She didn’t have the strength or the time to destroy it, but maybe there was something she could do. Focusing her concentration on the dragonshard at the device’s center, she spun vayhatana around it and wrenched the shard free of the brass and crystal that surrounded it. The laboratory had a high ceiling. Dandra lifted the shard all the way up—then brought it crashing down as hard as she could.
It hit the floor of the laboratory with a shattering impact that echoed through the chamber. Dandra stepped forward and examined the deep crack that now ran through its heart with a fierce satisfaction. Ashi stepped up beside her to stare down in amazement.
“Now,” said Dandra, turning away from the ruined shard. “We can go.”
Singe hurt. When Hruucan’s tendrils had burrowed into him in Bull Hollow, it had seemed like the greatest agony of his life. When Medala’s powers had wracked him, he had thought that was a threshold of suffering. But Hruucan’s tendrils had only dug into his skin and Medala’s powers, for all that they felt real enough, had only acted upon his mind. Now Singe really hurt.
He hit the ground again. As he struggled for breath, Hruucan’s tentacles wrapped around his right calf and ripped through the fabric of his trousers to expose the soft flesh underneath. They dug in, making him scream—then they pulled, wrenching on his entire leg so hard that his scream broke. The crowd cheered. Singe kicked feebly at the tentacles with his free leg and Hruucan released him. For the moment.
The magical armor he had conjured was tough, but not impenetrable. Not all of the dolgaunt’s blows pierced its protection, but more than enough had. His arms and legs were blistered from Hruucan’s touch. His ribcage was sore and whenever he breathed deep a sharp pain burst inside him. His sides hurt where Hruucan’s blows had driven deep to bruise tender organs. All of his joints ached. His left shoulder had been dislocated—then cruelly popped back into place. One eye was swollen badly, he could taste dust mingling with blood on his lips, and all he could hear out of one ear was a loud ringing.
Even through the pain though, Singe knew that there were three parts of him that Hruucan hadn’t hurt badly—or at least not too badly. The dolgaunt hadn’t hurt his legs. He could still walk and fight. The dolgaunt hadn’t hurt his hands. He could still grip his rapier. And, except for the blow that still ached through his guts, the dolgaunt hadn’t hurt his groin. He would still be able to father children for the Bonetree clan.
None of his carefully prepared magic had helped him. Hruucan either shattered his spells before he could cast them or dodged the flames with uncanny speed.
Singe forced himself up onto his hands and knees, then groped for his rapier in the dirt and stumbled to his feet once more. “Come on,” he slurred at the waiting dolgaunt. “Give me another!”
Hruucan tensed, ready for another strike.
Before he could even move though, new shouts rose up from the crowd. For one brief, confused moment, Singe wondered if someone out there had finally started to cheer for him. Then it registered in this throbbing mind that the crowd was moving, turning away from the combatants in the ring to stare at something else. He lifted his aching head, trying to see beyond the glare of the high torches. Heat lightning had come to the night. When it flashed he caught a glimpse of fighting up on the top of the mound.
Something was happening below as well. Dah’mir was standing and shouting so loudly that the sound of his voice shuddered in Singe’s head. “The shifter! Bring the shifter to me!”
The crowd around the ring burst like a nest of baby spiders. Singe’s head swam. A shifter? The shifter? Crazy hope soared inside him. Geth had come for them!
Lightning flashed in sudden brilliance, throwing the shape that moved in front of him into stark relief. Singe blinked as thunder rolled. Hruucan still stood in the ring, tentacles streaming and swaying.
“We’re not done,” the dolgaunt rasped.
He leaped into the air and his legs snapped out. Both feet hit Singe’s aching chest, the dolgaunt’s entire weight behind them. Singe flew back to slam into one of the towering torch poles. He slid onto the ground, legs sprawled. Darkness swirled around him, threatening to draw him down.
No, he told himself, fighting to resist that pull. No! Not now!
Somewhere lightning flashed again. Singe’s head fell back against the pole, staring up at a sky that tossed in growing agitation—and at a long oil-soaked rag that had come loose from the torch above. It swayed back and forth in the wind, fat drops of flaming oil shaking off it and dripping down. Singe watched one splatter against his hand, the magic of his ring sucking the flame away before it burned him. A desperate plan formed in his head.
