The Binding Stone: The Dragon Below Book 1

by Don Bassingthwaite

  Ashi glanced at the sun. It stood just past its zenith, baking the hillside in warmth. “Midmorning,” she estimated.

  “A quarter of a day,” Hruucan rasped at Ner. “And drawing further away all the time.” He gestured toward the trees in the bottom of the valley where the other hunters waited with the dolgrims. “Less than a third of your surviving hunters would be able to keep pace, let alone catch them!”

  Ashi drew breath and glared at the dolgaunt in spite of herself. “More than half of the children of Khyber under your command didn’t walk off the battlefield at all.” She bit her tongue as Hruucan’s cowled head swung toward her.

  “Ashi’s anger leads her, Hand of the Revered,” said Ner swiftly. The huntmaster looked up at her. “If we rest now, Ashi, how many hunters will still be fit for the pursuit?”

  Behind Ner, Breff held up five fingers. Ashi looked back to the huntmaster. “Four,” she said.

  Breff scowled. “Five!”

  Ner reached out with his sword and tapped the flat of the scabbard against Breff’s injured calf. The hunter yelped and hopped awkwardly. “Four,” Ner repeated. He looked back to Ashi. “Who?”

  “Mukur, Sita, Pado, and me,” she said. She flicked her tongue across the rings in her lip hesitantly, then added, “Even if we can catch her, though, Ner, we’d need surprise and luck to take them. They’re good fighters. You faced the shifter yourself.”

  Ner scowled and tapped his sword against his chin once more. Hruucan’s grating voice broke the silence. “Dah’mir needs to be told, Ner. You must contact Medala.”

  For a long moment, none of the hunters moved, then Ner shifted one arm, and reached into the pouch on his hip. His hand emerged with the glittering band of copper wire and crystals that Dah’mir had given to him. He held out his sword to Ashi. She took it and stepped back as the huntmaster rose, spread the band wide, and pulled it over the top of his head. The crystals caught the sunlight and scattered bright flashes across the hillside. Ner turned to face in the direction of the Shadow Marches and the distant ancestor mound.

  “Medala!” he said loudly. “Ner calls you!” He waited a moment, then said again. “Medala! Ner calls—”

  His voice fell silent as a blankness washed across his face. Ashi shifted uncomfortably. In the month of their pursuit, Ner had used Dah’mir’s device only a few times. Each time it had been like this. Ner had told her that it was like dreaming, that he had no awareness of his body while he spoke with the outclanner woman. He simply heard her in his head and replied to her by thinking his response. Sometimes, he had said, her manner was rough, wrenching the thoughts from his head before they were fully formed.

  The communication never seemed to last long—after only a few moments, awareness would return to Ner’s expression and he would pull the crystal device from his head as quickly as he could. Ashi waited.

  Except that instead of easing with awareness, Ner’s face drew tight in pain. His body tensed. Breff gasped out her name in alarm. Ashi froze, uncertain of what to do.

  Then Ner’s mouth moved and he spoke. “Hruucan!”

  The voice that came from Ner’s mouth sounded like the old hunter’s, but Ashi knew that it wasn’t his. The tones were clipped and sharp and the huntmaster had never in a month called the dolgaunt by his name. The words that emerged from Ner’s mouth, she recognized in her gut, belonged to Medala. The outclanner was speaking through Ner.

  Hruucan reacted without surprise. “I’m here, Medala.”

  “Failure is written in this fool’s mind. Dah’mir is disappointed.”

  Ashi’s mouth went dry. Even Hruucan looked slightly distressed. “Medala—” the dolgaunt began.

  Medala cut him off. “The Bonetree hunters will do no good hobbling in pursuit of an enemy. Dah’mir commands you to bring them back to the ancestor mound, Hruucan.”

  The dolgaunt relaxed visibly. Ashi, however, exchanged a look of shock with Breff. Gathering her courage, she looked into Ner’s blank face. “But what about Ner, Medala? He’s our huntmaster!”

  “Is that Ashi?” snapped Medala without answering her protest. “Dah’mir has instructions for you as well. You are the best of the surviving hunters—he places the pursuit in your hands. Follow wherever your quarry goes. Be stealthy. If the opportunity presents itself, you may kill the shifter and the wizard. Your quarry is all that’s important. Take the crystal band when I am finished. Use it more often than Ner has. When it is possible, help will be sent to you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Ashi said automatically, then added quickly, “No. Why is Hruucan being placed over Ner, Medala?” There was no response. “Medala?” she asked, stepping closer to Ner.

