The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II

by Don Bassingthwaite

  For a moment, the bright air within the ring of the Gatekeeper seal rippled and churned like water as the shard plunged through it. The dark crystal fell free. Dah’mir, rose to his feet, stretched out a hand, and snatched it from the air. His eyes were wide and shining.

  “Vennet!” he called. His voice cracked. “Come here! If you want your reward, help me now!”

  Vennet would gladly have given up the wildest of his dreams for power and glory just to have fled the cavern. His limbs and his will, however, seemed to belong to someone else. Trembling, he rose and moved forward. The eyes of the daelkyr and all of his strange and horrible courtiers were on him as he stepped around to stand in front of Dah’mir. The wound in the priest’s chest lay bare, a jagged rip in his flesh. Broken ribs showed in its red depths. It oozed dark blood and thin clear liquid like the seepage from a blister. There was no sign of festering or rot. It could have been inflicted only moments rather than weeks before.

  Dah’mir held out the dragonshard. Still staring at the wound, Vennet took it without looking—then gasped as his hand closed around its cool surface. Power thrummed beneath his fingertips, like grasping a rope under too much strain and ready to snap. He looked down at the shard. It was the size and shape of a thick spike, longer than a finger, tapering from a narrow point to a flat-topped bulb three fingers wide. The swirls that patterned its heart seemed almost to shift as he watched.

  Before him, Dah’mir tugged his robes wide and pushed out his chest. “Close the wound, Vennet!” he commanded. “Close the wound with my master’s shard and restore my strength!”

  Blood pounded in Vennet’s ears. He flipped the shard around in his hand and drove the narrow end deep in Dah’mir’s wounded chest. Warm, ragged flesh licked his fingers. He snatched them away. Dah’mir staggered back a pace and stared down at the blue-black stone in his chest.

  Then he flung back his head and roared.

  The flesh of his chest writhed and knit together around the shard, leaving its flat top glittering against his pale skin. The writhing of the priest’s flesh didn’t stop there, however. His skin thickened, the metallic luster of copper spreading across his chest, up to his throat, and down to his belly. The black leather of his robes became scaly and thick, merging with his body—which grew and kept growing. Arms and legs twisted. Hands grew massive talons. Dah’mir stretched and immense copper-sheened wings burst from his sides, a tail from the length of his back. His chin became sharp and pointed, his face a muzzle. Horns thrust back against his head. His wild eyes opened into great shining orbs of acid green.

  The dragon reared back and a second roar shook the cavern. “I am restored! Thank you, my master! Glory to Khyber, the fallen and shunned!”

  Vennet curled back, thrusting himself away from the awesome majesty of the wyrm. The presence that Dah’mir had worn as a man seemed magnified. Conflicting urges tore at Vennet: flee from the monster or fall down and bow before Dah’mir’s power. He screamed, vomiting his fear, and cowered. His saber was in his hand, held like a shield. His dragonmark burned across his back. On the other side of the cavern, Hruucan laughed at him, his fiery tentacles lashing.

  The echoes of roar and laughter spoke to him. He’s a dragon! You’ve pledged yourself to a dragon!

  “I know,” Vennet croaked.

  Not many people live to see both a dragon and a daelkyr.

  “Then I’m dead.”

  Not yet.

  Dah’mir settled back to crouch on four legs, his wings folded against his scaly sides. “I will not fail you, master. A new line of servants will bow before you.” He dipped his body, lowering his horned head to the ground, then sat back. His wings fluttered around him and his body writhed once more, this time folding in on itself, becoming smaller, becoming human-sized once more—

  —then, strangely, even smaller. Scales becomes greasy black feathers and Dah’mir stood in the center of the cavern as a heron, just as he had in Vennet’s cabin. Except this time, he was the one who looked startled. He swelled back into a dragon, then shrank into a heron once more.

  “My human form!” he screeched. He twisted and spread his feathered wings. “Master, what happened to my human form?”

  The laughter of the unnatural creatures of the daelkyr’s court reached through the eerie lens as a faint hissing, but Vennet could read the mocking expression on their faces. The daelkyr sat forward on his throne. His voice throbbed in Vennet’s mind. It didn’t seem so terrible now, as if the ancient words had burned away his pain and fear. He still cringed though at the cold anger of the daelkyr’s tone. Failure is punished.