Hruucan looked at him for a moment longer, then turned away. Singe thrust himself to his feet and dove for the dolgaunt’s back. Hruucan spun around, but Singe grabbed him and pulled him close. The writhing buds on Hruucan’s skin reacted as if they had minds of their own, burrowing into Singe’s flesh out of instinct alone. The wizard gasped and held on with one hand as he stretched the other out free. “Let’s see you dodge this,” he choked—and hissed a word of magic. A tiny, intense tongue of flame sprang into the palm of his free hand. Hruucan’s horrid face tightened.
Singe tipped his hand and let the tiny flame fall.
Fire exploded around them. Hruucan tried to leap away from the flame, but Singe clung tight, holding him back. The dolgaunt’s mouth opened to scream and fire rushed in. Singe closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of Hruucan’s death. He couldn’t shut out the feel of it though. The dolgaunt stiffened in his arms, writhing skin turning crisp and hard under his fingers. The buds that had burrowed into his flesh burst against him like a thousand tiny sparks.
Protected by his grandfather’s ring, all Singe felt of the flames was a pleasant warmth. When that faded, he opened his eyes.
He held a blackened corpse, mouth frozen wide, tendrils and tentacles seared away. The wizard shuddered in horror and thrust it away. What had been Hruucan hit the scorched ground with a dry crunch and a spray of cinders. Singe swayed, suddenly weak, and sat down hard.
All around the ring, the swarming crowd had turned back, startled by the flames. Fire had consumed two of the torchpoles, but by the light of the remaining torches, Singe could see the pale faces of the Bonetree clan and a few startled dolgrims staring at him. Dah’mir had fallen silent. The distant sounds of fighting on the top of the mound went on, punctuated by another bolt of lightning and a high, unnatural squeal, but the fighting on the ground ended in a clash of metal, a familiar growl, and the thud of a falling body.
Geth leaped into the torchlight. Natrac and two other orcs were with him. The shifter spun, protecting the others as a dolgrim tried to take them from behind. A vicious-looking sword that Singe had never seen before flashed twilight-purple. In an instant, the dolgrim had one less arm and one more mouth, a jagged slash that opened across its belly. Another blow hacked deep into its deformed skull and it dropped. Geth wrenched the sword free and joined Natrac and the orcs in a cluster around Singe.
As Bonetree hunters and more dolgrims began to push in, forming a new and threatening crowd around a now much smaller ring, he spared a glance down at the wizard. “I had a feeling it was you in here,” he growled.
“The fire?” asked Singe with a weak smile.
“The screaming.” Geth glanced at the orcs. “Orshok, help him. Krepis, can you see what’s happening on the mound?”
As the larger of the orcs tried to peer off above into the night, the other squatted down quickly, pulling a flask from a pouch. “A healing potion,” he said to Singe, and the wizard realized with a start that he was the same orc who had helped them in Zarash’ak. The orc opened the flask. A smell like bitter tea mixed with overripe fruit stung Singe’s nostrils. He twitched his head away out of reflex, but the motion sent a spasm of pain down his back. The orc grabbed his face and turned it back to him, forcing the flask against his lips. “Drink,” he ordered.
The potion tasted as bad as it smell
ed, but as it worked its way down his throat, a cool sensation spread through his body that was utterly different from Fause’s foul healing. The worst of his pain eased away, leaving him with only bruises and scrapes. Singe drew a deep breath.
“I’d enjoy that,” said Natrac. “It could be your last.” He thrust a long knife fastened where his missing hand should have been at a Bonetree hunter as she took a step closer. She bared her teeth and darted back.
The orc helped Singe to his feet. The wizard squeezed in between him and Geth. Together with Natrac and the second orc, they numbered five. He looked out at the massed hunters and dolgrims who clustered around them just out of sword reach, shifting and jostling for best position in the coming slaughter. “You healed me for this?” he asked.
“You’re welcome,” Geth grunted. “Where’s Dandra?”
“In the mound. Unless—” His eyes darted across the crowd. He might have been wrong, but it seemed like one tall hunter was missing from the battle. Breath hissed between his teeth. “Ashi. Twelve moons, Ashi’s gone for her!”