  The huntmaster’s eyes rolled back. A thin gurgle broke out of his throat and before Ashi could even reach for him, he collapsed. Ashi stared down as a trickle of blood came dribbling out of his nose. His eyes stared directly up at the sun.

  “Ner?” she whispered.

  Hruucan tilted back his cowl to stare at her. She caught a glimpse of the burned, dead skin of his face. “Ner failed Dah’mir and the Dragon Below,” the dolgaunt said harshly. “You have your instructions. Take the web.”

  Ashi bent woodenly and tugged the band from Ner’s head. The light that flashed from the crystals seemed cold. Handling it as little as possible, she reached down and stuffed it into Ner’s hip pouch, then tugged the pouch off of his body. She met Breff’s gaze again as she stood. His eyes were wide. “Su Darasvhir,” he said in stunned voice.

  For the Dragon Below.

  “The trail grows cold,” said Hruucan. “Do you need any supplies?”

  “No,” grunted Ashi. “I have everything I need.” Her hand tightened on Ner’s sword.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Yrlag lay along the south bank of the Grithic River, a deep, cold waterway that marked the border between the Eldeen Reaches and the Shadow Marches. In actual truth, there was little to distinguish one region from the other—low, harsh scrubland rolled across either side of the Grithic, wild and ungoverned. The only reason that Yrlag existed at all was trade. The wilds of the Eldeen, the uplands of the Shadow Marches, and even the barrens of Droaam came together along the Grithic. The river was the gateway to Crescent Bay and the sea coast. With no other cities easily accessible, traders and outlaws of every race and morality passed through the town, exchanging the goods of the wilderness hinterlands for the luxuries of the wider world.

  Geth had seen a lot of tough towns in the years he had served with the Blademarks of House Deneith. He had seen more in the years between Narath and his return to the Eldeen. Almost none were as tough and dangerous as Yrlag. Dandra, Singe, and he rode across the decrepit bridge that spanned the Grithic in the company of a mixed band of mangy gnolls and smelly humans. Bandits without a doubt. Dandra stared at them. Singe kept one eye on them. Geth rode in relaxed calm. The band looked like they were returning from whatever raid had taken them into the Eldeen. They were in a good mood and on their way into Yrlag to sell their stolen plunder. There was nothing to fear from them at the moment.

  When Singe wasn’t keeping watch on the bandits, he was staring at the bridge beneath them. About halfway across its span, with the din and stench of Yrlag growing in their ears and noses, he guided his horse close to the low rail at the edge of the bridge and peered over. When he straightened, he glanced at Geth.

  “The footings on this bridge are massive,” he said in wonder. “They look much older than the road surface, but they’re in better condition.”

  “They are older,” Geth said. “Adolan—” He grimaced. The druid’s name lay across his tongue like the collar of black stones lay around his neck. “Adolan told me once that Yrlag is built on the ruins of a hobgoblin town from the time when the Dhakaani Empire spread across the whole south of Khorvaire. Yrlag was its westernmost outpost. New bridges have been built on top of the old hobgoblin footings ever since.”

  He turned away from the Aundairian and slouched down i
n his saddle. A week’s travel had taught both Singe and Dandra when he wanted to be left alone. If the footings of the bridge still interested Singe, he kept his curiosity to himself. Geth forced his mind into the unthinking blankness that had become more of a companion to him in the last week than either the wizard or the kalashtar.

  There had been too much time to think on the journey to Yrlag. None of the trio had felt much like talking. Geth almost wished that the Bonetree hunters had caught them—simple, mindless fighting would have been good—but there had been no sign of pursuit. Every night after Singe had cast the spell that created a simple, featureless black dome to give them shelter, Geth had backtracked along their trail, setting snares to catch the next day’s food and watching the darkness. When he rose in the morning to collect his catch, he watched the empty landscape. By dark or by day, there was nothing to see. The Bonetree clan might almost have given up their hunt—but his gut told him they hadn’t.