  Dah’mir flinched. “Master?”

  Bring me my servants and your human shape will be restored.

  “But master, how? How can I do your work? I cannot walk among humans! I have no hands!”

  Use the hands of others. Let them walk for you. The daelkyr’s expression dimmed. He sat back. Bring me my servants.

  Vennet saw Dah’mir tremble. His heron-head dipped. “I understand.”

  The lens within the great Gatekeeper seal shimmered and the vision of the daelkyr’s weird court snapped and collapsed. Dah’mir turned on spindly legs to look first at Hruucan, then at Vennet.

  The half-elf slid his saber back into its scabbard and held out his hands. “Dah’mir,” he said. “My master.”

  The long, dark walk up from the cavern and out of the mound seemed faster the second time. Maybe it was because the whispers of the dolgrims had fallen silent. Maybe it was because Vennet felt none of the fear he had before. He felt strangely giddy, in fact, and only Dah’mir’s rage kept him quiet.

  Anger was an aura around the heron. He flew where he could, leaving Vennet and Hruucan to follow in his wake, and walking where he couldn’t, forcing them to match his waddling pace. He said nothing.

  Dawn had broken when they emerged from the mound. Vennet blinked at the radiance. Hruucan bared his teeth at the light that fell on him, but without eyes, he didn’t flinch. Dah’mir leaped into the air as soon as he could, beating his wings to gain height—then transforming into his dragon form in mid-air. He settled back to the ground of the battlefield before the mound and his shining eyes looking down on Hruucan and Vennet.

  “Your desires come to the fore, Vennet,” he said, his voice a rumble. “We’re going after your ship. I need Dandra and Tetkashtai. I will begin my research with them.” His talons gouged grooves in the ground. “You will be the first rider I’ve born willingly in my life. Feel honored.”

  “I will,” Vennet said. “I do.”

  “Wait!” hissed Hruucan. His tentacles whipped through the air. “You can’t leave me. If Singe is on that ship …”

  “I wouldn’t leave you behind,” said Dah’mir. His eyes narrowed as he considered the fiery dolgaunt’s tentacles. “Fire revives you, but can you extinguish yourself?”

  Hruucan’s tentacles stiffened. “No.”

  “Then let me.” Without warning, the dragon reared and his tremendous leathery wings hammered on the air. Vennet twisted away and covered his face to protect himself against the sudden blast of wind and dust stirred up. Grit choked the air, worse than salt spray in a storm.

  Look to Hruucan, the rushing wind whispered in his ears. Vennet turned.

  The dolgaunt was staggering against the air and dust, his flames guttering like candles, simultaneously blown away and smothered. His tentacles streamed out and vanished. The red embers beneath his skin flared bright, then turned black.

  Hruucan fell to the ground, a charred corpse.

  Dah’mir folded his wings. The dust in the air began to settle. Without even being asked, Vennet went to Hruucan’s body. His skin was hot, crisp, and fragile, like burned paper. The half-elf stripped a tunic off the rotting body of an orc who had died with an axe in his skull. The fabric was stiff and stank of decay. There were maggots clinging to it but he shook them off and wrapped the tunic carefully around the bundle that was Hruucan. “To keep him from crumbling as you fly,” he to
ld Dah’mir.

  The dragon nodded and bent down so that Vennet could climb onto his back. “Sit at the base of my neck,” he said. “Hold tight.”

  Vennet barely had time to settle himself and wedge his hands among the thick scales that ran down Dah’mir’s back before the dragon coiled and leaped into the air. His wings snapped out, beat down and caught the wind. They climbed. Dah’mir let out a strange whistle and the herons that had traveled with them from Zarash’ak burst from the riverbank below to soar up and meet them. They had to fly fast—even barely beating his wings, Dah’mir was still climbing. The Shadow Marches spread out below Vennet and he laughed.

  Like flying in an airship, the passing wind howled.

  “Better!” Vennet shouted back.

  Far ahead, clouds piled up in a thick bank. Dah’mir soared toward them and after what seemed like only a few moments, they plunged into the thick mists. The sunlight vanished, leaving everything damp, cool, and dim.