“Ashi?”
“Long story. She’s changed sides. She’s blood of Deneith, Geth!”
The shifter cursed. “So we don’t know where Dandra is. Any spells handy?”
“A couple.” Singe tried to gauge the effect his magical flames might produce. “I might be able to open us a path to the mound, but getting away again would be something else.”
“We’ll worry about that when we have to,” said Geth. He hesitated, then added, “Singe, about Narath—if we get out of this, we’ll talk. No more running.”
Singe shot him sharp glance. “Deal,” he said.
Geth looked at the two orcs and Natrac. “Ready?” They nodded. Geth looked to Singe. “Do it,” he said. Singe drew a breath and spread his hand, calling the words of a spell to mind …
But before he could cast the spell, a ripple and a murmur spread through their enemies. The mass of bodies surrounding them was pulling back, a path opening through the ranks. A path that led directly toward the mound—and Dah’mir and Medala.
The pair was still on their platform, though they looked distinctly less calm than Singe had ever seen them. Dah’mir sat stiffly in his chair as yet another bolt of lightning flashed overhead. Medala crouched on her seat, flinching like the dog at the thunder. When she caught sight of Singe along the open path though, her hand snapped out to point at him. “You defy Dah’mir!” she shrieked. “You defy him! I’ll turn your mind inside out! I’ll feed you your own fears! I’ll—”
“Medala!” snapped Dah’mir. “Enough! Sit down!” His green-eyed gaze snapped around and he glared at them. “Give me Tetkashtai. Give me the crystal.”
Singe felt waves of charisma wash over him, Dah’mir’s astounding and eerie presence beating against him. He wasn’t sure why he was fighting the green-eyed man. If he’d had Dandra’s crystal, he’d have given it up to him.
Geth just stood up straight, his eyes hard. “No,” he said.
The denial seemed to break Dah’mir’s spell over all of them. Singe blinked and shook his head as Dah’mir sat back sharply. His pale, beautiful face was contorted with incoherent rage. If his presence had been overwhelming before, it was now terrifying. Singe’s legs shook. Medala let out a screech that was almost inhuman. Around them, the Bonetree hunters and even the dolgrims were trembling and falling back.
Dah’mir rose and stepped down from the platform, the black leather of his robes whispering around him. The aura of his presence surrounded him like twilight, dark and growing darker with every heartbeat. He seemed to loom over them all. Even Geth was pale. He raised his arms, crossing sword and gauntlet before him, ready for a fight that the expression on his face said he knew he wouldn’t win.
“The crystal!” roared Dah’mir in a voice that rocked the night. “Give it to me or—”
His words died in the flash of lightning that fell down out of the sky, dropping on him in a twisting bolt so intense that the ground shook. All around the spot where Dah’mir had stood, hunters were thrown back. The platform on which he had sat was battered aside and Medala sent flying. Even fifteen paces away, the energy of the bolt stung Singe’s arm as he flung it up to shield his eyes. At his side, Geth staggered back, then staggered again as thunder hammered them.
After an instant of stunned silence, Orshok threw up his arms and let out a whoop of triumph—a whoop that died as suddenly as the lightning had fallen.
Dah’mir was picking himself up from the ground. His fine robes were scorched and his pale face smudged, but his acid-green eyes were brighter than ever. He whirled like a striking serpent, shouting an arcane word as his fingers flicked at the night.
As if dawn had come early, daylight spread across the side of the mound to reveal a battered party of orcs—and the scattered bodies of chuul, dolgaunts, and even mind flayers. Near the top of the slope, stood an old white-haired orc, his staff still directed toward Dah’mir.
The moment froze.
Then a warrior among the orcs raised an axe over his head and screamed out a wild battle cry. The cry whipped through the orcs and abruptly they were pounding down the slopes in a howling, savage green wave.
