The Binding Stone: The Dragon Below Book 1

by Don Bassingthwaite

  Geth tilted his head and looked closely at the woman. Her bronze-brown face was long and almost too elegant, her skin smooth and flawless, though darkened by long exposure to the sun. A twisted band of polished bronze circled her head and wide, decorative bracers of the same metal wrapped her forearms. A simple cord around her neck supported a woven spiral of thick bronze wires. Caught within the spiral was a cloudy green-yellow crystal the size of two of his fingers held side by side. Her clothes, as well as the sandals on her feet, showed the strain of long travel, though the woman was hardly dressed for it: she wore only a short, light shirt and tapered pants, with a fringe that wrapped around her waist. In spite of the wear on it, the fabric of her clothes was a rich, deep red embroidered with gold-colored thread in strange and exotic patterns. Geth glanced at the spear in his hand. The shaft below the crystalline metal of the head was worked in similar patterns.

  “I don’t think she’s a wizard or a priest, Adolan,” he said. “And that was no spell. I’ve seen her kind before.”

  Adolan looked up at him. “In the Eldeen?” he asked, his voice low and cautious.

  Geth shook his head. “No. It was … before I came to Bull Hollow.” Geth’s jaw tightened. He gestured to the woman’s distinctive clothes and spear, to her fine features. “She’s a kalashtar.”

  Only the vaguest kind of recognition flickered in Adolan’s eyes. “Kalashtar come from the east,” Geth explained. “Far to the east—across the Dragonreach and the Sea of Rage, from Sarlona.” He glanced down at the sleeping woman. “I saw some of her kind in Rekkenmark in Karrnath. A wizard told me that they have powers that aren’t like any magic we know.” He touched his forehead. “It’s some kind of mind-magic.”

  Adolan’s eyes narrowed and his nose crinkled. “Do they all float like that when they fight?” Geth shook his head. “What do you think she’s doing in the Eldeen Reaches?

  “I don’t know,” said Geth. He drew a deep breath. “But I don’t think it’s safe to take her back to Bull Hollow. We should leave her here.”

  “Geth!”

  “Trouble followed every kalashtar I ever saw, Adolan.” Geth gestured to the carnage around them.

  “She stumbled across young displacer beasts looking for prey. We already knew they were dangerous.” Adolan stood up. “And she’s asleep. What trouble can she bring down on us?”

  “She’ll wake up sooner or later. There must be some reason she’s stumbling through the hills in exhaustion.”

  Adolan crossed his arms and fixed him with a glare. “She’s most likely lost. We can’t just leave her, Geth. The displacer beasts were the most dangerous things in the forest, but they weren’t the only danger. We need to take her with us.” When Geth glowered, he raised his eyebrows. “Are your fleas bothering you again, furball?”

  Geth bared his teeth. “I don’t like it,” he said.

  “You don’t like much of anything. Think on this: we dealt with the displacer beasts and saved a life today. Be happy with that.”

  Geth’s lips pinched back together. “Ring of Siberys in a mud puddle, Ado.”

  “With you around, someone has to be the optimist.” Adolan walked over to the area of brush that had been animated by his prayer. A few long vines still squirmed across the ground. The druid grabbed them and began gathering them like some kind of strange, wild rope. “Find me two long, sturdy branches. We need to make a litter.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  Twilight lay purple against the sky by the time the forest opened up and Singe looked down into the shallow valley that held—so a tavernkeeper had told them two days ago—the hamlet of Bull Hollow and the end of the long western road.

  Given that the “road” was really more of a vague track, Singe didn’t hold out any great hope for the “hamlet” either.

  Toller d’Deneith urged his horse up alongside Singe’s. The young man’s face twisted as he looked down. “That’s it?” he asked.

  “I told you not to expect much.” Singe studied the valley. The buildings of Bull Hole were shrouded by trees, but at least a dozen thin plumes of rising smoke were clustered together. A short distance away from the plumes, a broad clearing opened up around what seemed to be stone ruins. Here and there, other clearings broke through the trees where small farms had been cut from the forest. He grunted. Maybe the place had potential after all.

