The Binding Stone: The Dragon Below Book 1

by Don Bassingthwaite

  The village of Fat Tusk stood on a low rise that pushed up from the reeds of the marsh, a flat hill that was large enough to hold a half dozen small huts and one large longhouse. In the twilight of the day, orcs were stirring—drawing water, preparing food, washing, even praying. In front of the longhouse, a handful of squat-bodied orc children tussled and screamed at each other. Closer to hand, however, three big adult orcs stood around a blazing firepit, all of them watching the hut. Orshok called to them as he ducked through the doorway. Their eyes narrowed slightly as Geth emerged.

  But they grew even narrower a moment later, and the face of the biggest of the three screwed up into a glower. Geth glanced over his shoulder to see Natrac stepping out of the hut. Orshok’s voice took on a frustrated tone, but the biggest orc spat a few harsh words over top of him. Natrac flushed. Geth leaned close to him as they approached the fire. “What did he say?”

  “Keep the half-breed back, I’m through speaking with it,” translated Natrac. His eyes flashed in the firelight. “Full-blooded orcs don’t always take kindly to half-orcs.”

  The apprehension that had been in Orshok’s face was quickly turning into anger. “Geth,” he said, “meet Krepis. The druid who cured you.”

  Geth stepped into the circle of firelight and studied Krepis—just as the orc was studying him. Krepis stood at least the width of a hand above everyone else around the fire. His shoulders were broader and his features heavier as well. The teeth of a crocodile were strung around his neck, six white points gleaming on either side of a larger disc of red-stained wood. He looked like he was about Geth’s own age, older than Orshok, but definitely younger than Natrac. Geth bit back anger at his dismissal of the half-orc and glanced at Orshok.

  “How do I say tak to him in Orc?” he asked.

  “I talk you language,” Krepis grunted before Orshok could answer. His accent was even thicker than the younger orc’s. His voice was arrogant. He slapped his chest. “You talk to me!”

  Geth looked him straight in the eye. “Then tak, Krepis,” he said with all the respect he could muster. He bent his head. “Tak for curing me.”

  Krepis stood tall, puffing out his chest with pride—at least until Geth’s shirt collar fell open as the shifter straightened. Krepis’s eyes seemed to bulge and the orcs who stood with him stiffened. Krepis snapped at Orshok in Orc once again. The younger druid’s face turned dark. Geth glanced at Natrac.

  “He wants to know why you’re still wearing the stones,” the half-orc said.

  Geth reached up to his open collar. His hand encountered the stones of Adolan’s collar.

  “Rat!” he hissed. He tugged his shirt closed again and stepped closer to Orshok. “What about the stones?” he asked. “How does Krepis know about them?”

  “He saw them when he was breaking your fever,” said Orshok. He had to try and squeeze his answer around Krepis’s continued tirade. “They’re sacred, a holy sign of our tradition. He wanted to take them away, but I wouldn’t let him.”

  On all sides of them, the village had gone quiet as orcs watched and listened to the big druid. The more Krepis ranted, the darker Orshok flushed.

  “Ignore him,” he said, his voice strained. “Just tell us all what’s going on.”

  Geth’s eyes had narrowed, however. “Wait,” he said. “Your tradition?” He reached up and put his fingers under the stones, holding the collar out boldly. “You’re Gatekeepers?”

  As Orshok nodded and Krepis sneered, it seemed to Geth that he could almost hear Adolan proudly recounting the history of his sect—telling how the Gatekeepers were first druids and how the first Gatekeepers had been orcs. Geth’s hand fell away.

  “The collar was given to me by a Gatekeeper,” he said, “after a hunter of the Bonetree clan struck him down. His name was Adolan. He was the guardian of the Bull Hole in the Eldeen Reaches.”

  “Bull Hole?” Krepis spat. He jerked his head at Natrac. “Old half-breed told this story. I not hear of Bull Hole. Druids of Eldeen Reach fallen from old ways. Not Gatekeepers anymore.”

  Geth drew a harsh breath. “Adolan died because he was Gatekeeper!”

  “Stones belong to true Gatekeepers!” Krepis grabbed for the wooden disk strung around his neck together with the crocodile teeth and held it up so Geth could see it. There was a symbol on this disk, a symbol identical to one of the symbols on Adolan’s collar. “Belong to orcs. If druid of Eldeen had stones, must be stealing. Must be thief!”