The Bonetree hunters and dolgrims leaped to meet them without even a word from Dah’mir, horrid shrieks and wild screams rising into the air. More threw themselves wildly at Geth and Singe’s little band. From the corner of his eye, Singe saw Orshok spin a staff while Krepis met a dolgrim with a thrust from a spear. Natrac battled a Bonetree hunter, one of the bloodthirsty young men who had tried to challenge Ashi. Dolgrims leaped at Geth; the shifter threw one back with a thrust of his gauntlet, then cut down the other with a swing of his sword.
Singe just stared at Dah’mir’s back, turned to them as he glared up at the old orc on the mound. There was a clear line between him and the green-eyed man. The wizard thrust out his hand and spat a word of magic.
Flames roared from his hand, two seething bolts that washed over Dah’mir’s back and engulfed him utterly.
The fiery blast had even less effect than the lightning. Dah’mir whirled and the magical flames were snuffed out in the folds of his robe. Eyes filled with utter rage pierced Singe—then Dah’mir stiffened and his face twisted in anger. His hands clenched into fists, he threw back his head, and roared, “Enough!”
The flash of lightning lit the tunnel ahead. Thunder shook the stone-lined walls. “Il-Yannah!” Dandra gasped.
“We’re close!” Ashi shouted. She raced forward. Dandra tightened her grip on her spear and darted after her.
It seemed as if the sun rose as they reached the mouth of the mound, a warm and magical light that flooded the tunnel and shone across a scene of chaos outside. Dandra caught a glimpse of a crowd of Bonetree hunters and dolgrims. Of Singe, Geth, Natrac, and two orcs standing at defense, weapons bristling.
Of Dah’mir standing, pointing up at the slope of the mound, green eyes blazing.
She froze at the sight of him.
His presence was as stunning and irresistible as ever, drawing her every thought to him in horrible fascination. All the way up through the tunnels of the mound, following the path that Ashi had marked, Dandra had tried to prepare herself for this moment, fortifying herself, telling herself that this time she would not succumb to his charm.
But there was no charm about Dah’mir now. Rage poured from him instead. He was furious and terrible, some ancient power, some predator of unbelievable madness and strength. Standing atop a toppled chair, Medala screamed and ranted as if animated by that madness. Dandra fought to pull back, to close her eyes and cut off the sight.
Ashi did it for her, dragging her back into the tunnel as cries of battle rage and the thunder of charging feet rolled down from above. Orcs streamed past the tunnel mouth in a tide of fury. Hunters and dolgrims surged forward to meet them. Violence swirled outside the mound—but Ashi’s quick action had broken Dah’mir’s hold on her. Dandra sucked in a heaving breath. Ashi released he
r. “Are you all right?”
“Dah’mir almost had me again.” There was a frightening suspicion growing inside her. She could still hear Medala screaming in reflection of the insanity that shone in Dah’mir’s eyes. “It’s his madness,” she breathed half to herself. “There’s something about his madness …”
There was no time to follow the thought. The distinctive roar of flame rushed over the battlefield. Dandra gasped. “Singe!” Bracing herself against Dah’mir’s power, she leaped back to the tunnel mouth in time to see the green-eyed man, his robes smoking, throw back his head and roar.
A roar that changed and grew deeper as Dah’mir’s throat and chest swelled and stretched and … transformed.
“Light of il-Yannah!” she breathed in shock.
“Twelve bloody moons!” cursed Singe in awe. Geth could only stare, his gauntlet and the Dhakaani sword just weights on his arms.
The change began in Dah’mir’s face. His cheeks swept back into his ears. His chin grew sharp and pointed as the tip of a knife, his entire lower face stretching out after it. His eyebrows rose and vanished as flat, sweeping horns rose from his head.
Clenched fists became knotted claws. Arms and legs shifted and changed. Black hair and robes of leather merged and became scaly hide as pale skin darkened and took on a sheen of copper that spread down Dah’mir’s throat and belly. A thick tail thrust out of his back and he grew—and grew—and grew.
Acid-green eyes as big as lanterns narrowed. Massive legs flexed and thrust against the ground. Wings like coppery-black sails stretched from Dah’mir’s side to beat the air.
Geth’s lips peeled back to bare his teeth and he found his voice. “Tiger, Wolf, and Rat!” he snarled as the dragon leaped into the sky.
CHAPTER
17
The Binding Stone: The Dragon Below Book 1 Page 29