  “Let’s get down there,” he said. “If we need to knock on doors looking for a place to sleep, it’s best to do it while there’s still some light.”

  “You don’t think they’ll have an inn?”

  Singe’s mouth curled into a grin. “We have a saying in Aundair: cow-paths don’t lead to palaces. This is the very end of the loneliest cow-path in the Eldeen, Toller. Do you think Bull Hollow will have an inn?”

  Toller sat up a straight, needled by the comment. “A little respect would be appropriate, Lieutenant Bayard!” His hand went, unconsciously, to the hem of the blue jacket that he wore in spite of the heat, pulling it taut so that the silver embroidered emblem of the Watchful Eye superimposed on an upright sword—symbol of the Blademarks mercenary guild of House Deneith—flashed in the fading light of the setting sun.

  Singe brushed back a stray lock of blond hair, crossed his hands over the pommel of his saddle, and gave the young man a lazy stare. A similar jacket, though without Toller’s insignia of rank, was folded up in his saddlebags in favor of a much lighter vest. Toller was sweating in spite of the cool of evening. He wasn’t.

  “Singe,” he said calmly. “Call me Singe. Lieutenant Singe if you have to.” He sat up straight. “Commander.”

  Toller flushed and glanced away. “Sorry, Singe.”

  Singe rolled his eyes. “Twelve moons! Stop apologizing!” he groaned. He twitched his horse’s reins and the animal started to move again. “If you can’t do at least that, your first command will be your last!”

  “Right. Sorr—” Toller caught himself and closed his mouth. Singe nodded his approval and the young man allowed himself a half-smile. “Does this mean I can actually call you—?”

  “No.”

  Bull Hollow, when they reached it, turned out to be a cluster of well-kept, mostly wooden buildings arranged around a central common like gamblers around a cock pit. The majority of the buildings were houses, a few were simple shops of various kinds, and at least one had the stout stone walls of a smithy. That the small community managed to support more than one commercial establishment at all was something of a surprise, but Singe supposed that Bull Hollow actually served as the trading hub for a region that spread far beyond its little valley.

  Toller reached over and prodded him. “Look at that.”

  Singe looked. On the far side of the common was a large whitewashed building with a number of windows and what looked like a low-slung stable to one side. A goodly number of folk were gathered at the ground floor and, from what he could see through open windows, all of the visitors held mugs and tankards. He sat back. “Twelve moons,” he said.

  “It’s an inn?” asked Toller.

  “An inn or something enough like one that I’m willing to chance it.” He nodded to Toller. “Maybe I was wrong about this place.”

  He turned his horse toward the large building, Toller wheeling his mount sharply in order to stay close. Their arrival was beginning to bring attention. More and more faces all around the hamlet’s common were turning in their direction. Eyes were wide and he caught more than one over-loud whisper of excitement and curiosity. A good number were directed toward Toller and the insignia of House Deneith.

  Toller was staring back. “Maybe now would be a good time to begin recruiting,” he whispered. “We have their attention and they’re clearly interested.”

  “We have plenty of time,” Singe murmured back. He barely moved his lips as he nodded to a young lass in a homespun dress of a cut that looked like it had come out of another century. “Let them come to us. We’ll have some dinner and give them a chance to get a few drin
ks inside themselves. When we’ve worked our way back toward civilization with a train of recruits for the Blademarks in tow, that’s the time to talk fast and try to sell the benefits of becoming a mercenary. For now, relax and use your eyes. Reachers make good scouts and wilderness fighters—try and spot the best ones before they start posing for us.”

  “You’re the veteran,” said Toller. “Have you ever been out this far before?”

  Singe pressed his lips together and fixed his gaze on the tavern. For a moment he was silent, then he said, “Almost. Once, years ago. During the war and much further north. My first recruiting trip—I was barely more than a recruit myself.”

  “And?” asked Toller.

  Singe glanced at him. “And nothing,” he said curtly. “It was during your uncle’s command of the Frostbrand. He led the trip himself.”

  Toller’s mouth clamped shut and his eyes dropped down to the ground under his horse’s hooves.