  Blood burned in Geth’s cheeks. With a roar that echoed across marshes, he dove over the fire, hands grabbing for Krepis. His ancient heritage flooded him as he leaped—a feeling of invincibility surged in him. He slammed into Krepis, knocking the big orc flat to the ground.

  “By Tiger’s blood, you take that back!” he howled. Crouched on top of the orc, he twisted and drove a knee into Krepis’s belly. “Adolan was as true to his faith as—”

  Krepis got an arm free and hammered a punch straight up into Geth’s jaw. The shifter shrugged it off, bared his teeth, and grabbed Krepis’s thick arm with both hands, wrenching it hard. Krepis bellowed in pain.

  Then the druid’s cronies darted in and hauled Geth off him. Shifting might have made Geth tougher, but it didn’t make him any stronger. He thrashed and fought as they tried to get a grip on him, lashing out with fist and foot against their grabbing hands. There was a rip as his shirt tore and for a moment Geth spun free—until Krepis rose up behind him and grabbed for him with both hands. Geth tried to twist away but Krepis’s meaty fingers closed on the pouch at his side, yanking the shifter off balance. Geth fell heavily. The pouch tore open.

  Dandra’s psicrystal tumbled out and skittered across the ground, glittering yellow-green in the firelight. The eyes of one of the other orcs lit up with greed. He snatched at the shining crystal.

  The instant that his hand clenched around it, his red eyes opened wide and his body stiffened. Geth gasped as a droning sound like a hundred, disembodied voices speaking at once pulsed on the air and the firepit exploded upward into a seething white pillar of flame. Krepis—all of the orcs in Fat Tusk—froze in terrified awe.

  “Il-Yannah’s light!” sobbed the orc clutching the psicrystal. His voice soared up into a crazed shriek. “A body! I have a body again!”

  “Grandmother Wolf,” breathed Geth. “Tetkashtai?”

  The orc spun around. “You!” Tetkashtai raged through his tusked mouth. “Where’s Dandra? What’s happened to Dandra?” The disembodied chorus of her power throbbed. A shower of sparks burst out of the towering fire.

  One of the memories that Dandra had shared with him and Singe flashed in Geth’s mind: a vision of her hand closing on the yellow-green crystal in the darkness of Dah’mir’s terrible laboratory, a rush of power as Tetkashtai exploded in her mind and the connection between kalashtar and crystal was restored.

  He’d caught the crystal with his gauntlet and stuffed it straight into his pouch. He’d never touched the crystal, but Dandra had grasped it just as the orc had—with naked flesh. Tetkashtai didn’t need Dandra. She could forge a connection with whoever held the crystal.

  But even with Dandra’s determined will to control her, Tetkashtai had been half-mad. Without that strength of mind …

  Not even pausing to think, Geth lunged at the orc and grabbed his arm, twisting it hard enough to hear bones grind. The orc’s voice rose in a high-pitched scream—that dropped into a deep shout as his fingers opened and the crystal fell to the dirt.

  The fire sank down to glowing coals.

  Geth thrust the orc away quickly and whipped off his belt, hastily sliding the pouch free. With trembling fingers, he turned it inside out like a clumsy mitten around his hand, then grabbed the crystal and tugged the pouch back up around it.

  He could almost imagine that he heard a thin wail of despair from Tetkashtai as he pulled the drawstrings of the pouch closed. The orc village was utterly silent around him. Orshok and Natrac were staring at him in astonishment, Krepis in rage.
For a long moment, no one moved, not even the orc children.

  Then an orc rose from in front of one of the huts. He was old—the oldest person, Geth was certain, he’d ever seen in his life. He moved painfully and leaned heavily on a staff with a crooked end, much like the staff Orshok had carried in Zarash’ak. His hair and beard were pure white; his gray-green skin looked as fine and brittle as parchment. Everyone in the village turned to him as he hobbled forward.

  He paused beside the orc—now whimpering and clutching his wrist—who had picked up the crystal. The old man batted his hand away and examined his wrist, then stretched out his fingers and murmured a word of nature’s magic. The younger orc’s breath caught in his throat and he gasped with relief. The old orc turned to look at Geth.

  His left eye was as white as his beard, but his right eye was bright and alert. “You have a strong grip, shifter!” he said without any trace of an accent.