  An old central street ran through Yrlag from the great bridge down to the deep pool cut into riverbank that served as a waterfront. Geth suspected that the pool, like the bridge, had been created by the ancient hobgoblins, an enhancement to the already deep riverbed. As they came off the bridge, he scanned the makeshift booths and stalls that lined the street, pulling the bundle that contained his great gauntlet from the back of his saddle and holding it protectively. Yrlag pickpockets would steal anything they could get their hands on.

  In a niche between two booths, a tall figure draped in a badly fitting cloak caught his eye. From under the hood of the cloak, a woman’s lean face stared back at him, framed by dark gold hair woven with beads and pierced through the lower lips with two small hoops.

  Geth twisted around so sharply in his saddle that his horse whinnied and pranced in alarm. Singe cursed and reached out to grab the animal’s bridle, bringing it back under control. “Geth! Watch what you’re doing!”

  “Singe, it’s the Bonetree hunters! I saw one of them!”

  Geth spun back to stare at the niche—and saw only a ragged old cloak hanging from a knotted post and shifting in the breeze. Geth blinked and rubbed his eyes. Singe followed his gaze and raised an eyebrow.

  “I saw her!” Geth insisted. “The big woman.” He dredged up the name the old hunter had called out during the fight at the Bull Hole. “Her name is Ashi.”

  Singe pressed his lips together. “The hunters couldn’t have passed us, Geth. We would have seen some sign. We’re well ahead of them. Come on. We need to find a ship and you need to rest.”

  The wizard released Geth’s horse and urged his own through the crowd. Geth stole one last look at the hanging cloak, then glanced at Dandra. She shrugged and turned her mount after Singe. Even after a week’s riding, it was clear that she wasn’t comfortable on a horse.

  After a moment, Geth followed as well. He kept his eyes open as they rode, though, scanning the shifting crowd. Maybe Singe had been right, he thought. How could the hunters have moved quickly enough to pass them? He probably had made a mistake. Still, he couldn’t shake feeling that he had recognized Ashi.

  Ahead, both Singe and Dandra reined in sharply. “Twelve moons!” Singe gasped. “I was hoping to find a fast ship, but this is Olladra’s own luck!”

  Geth looked up. Docked in the nearest berth was a sleek ship easily eighty paces in length. She sat low in the water with the weight of her cargo but still looked like she could outpace anything else on Yrlag’s waterfront. Deep blue paint shot through with bright yellow trim ran around her hull in a wide band below her rails and the name painted proudly on her bow was Lightning on Water.

  The ship had, however, no masts and no sails. Instead, massive wooden beams reached out from its stern to clutch a pale blue ring of enormous diameter that hung above and behind the ship’s hull. Geth stared at it, then squinted. There was a strangely translucent quality to the ring. He couldn’t tell if it was carved from wood or forged from metal—or maybe even cast from some heavy glass.

  “What kind of ship is that?” he asked in amazement.

  “It’s a House Lyrandar elemental galleon,” said Dandra. “I watched them docking in Sharn. Il-Yannah, I wouldn’t have expected to find one here!”

  “They’ll go wherever there’s a profit to be made,” Singe said. He bit his lip. “There’s nothing faster on the water, but—”

  “But—?” asked a salt-hoarse voice. “But nothing! I’ll bet you a silver ring there’s not a ship west of Sharn that’s faster than Lightning!”

  Geth twisted in his saddle and glared at a slim, fair-haired man standing with a sheaf of papers in his hand beside a stack of barrels. The man gave him a sharp smile. “Nervous?” he asked. “I’ve noticed Yrlag tends to do that to be people.”

  The man wore a dove-gray coat with long tails and upturned cuffs. His voice carried, like Singe’s, the accent of Aundair. His hair was long and drawn back, exposing the graceful tapering points of his ears and a bright, swirling pattern that spread up the back of his neck. The man was a half-elf—and carried a dragonmark. Geth took a second look at his coat. The man’s smile grew a little wider. “Looking for these, my shifter friend?” He held up his cuff so that bright silver buttons flashed in the sunlight. Barely visible on each one was the kraken crest of House Lyrandar.

  Singe slipped down from his horse and stepped up to offer the half-elf his hand. “A common sailor doesn’t check manifests, the average clerk in my experience doesn’t dress so well, and neither generally carries a dragonmark. I’ll make a guess that you’re the captain of this fine ship.”