  “Prepare yourself!” Dah’mir roared. Peering past his neck, Vennet saw him stretch out a foreleg and heard him snarl a word of magic.

  One of the red Eberron shards embedded in the scales of his leg flared suddenly and seemed to burn. Darkness flared around them, as if the world had been turned inside out and what had been bright was made black.

  “I have flown through a plane of shadow to reach you,” Dah’mir had said when he first appeared on Lightning on Water.

  Vennet could see nothing but dim forms as they whisked through the weird dark skies, but the shadow winds were as talkative as the winds of Eberron. What about the reward Dah’mir promised you? they asked. What about wealth and power?

  Vennet laughed, the speed of their passage snatching his breath from between his teeth. “I have my reward!” he said.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Chain looked up as Singe climbed down the ladder-like steps of the aft hold of Lightning on Water. “Look at you,” said the bounty hunter. “Dressed up like you’re trying to impress someone.”

  In the glow of the everbright lantern that lit the hold, Singe tugged on the hem of the vest he had bought during their last few hours in Zarash’ak, part of a sturdy but stylish outfit well suited to the part of a traveling scholar. “I can tell it’s working,” he said. “This is the first time I’ve come down here and you haven’t cursed me.”

  Chain’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve stopped during daylight this time. We must be in Vralkek. You’ll be leaving soon. The next time I see you I’ll have a sword in my hand.”

  Singe cocked his head and gave Chain a long look, then drew his rapier.

  “Back up,” he ordered.

  Chain shuffled backward as far as he could, pulling tight the chains that shackled him to a strong bolt embedded in the deck. Singe leaned cautiously close to examine the heavy padlock that held the chains. The first time Singe had come to inspect his bonds, Chain had tried to use the slack in the chain to attack him. The wizard had demonstrated to him that while he wasn’t quite as fast Dandra, he was fast enough to avoid a clumsy attack. A stinging blow from the flat of his blade had left the bounty hunter sitting uncomfortably for two days.

  Whatever worries, he might have had, however, Chain’s bonds were just as they had been when they’d bound him almost a week ago. Bolt, lock, and chain were still solid. The same shackles had once held Ashi prisoner, and if the hunter’s strength hadn’t been enough to free her, Singe was certain Chain’s wouldn’t be either. He stepped back. Chain eased forward and squatted on the deck, glaring up at him. Singe clenched his teeth at the man’s blunt rage. There was nothing else to say. They’d reassured Chain that Marolis and Karth would let him go at Sharn, and had apologized—though Chain didn’t make it easy—that this had been necessary.

  He stepped back toward the steep stairs, keeping his eyes on Chain. When he was safely out of reach, he sheathed his rapier and turned away.

  “I’ll be coming for you!” Chain called after him.

  The others were waiting on deck. “How’s our friend?” asked Geth.

  “He says hello—oh, and that he’ll be coming for us.”

  Geth snorted. “Let him.” He closed his right fist in a clash of metal. The shifter had donned his great gauntlet. The black metal gave back a dull gleam in the early afternoon sunlight. He was also wearing a coat stitched with wide bands of heavy leather, a sort of light armor that had been another of Singe’s purchases in Zarash’ak. The coat was less for protection and more for show: the color of the fabric underneath the leather bands was similar enough to Singe’s new outfit to be suggestive of livery. Geth hated it. Singe thought it made him—and Orshok, Natrac, and Ashi, all of whom had similar clothing—look more professional and intimidating.

  Dandra had another opinion. “Sometimes kalashtar who share the same lineage deliberately wear clothes in matching designs and colors,” she’d said when Singe had first coaxed their companions to wear the new gear.

  “And?” Singe had asked.

  “It looks like they’re trying too hard,” Dandra had told him. She’d kept to her own distinctive clothing.

  Karth came trotting along the deck. “We’ve hailed one of the local boats. She’s alongside, waiting to take you ashore,” he said. He offered Singe his hand. “Olladra’s fortune,” he said.

  “Thank you,” said Singe, returning his grip. They’d told Karth and Marolis most of their story—they owed the crew of Lightning on Water that much at the very least—though they’d left out the truth of Dah’mir’s nature and of his experiments on kalashtar. Karth and Marolis would tell their own tale to the ministers of House Lyrandar. Singe, Dandra, and Geth had all agreed there were some things the great house didn’t need to know.