  As if his words had opened a floodgate, sound rushed back into Fat Tusk. The orcs of the village clustered together to babble in amazement while both Orshok and Krepis converged on the old orc, each trying to talk over the other. The old orc’s good eye, however, was fixed on Geth.

  Natrac stepped up beside Geth. “What was that?” he gasped.

  “That was what Singe didn’t tell you about on Vennet’s ship,” the shifter said grimly. He stood still as the old orc approached and planted his staff in front of him. Krepis and Orshok fell silent, taking up positions behind him, while he considered Geth. His gaze lingered on the collar of stones and Geth stood up a little straighter.

  The old orc nodded. “My name is Batul,” he said finally. “I’m the teacher of these two arguing idiots.” His staff flicked back twice, faster than Geth would have expected, to crack against Krepis’s shins and Orshok’s toes. The younger druid hopped painfully, though Krepis only grimaced. Batul nodded at the pouch in Geth’s hand. “Open that,” he said. “Let me have a look at that crystal.”

  Geth opened the pouch again and held it out so that Batul could peer inside. The elderly druid’s eye narrowed. He moved a hand through the air and spoke another prayer. For a moment, it seemed that the night around the pouch grew sharper. Geth could feel a tingling around his hand. Batul, however, drew his eyebrows together and shook his head. The tingling in Geth’s hand vanished.

  “It’s not an aberration,” Batul said, half to himself, “though by the Ring of Siberys I’d swear it’s nothing natural either.” He looked up at Geth. “I’ve heard parts of your story,” he said. “I’d like to hear it all.”

  Geth closed the pouch once more, knotted the drawstrings tight, and told him. Batul didn’t move at all through the long tale, but listened intently. Orshok, Natrac, and Krepis didn’t move either, though Krepis’s face ran through a range of angry glowers. When Geth had finished, the big druid reached out and smacked Orshok in the back of the head with a curse. “Stupid!” he snarled. “Bring Bonetree hunting for us now!”

  Batul closed his eyes and sighed, then opened them again, his good eye fixing itself on Geth. “Has Orshok told you why he was in Zarash’ak?”

  Geth nodded. Batul grunted and hobbled to a nearby log set as a seat around the firepit. He settled himself on it and looked up at Geth.

  “Visions and dreams have haunted me since I lost this,” he said, tapping his cheek under his milky right eye. “For more than a month, they’ve hinted at danger to Fat Tusk—danger that would come from Zarash’ak when the green-eyed Servant of Madness appeared at a certain place there. I tried to protect my tribe by sending Orshok to watch, hoping to learn what was coming and avert it. Instead, I’ve drawn us into your struggle.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Geth. “Why would Dah’mir send the Bonetree here? He has Dandra!”

  “It seems to me that maybe Dandra isn’t what the Servant of Madness wants.” Batul pointed his staff at the pouch in Geth’s hands. “If Dandra and Tetkashtai are incomplete without each other, Dah’mir has only one half of the whole.”

  “Grandmother Wolf.” Geth stiffened, his grasp on the pouch tightening. “I’ll leave.”

  “If Dandra had fled after visiting Bull Hollow, the Bonetree hunters would still have come on her trail,” Batul said flatly. “Even if you leave now, you’ve still been to Fat Tusk. We could abandon Fat Tusk and the hunters would still try to track down each member of the tribe to find you.” His face tightened. “There are many orc tribes and human clans living across the Shadow Marches, Geth. At least half of them follow the Dragon Below. Even among so many, the Bonetree clan is one of the worst. What you describe of Bull Hollow is not the worst they can do—or have done.”

  “Why not stand up to the Bonetree then, teacher?” asked Orshok. Batul glanced at the young druid. Orshok stood tall and said fiercely, “We should join Geth. He’s come this far. He’s faced the Servant of Madness. He’s fought the Bonetree clan and dolgaunts. If we put our support behind him, we’ll be freeing Dandra and Singe, saving Fat Tusk, and striking a hard blow against both the Bonetree and the Dragon Below.”

  The suggestion brought a sudden, daring hope to Geth’s heart. Krepis, however, groaned loudly and spat out a rant in Orc.

  It ended in a taut silence between all three druids, with Krepis and Orshok glaring at each other, their tusks thrust out in challenge, as Batul stroked his beard thoughtfully. Geth turned to Natrac. The half-orc’s face was pale. “What did Krepis say?” Geth asked him.