  Singe grimaced. Mention of Robrand d’Deneith was all it took to shut the mouth of half of House Deneith. None of them, not even Toller, liked to be reminded of how close he had been to the old man.

  And Robrand, thought Singe, would be angrier than a hunting dragonhawk if he knew I was invoking his name just to change to a subject—though he might understand, given the consequences of that particular trip.

  He forced himself to relax his grip on his horse’s reins. “Drink lightly with dinner,” he advised Toller, trying to ease the tension between them. “The real challenge will come after.”

  The young man took a deep breath and nodded, sitting up straight once more. Singe caught a glimpse of grateful relief in his eyes. He smiled at him. “You’ll do fine, Toller. Have confidence and take charge.”

  A tall man with a shock of white hair was hustling out from the inn before they had even walked their horses up to it. His eyes darted from the crest on Toller’s jacket to the swirling, ornate hilt of the rapier that hung at Singe’s side. The Aundairian turned his smile on him. “You have rooms?” he asked. “And dinner?”

  “Yes, good master! Of course!” The man practically fell over as he bowed. “Welcome, welcome! My name is Sandar.” He spun around and bellowed. “Thul! Thul!”

  A sleepy-looking boy poked his head out from the stables. Sandar gestured urgently for him to come forward. Singe swung his leg over his horse’s rump and dismounted before the innkeeper could injure himself in his eagerness to serve. “We’re not in any rush, Sandar,” he said warmly. “Take your time!”

  Sandar looked relieved. “Tak, master! That’s kind of you. We don’t see many of the dragonmarked in these parts, and to have two …”

  “Only one, Sandar. I just work for House Deneith.” Singe smiled and nodded to Toller.

  Sandar’s eyebrows rose so high they almost merged with his hairline and he spun around to face Toller. “Your pardon, good master!” he gasped. “I had thought your servant to be your equal!”

  Singe’s indulgent smile vanished into a glower while Toller’s face lit up. “No apologies needed, Sandar,” said the young man, “it’s happened before.” He stretched so that his dragonmark—the shimmering, swirling colors of the magical pattern that marked a true heir of one of the great houses—peeked out from under the cuff of his right sleeve. Sandar’s eyes opened even wider in awe.

  “Good master!” he breathed. “The best of my inn is yours!” Sandar stepped back, licked his lips, glanced from Singe to Toller, and back again, then asked, “If it wouldn’t offend you, masters, would you mind my asking what business brings you to Bull Hollow?”

  “Not at all, Sandar,” Toller said as dismounted. “We’re here on a mission for House Deneith, looking for recruits for the Blademarks Guild.”

  A murmur of mingled excitement and concern rippled through the watching “Mercenaries?” asked Sandar. Singe thought he finally saw a hint of caution peek through the man’s eagerness to serve. “But the war is over. Surely there’s no more need for mercenaries.”

  Singe snorted. “There’s always a need for mercenaries,” he said. “Peace requires an iron fist. But I don’t suppose you felt much of the war in Bull Hollow, did you?”

  “No, master,” Sandar admitted. “So far out from the center of the Five Nations, it barely touched us. We do have a veteran living in the Hollow—a great man, though not from here originally—but he doesn’t like to talk much about the war.”

  “I understand.”

  Toller grinned. “We’ll let the veterans swap war stories between themselves tonight, Sandar. Let’s start with food.” He threw a mischievous glance over his shoulder as Sandar led him inside. “Help the stable boy with the horses … Lieutenant Bayard.”

  Singe glared after him, but his mouth twitched with a certain pride. “We’ll make a leader out of you yet, Toller,” he muttered under his breath.

  Dandra woke to the sound of voices and the distinctive sensation of having a roof over her head for the first time in weeks. Panic wrapped around her heart and squeezed. The reflexive discipline of a month of constant dread took precedent, however. She stayed still and silent, her eyes closed and her breathing regular, as she took stock of her situation.