  The others said their good-byes as well, though Karth reserved his most heartfelt farewells for Dandra and Orshok—Dandra because she had freed him and Marolis, Orshok because his prayers had helped the rest of the crew overcome Dah’mir’s power. As they made their way to where a ladder had been thrown over the ship’s rail, other members of the crew clustered around the young druid, offering their thanks. Orshok flushed at the attention and scrambled quickly over the side and down to the waiting boat to escape it. Singe was the last one down the ladder. He waved to Marolis—the half-elf had stayed at the ship’s wheel, holding the ship steady for their disembarking—then shook hands with Karth again.

  “Good luck with the ministers of Lyrandar,” he said. “Be careful of Chain. I think he might try something.”

  Karth grinned. “He’s on a ship that’s soon going to be leagues away from land again. What can he do? We’re not going to let anything keep us from getting to Sharn.”

  Singe squeezed his hand. “Good man.” He let go and clambered down the ladder.

  The boat below was nothing more than an open top fishing craft that smelled strongly of last week’s catch. Between him, the five others, and the four weathered half-orcs that were her crew, the boat was crowded. Singe crouched with Orshok and Natrac in the stern as the crew of the little boat pulled hard on the oars, taking them away from Lightning on Water and toward the rugged coast of Droaam. Orshok was still staring at the ship, watching her in fascination. When the fishing boat had pulled far enough away, Singe heard Marolis shout. A moment later, the great elemental ring that drove the ship churned as a gale blasted out of it. The sleek ship moved again, slowly at first but quickly picking up speed. As she headed back out to the open ocean, moving faster and faster, her hull rose up out of the water to reveal the two great running fins normally hidden below the water line. The narrow profile of the fins allowed the ship to cut through the waves with the greatest possible speed.

  Orshok’s eyes were wide. Singe slapped him on the shoulder. “Turn around, Orshok. Have a look at Vralkek.”

  “In a moment,” the orc said distantly.

  Natrac laughed. “Give him a chance, Singe. You only see things for the first time once.”

  The wizard shrugged, then turned to survey Vralkek
for himself. Marolis had brought Lightning on Water as close in as he dared without knowing more about the port’s harbor. It had been more than close enough. Compared to Zarash’ak, Vralkek was nothing, its waterfront largely empty. It had more in common with distant Yrlag, far away where the lonely western coast of the Shadow Marches met the southern fringe of the Eldeen Reaches. Yrlag had, so Geth had been told by Adolan, once been the westernmost outpost of the Dhakaani Empire and that heritage still showed in tremendous works of ancient engineering and crumbling ruins. Singe could see some of those same elements in Vralkek, but apparently more had befallen the port since Dhakaan’s end than had befallen Yrlag. What ruins were visible were in worse condition. An old stone pier was nearly hidden beneath a tangle of rickety wood. What he had thought to be a partially submerged shoal was, he realized as they passed it and drew into the harbor proper, actually the broken and age-rounded remains of a mighty breakwall.

  Orshok gasped sharply. Singe twisted around to look at him. “What is it?”

  The druid’s gaze were still on Lightning on Water, now well distant. He pointed with his hunda stick. “Something fell overboard.” Singe squinted at the ship. “Really?”

  “I saw something,” Orshok insisted. “Like someone falling over the side.”

  “Mirage,” said Natrac. “Sometimes it’s hard to judge the distance between things on the ocean. You probably saw something much closer, between us and the ship. Maybe a bird, maybe a dolphin breaking the surface, maybe just a wave.”

  Orshok looked doubtful. “I’m sure it was right beside the ship.”

  “What would it have been?” asked Singe. “Marolis would have stopped if one of the crew had fallen—and I can’t imagine they would have.” The shadow of Vralkek’s docks fell over them and a moment later the structure cut off their last glimpse of Lightning on Water. “Forget about it,” Singe told Orshok. “We’re here.”

  He turned around again. The half-orcs at the boat’s oars ignored the dock and pulled right up onto a beach that smelled almost as strongly of fish as their boat. Gulls swooped in, perhaps thinking that the boat’s passengers were the catch of the day