  “He asked if Orshok was deliberately trying to make sure Batul’s visions came true,” Natrac said softly. “First Orshok brought us to Fat Tusk, now he’s proposing to stage a raid that will certainly bring danger to the tribe. Attacking the Bonetree clan is suicide.” Natrac swallowed. “Krepis’s suggestion is that they appease Dah’mir by handing us over to him.”

  Geth ground his teeth together and looked back to Batul. “If you’re thinking of taking Krepis’s suggestion, remember that Natrac was only bait. Whatever happens to me, I’d appreciate it if you saw him to safety.”

  Natrac’s mouth dropped open, but Batul’s eyebrows rose. “That’s brave,” he said.

  “I’m not brave,” growled Geth. “I like Orshok’s idea a whole lot better. It would be good if you picked that one.” He glared at Krepis. “Tak again,” he spat at him.

  Krepis stepped forward, a snarl curling his lips.

  Batul’s staff rose in-between the orc and the shifter. “No,” the old druid said. “No fighting between us. We’ll either help Geth or send him on to the Bonetree.”

  “Which then, teacher?” asked Orshok.

  Batul lowered his staff. “A test,” he said slowly. “Let Geth’s own actions decide.”

  Geth crossed his arms. “That sounds good to me.”

  “And to me,” said Natrac. He moved to stand behind Geth. The shifter twisted around to glare at him. Natrac glared back at him and shook his head. “You came for me, Geth. I’m going to stand by you.”

  He held out his fist. Geth stared at it—then bashed his own fist against it, and turned back to Batul. “We’ll try your test together,” he said.

  Batul nodded in approval. “Fetch boats,” he said to Orshok. “They’ll cross Jhegesh Dol.”

  The color drained out of the young druid’s face and he gasped something in Orc that sounded like a curse. Batul cut him off sharply, dismissing him with a gesture. Krepis gave both Geth and Natrac a look of deep satisfaction before Batul dismissed him as well. The old orc turned to them with a stern face. “Prepare yourselves,” he said somberly, then hobbled away, leaving them alone by the dying fire.

  Geth looked at Natrac. “What’s Jhegesh Dol?” he asked quickly. There was a sudden hollow in the pit of his stomach.

  “I don’t know,” said Natrac. “But the words sound like Orc. A dol is just a place, a structure or even a stretch of marsh. Jhegesh …” He shook his head. “There’s a word like it, though: jegez.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Cut.”

  Sing
e was trying to feed Dandra again when she drew a sharp breath and froze, turning her head to fix her gaze in the distance. “Tetkashtai!” she croaked. Her hand rose to clutch at her chest, at the place where her crystal had hung.

  The wizard’s heart skipped as he stared at her. He glanced around, checking to see that neither Dah’mir nor Medala was anywhere nearby, then leaned closed. “Dandra?” he whispered. His voice almost stuck in his throat. “Twelve moons, Dandra, can you hear me? Dah’mir has some sort of hold on you again. You’ve got to fight him!”

  She didn’t react at all. Before Singe could even speak again, she relaxed and started breathing normally. Her head swung back around and once again she was staring with placid fascination at Dah’mir. Her hand fell back to her lap. Singe’s fingers curled tight and he held back a curse of frustration.

  Was she trying to fight off Dah’mir’s control? He was certain that if she was capable of it, she was trying! Why had she called Tetkashtai’s name then, he wondered, and reached for her lost crystal? A reflex, maybe, an attempt to draw on the presence’s power—but she had peered off into the distance as if there had been something out there. Singe looked out into the night. There was nothing that he could see. That didn’t mean, though, that there wasn’t something that Dandra, even through Dah’mir’s hold on her, might be able to sense. Like the psicrystal.

  The journey through the marshes had disoriented him, but there was one thing he knew: Zarash’ak lay to the south, under the shining haze of the Ring of Siberys. If Geth was dead, the crystal would be in or under the City of Stilts, either resting with his body or looted and sold off as nothing more than a pretty bauble.

  Dandra had stared off to the west—and Singe couldn’t imagine that the crystal would find its way inland unless Geth was alive and carrying it.

  “Twelve moons,” he breathed, hope flickering in his chest. “Twelve bloody moons!”