  The half-elf took Singe’s hand in hearty grip. “Captain Vennet d’Lyrandar, friend.” Bright eyes flashed at each of them. “And in my experience, the average traveler doesn’t stand on piers gawking at ships for the fun of it.” He glanced back to Singe. “Looking for passage?”

  “Yes,” said Geth. He climbed down and joined Singe. The Aundairian shot him a dark look, but Geth ignored him. Crossing his arms over his chest, he told Vennet, “We need passage to Zarash’ak.”

  “My own destination! Five days to the City of Stilts.” Vennet swept his hand grandly across the length of his ship. “As I say, fastest ship west of Sharn. And loaded to the rails—but you’re lucky. My passenger cabins are full, but if you don’t mind staking out a corner of the forward hold, there’s room for the three of you.” His eyes traveled over their horses. “No room for the beasts, unfortunately, but I can recommend an honest stable master who would be happy to buy them from you.”

  Geth grunted. He gave the smiling captain his hardest bartering look. “He’d better be honest. Those animals are the price of our passage.”

  Singe let out a quiet groan. Vennet’s smile didn’t even waver. “They must be very special horses, then,” he said. “Passage to Zarash’ak is one thousand gold.”

  Blood rushed to Geth’s face. “One thousand—!”

  “It’s a long way to Zarash’ak.”

  Geth took a step forward, but Singe grabbed him sharply, spinning him around and pulling him away from Vennet. “Close your mouth before you make this worse!” he hissed.

  Dandra was off her horse as well now and at their side. “That’s more than these horses are worth, isn’t it?” she whispered. Geth gave an angry nod. “Light of il-Yannah.” She looked down the length of the pier at the other ships they had passed. “None of these look like they’ll be leaving soon. And the longer we wait, the better the chance the Bonetree hunters will catch up to us!”

  Singe’s lips twitched. “Leave this to me.” He turned back to Vennet. “Captain, we’re happy to pay appropriately for the speed and convenience of an elemental galleon,” he said pleasantly, “but you are asking us to travel as freight. Perhaps a reduced rate?”

  “Freight doesn’t get up and move around the ship. It doesn’t eat.”

  “Empty space is even less trouble than freight,” Singe commented with a smile. “But it’s a shame to see a ship sail without a full hold.”

  V
ennet shrugged. “Room to pick something up along the way.”

  “Where?” asked Singe. “There isn’t another port bigger than a fishing village between here and Zarash’ak.” He ran a hand along the top of one of the piled barrels and said, “Five hundred.” Vennet’s eyebrows rose.

  “You’d pay five hundred for deck space on any one of these tubs!” he snapped, jerking his head along the pier. “And you’d take two weeks to make the trip, eating salt pork the whole way.”

  “House Lyrandar eats better?”

  “Take passage on Lightning and you’ll eat at my table!” spat Vennet

  “Six hundred.”

  “Eight hundred.”

  “Done.” Singe stuck out his hand. Vennet clasped it heartily. Geth flinched. “Singe, we can’t pay that!”

  “No, we couldn’t pay a thousand. For passage from Yrlag to Zarash’ak on a Lyrandar elemental galleon, eight hundred is a bargain.” He nodded to Vennet. “Especially with dinner at the captain’s table thrown in.”

  The half-elf’s eyes narrowed. “You’re shrewd, friend.”

  “I did a turn as quartermaster for a Blademarks company.” As Vennet’s eyes widened again in surprise, Singe opened his vest and slid his fingers into an almost invisible pocket. They emerged with a flat case no larger than his hand. He flipped it open and extracted a folded paper. “We’ll pay you the price that our horses fetch up front and any remainder from that when we reach Zarash’ak.”

  Vennet stared at the paper. Geth craned his neck to see what it was. He caught a glimpse of the crest of the Blademarks—over-lapped with the crest of the dwarven bankers of House Kundarak. A complex mark of authentication shimmered in magical colors at the bottom of the paper. Geth’s eyes went almost as wide as Vennet’s. The paper was a Deneith letter of credit, allowing the bearer to draw on the resources of the great house. Generally such things were given to Blademarks recruiters to allow them to draw pay for new recruits. By using it to buy even a portion of the cost of transport on a Lyrandar galleon, Singe would be risking the ire of the lords of Deneith.