  She was lying on a bed, rough and slightly smelly, but a bed nonetheless. She was indoors—warmth, smell, and sound trapped around her. She could hear the crackle of a fire and the murmur of voices. Dandra concentrated on the voices, trying to sort them out. Two voices, one gruff, one softer and more pleasant. Both men.

  A memory returned to her. Cold rock at her back, the strange six-legged creatures stalking toward her—and two men, a human and a fierce shifter, appearing from nowhere to come to her rescue. Her own outrage and the way it had drawn energies out of her she had thought drained by exhaustion.

  The powerful slap of one of the creature’s tentacles. Her impact with the rock she had chosen as her refuge. She focused her awareness on her body. To her surprise, she felt much better than she would have expected. The pains she had expected to find in her chest and in the back of her head were simply not there. The exhaustion that had all but crippled her—that was gone, too. She felt as if she had slept … for hours.

  Panic’s grip tightened around her heart. Tetkashtai! she called within the darkness of her mind. Tetkashtai!

  Here! Like a lantern shone along a dark corridor, a yellow-green light blossomed in her mind’s eye. The presence that was Tetkashtai swirled around her, wrapping her in a desperate embrace. Il-Yannah, Dandra. I couldn’t wake you. The human cast some kind of spell on you!

  Dandra returned the mental embrace. It must have been a healing spell, she said. I feel better than I have any right to. How long have I been asleep?

  I don’t know, Tetkashtai fretted. Too long! Images formed within her light. Views, seen from the perspective of someone being carried, of trees passing. The men who had come to her rescue, their faces distorted by Tetkashtai’s fear. A climb up a long slope, then back down. A rough little cabin. The range of Tetkashtai’s vision was too short to reveal anything meaningful, any landmarks in the distance, and her sense of time was disjointed. In spite of herself, Dandra swallowed. We need to get out of here.

  Yes! gasped Tetkashtai. Oh, yes! Another image formed: Dandra’s hand rising, a cone of flame blasting out to envelope the men.

  No! said Dandra, startled. They rescued me. I can’t do that!

  Tetkashtai’s silent voice hissed, snake-like. I can. Let me! They’ll regret keeping us here….

  I don’t think they’re keeping us. They’re only trying to help. She forced the image of the men burning out of her mind and replaced it with another of them giving her directions, food, perhaps blankets. They may be willing to help us more!

  Tetkashtai coiled in on herself. All right, she said. But don’t tell them anything! And if they can’t help us, we run—immediately!

  Dandra bent her thoughts into a shape of obedience, the mental equivalent of a nod. Yes, Tetkashtai.

  She opened her eyes and turned her head
. “Hello?” she said.

  It had been days at least since she had last spoken aloud. Her voice came out rough and cracking. It got the men’s attention, though. They had been standing beside the fire. At the sound of her voice, they turned sharply. The shifter reacted as an animal would, arching his back and leaning onto the balls of his feet, ready either to fight or to run. The human, however, hurried directly to her. There was an earthenware pitcher on a small table beside the bed. He poured clear water into a cup and offered it to her.

  “Here,” he said kindly. “Drink.” He settled on the bed and helped her as she sat up. The water was cool and good. She swallowed it with a gratitude that surprised her. The man poured her more. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded and water splashed down her chin. She felt Tetkashtai draw back in slight disgust, but the man just smiled. He was ruggedly handsome under the beard and somewhat younger than she had expected—there was an air of responsibility to him that made him seem older. A simple collar of polished black stones etched with strange symbols and strung on a leather cord hung around his neck.

  “My name is Adolan. This is Geth.” He gestured to the shifter as Geth moved in closer, his wide eyes shining in the firelight. The shirt that the shifter wore was torn into rags and stained with blood. Through the gaping fabric she could see that his compact body was knotted with muscle and thick with dark hair. He carried no visible wounds—maybe Adolan had used healing magic on him as well—but old scars made a map of bald streaks on his hairy skin.

  “Dandra,” she answered, gulping past the water. She set the cup aside and looked at both Adolan and Geth. “You saved me from those—”

  “Displacer beasts,” grunted Geth.

  “—displacer beasts.” Dandra bent her head and pressed her hands together. “Thank you.”