geth flinched at being referred to as the enemy. He bit it back, though. He and Robrand had chosen sides. His rage already roused, he snarled out at Robrand, “Send them in! Let’s see just how well you’ve trained them!”

  Ekhaas twitched. “You’re as mad as the half-elf!” she hissed. Geth ignored her and glanced at Ashi. The hunter nodded grimly, her hand tightening on the grip of her bright Deneith honor blade.

  Beyond the passage, Tzaryan looked up at Dah’mir. The dragon’s eyes narrowed to shining slits as if he was contemplating his options. On the platform under the Grieving Tree, Hruucan released his grasp on Singe. The wizard gave a low cry and dropped to his knees. Hruucan turned away, only to snap around in a whirling kick that cracked into Singe’s side and sent him sliding across the platform. Singe hit the trunk of the Grieving Tree hard—hard enough to shake the carved stone—and lay still. Hung on the branches above, though, the shock of his impact brought new screams from both Natrac and Orshok.

  Tears threatened to cloud Geth’s vision. A howl of anguish built in his throat.

  “Hruucan,” Dah’mir said sharply, “hold.” The dolgaunt paused in midstride. Dah’mir lowered his head to peer into the passage. “Geth, I have a proposal for you.”

  “I’m not going to deal with you,” Geth said. “All you want is the sword!”

  “Not exactly. I also want to make you suffer for the injury you inflicted on me at the Bonetree mound. I want to punish Ashi for abandoning me.” The dragon’s voice was hard. “But I am capable of compromise. You’re strong enough to let your friends die in a vain attempt to keep the sword safe, but I will have it eventually. I may not be able to reach you, but we both know that you can’t escape. I can wait, you’ll starve in that hole, and the sword will be mine.”

  Geth bared his teeth. “You’ll be waiting a long time!”

  “Exactly.” Dah’mir blinked slowly, acid-green eyes closing then opening again like a double eclipse. “The Bonetree hunters would say that you’ve shown yourself to be a good enemy, Geth. You’ve survived everything I’ve thrown at you. That’s why I’ll offer you the warrior’s choice. You can hold the sword and I’ll claim it after you and all of your friends are dead—or you can surrender the sword to me now and I’ll let all of you go free to try and win the sword back another day.” His muzzle curved in a smile. “I like a challenge.”

  All of the tension inside Geth came together in a single knot. “You’d use the sword to claim Taruuzh’s stones.”

  “Of course, I would. But I don’t have all the pieces to the puzzle, do I? I don’t have a hobgoblin lord. There’s a little time for you to try to stop me.”

  Something tugged at Geth, something out of place in what the dragon had said, but he couldn’t quite identify it. He thrust it aside. “What’s to stop you from attacking us as soon as we leave the passage?”

  “Geth!” hissed Ashi. “You’re not going to take his deal, are you?”

  “Take it!” Ekhaas said from his other side. “Khaavolaar, I don’t want to die here!”

  Geth swallowed. “I … I don’t …”

  “Not an easy decision, is it?” asked Dah’mir. “But I’ll make it easier for you: keep the sword until you’re out of this place. You’ve said yourself that I don’t risk attacking you for fear of destroying the sword. So long as I need the sword, you’re safe. Once you’re out of Taruuzh Kraat, leave the sword and I pledge not to attack you or yours until we meet again.” He bent his head. “Majak wux aridarastrixszaka—I give you the word of a dragon.”

  Suspicion rose immediately in Geth. “How can I trust your word?” he asked. “You’ve tried to kill us. You’re our enemy. Grandfather Rat, you serve a daelkyr!”

  Dah’mir smiled again. “You stand between a duur’kala of the Kech Volaar and a hunter of the Bonetree clan. Ask Ekhaas about the pledge of a dragon. Ask Ashi if I’ve ever failed to keep my word once it was given.”

  Geth glanced at the two women. Ashi’s brow furrowed. “Bonetree legends say that when the Revered promised something, it was always carried out.”

  Ekhaas nodded. “Among the Kech Volaar, it’s said that a dragon doesn’t give his word lightly, but once given it’s always honored.” Her ears bent forward, though, and her voice dropped. “But it’s also said that the word of a dragon can have many meanings.”

  Geth’s jaw clenched. “He’s trying to trick us.” He looked back up—and foc
used on Tzaryan standing at Dah’mir’s side. “Tzaryan, too. And Hruucan and Vennet. Your pledge extends to them.”

  Dah’mir’s smile faded slightly, but his voice betrayed nothing. “Done,” he said. “I expect you to honor the pledge as well. Leave the sword outside Taruuzh Kraat or you’ll face a fury such as you’ve never seen.”

  “You’ll have the sword,” said Geth.

  “You’re going to do it.” Ashi stared at him in disbelief. “Rond betch, you’re going to give it to him.”

  “We’ll get it back.” Geth said. He glared at Dah’mir. “You have my word on that.”

  Dah’mir chuckled faintly. “I said that I like a challenge.” He straightened up and turned toward Hruucan as he hovered over Singe’s unmoving form. “Away from him,” Dah’mir said.

  The dolgaunt’s tentacles whipped at the air. “He still lives!” he said, his voice an angry rasp. “My revenge—”

  “—can wait. I need him alive. Back away!”

  Dah’mir’s presence poured through the command. Hruucan, poised on the edge of lunging for Singe, instead staggered and thrust himself back violently, tumbling off the platform and darting across the great chamber. Only when he could run no farther did he stop and turn back to bare his teeth at Dah’mir.

  The wash of the dragon’s power also seemed to bring Singe starting back to consciousness. His eyes twitched between Dah’mir and Hruucan in confusion. “What—?” he gasped.

  “Don’t ask questions, Singe,” said Geth. He glanced at Ekhaas and Ashi. “Ekhaas,” he said, “come with me. Ashi, bring Dandra to the mouth of the passage. Be ready to leave.” He tightened his grip on the sword and strode forward with Ekhaas behind him. At the end of the passage, he hesitated for a moment, then stepped out into the cavern.

  No one moved. Hruucan crouched against the far wall of the cavern, Chuut and the ogres of Tzaryan Keep arrayed in the shadows, Vennet to the right of the passage, Tzaryan Rrac and Dah’mir to the left, Robrand still standing near the base of the Grieving Tree—none of them moved. Every eye was on him, though.