The Binding Stone: The Dragon Below Book 1

by Don Bassingthwaite

  “Good,” Singe told her. “Now swallow.” She did, and that was a minor triumph, too. The first time Singe had tried to feed her, Dandra had just kept chewing, the food still in her mouth. Singe had never had to feed a child himself, but he was certain it would be something like this. He plucked another morsel from the small heap that he cupped in his palm and held it to Dandra’s lips. The slow process of coaxing her to take another bit of food began again.

  At least it gave him something to focus on besides their situation. Two days spent in the broad boats that Fause had scrounged at Dah’mir’s command, two days spent rowing slowly upstream at Dah’mir’s command, two days spent rowing slowly upstream along the sluggish river that lay beyond Zarash’ak. Only Dah’mir, Medalashana, and Dandra had been spared the labor of rowing; Singe had been forced to take an oar alongside Ashi and the cultists. His shoulders and back burned and he had big welts wherever marsh flies had landed to nip at the salt on his sweaty skin. On the first day, the wound that Ashi’s thrown knife had inflicted on his arm had open up and bled profusely. Singe had faltered like a lame horse, with so many flies buzzing around the wound that he’d begun to imagine the wriggling of maggots and the stench of infection.

  Ashi took the charge of looking after Dah’mir’s captives seriously, though. When the boats had been drawn up on a patch of dry land along the marshy riverside for the first night’s camp, she had dragged Singe before Fause and forced the cult’s leader to use his prayers to heal the wound.

  The touch of the Dragon Below’s power had made Singe long for his imagined maggots. Fause’s prayers brought no gentle healing—Singe’s flesh had flowed and knit together in a horrible, unclean rippling. All through that night, he had found himself touching his arm, half-expecting to find some vile cyst left behind where the wound had been. He’d stared up at the cold stars and shivered, feeling more alone than he ever had before.

  The image of Geth plunging into the foul water under Zarash’ak—defiant to the last, Natrac and Dandra’s psicrystal lost with him—played itself out in his memory again and again. The anger he had carried for nine years seemed as empty as the revenge against Dah’mir that they had planned on the hillside above the Eldeen Reaches.

  But they hadn’t seen Geth’s body, Singe told himself, or Natrac’s. And the orc who had come to their aid had leaped into the water like a child into a swimming hole. There was a chance, wasn’t there?

  Wasn’t there?

  Singe forced desperate hope out of his head. He couldn’t afford to dream. He had to keep his eyes and his mind clear. His chance would come. He bent his thoughts back to Dandra. “Come on,” he murmured. Dandra ignored him. He clenched his teeth. “Twelve moons, how did you eat the first time you made this journey?”

  “We didn’t,” said a harsh voice over him.

  Singe jerked and flinched back from Medalashana—Medala as Dah’mir insisted on calling her. The abbreviation suited her. Compared to the woman he had seen in Dandra’s memories, she was like someone cut short, half of her substance and half of her soul stripped away. The kalashtar crouched down, staring at Dandra as if Singe wasn’t even present.

  “We starved. The Bonetree clan tolerates weakness in no one. Dah’mir forced them to give us water, but they didn’t feed us and we were too enraptured by Dah’mir’s presence to feed ourselves.”

  Singe said nothing. He couldn’t bring himself to it. When Medala had forced herself on his mind, the experience had been nothing like Dandra’s gentle touch. Just having her close made his breath catch as little else ever had.

  Medala’s lip curled. “Don’t try to hide your fear, Singe,” she said without looking at him, “I can feel it pouring off of you without even trying.” The kalashtar reached out to brush Dandra’s hair. Dandra gave no reaction and Medala hissed. “But I can’t read you, can I, Tetkashtai? Dah’mir’s hold presses your mind down into places even I can’t reach. We’ll be back at the mound soon enough, though, and when he releases you—”

  Shadows stirred in the gathering twilight. “Medala!” snapped Ashi as she strode up to them. “What are you doing? Get away from her!”

  The gray-haired woman stood slowly, her eyes flashing. “Are you challenging me, Ashi?”

  The camp went quiet, even Dah’mir’s smooth voice fading away. Ashi leaned in close, face to face with Medala. “In this,” she said gruffly, “yes! Singe and Tetkashtai are in my charge. Dah’mir said so.”

  “Dah’mir has placed me above the hunters,” Medala hissed back, “and thus above you. I’ll do as I please!”

  A chime rang in Singe’s mind and pain lanced through him, just as it had in Zarash’ak. He fell back onto the ground, scattering Dandra’s food as he curled up into a ball and gasped for breath. He heard Ashi yelling angrily—and then Dah’mir’s voice rose sharply. “Ashi! Medala!”

  The green-eyed man’s shout was like a slap in the face. The chime in Singe’s mind vanished—and with it the scourging pain of Medala’s power. He rolled over onto his side, panting and shaking. Medala was on the ground, prostrate before Dah’mir’s approach. Ashi kneeled as well, but through watering eyes, Singe could see that her back was rigid with fury. Dah’mir stopped in front of both women, his black robes whispering softly, the dragonshards set into them shimmering softly in the gloom. His presence was like a tangible force in the air and there was the trace of an edge in his voice when he spoke. “Medala, control yourself. I have plans for the wizard and I don’t want him damaged beyond use.”

  The words sent a shiver down Singe’s back, but not quite so much as the sight of the powerful kalashtar groveling in the dirt before Dah’mir. “Forgive me!” she begged. “I wouldn’t have harmed him! I only wanted to make Ashi understand her proper place.”

  The pale man frowned slightly and turned his gaze on the kneeling hunter. “Ashi, your obedience to my instructions is a credit to you, but you must show respect to Medala. She has my favor—and the favor of the powers of the Dragon Below as the first of a new line of servants.”

  “Yes, Dah’mir,” said Ashi. Singe saw her big frame cringe. “I mean, yes, Revered!” Her fingers darted to her lips and her forehead in some sort of ritual sign. Dah’mir’s eyes flashed.

  “Have a care, Ashi! Your service has been outstanding, but there are limits to my patience.” He reached down a hand and helped Medala to her feet. The green robes that the kalashtar wore were filthy. Dah’mir spoke a word of simple magic and passed his hand in front of her. The dirt fell away. He took Medala’s arm and led her back to the campfire. Medala’s face shone with adoration.

  Through all of it, Dandra hadn’t moved except to follow Dah’mir’s movements.

  Groaning, Singe forced himself off the ground and back to her side. There were a few fragments of meat still crushed in his palm. Woodenly, he held another up to Dandra’s lips.

  I have plans for the wizard and I don’t want him damaged beyond use. Singe’s belly twisted with more than his hunger—and, he realized, with more than fear for just himself. If Medala was the first of a new line of servants to the Dragon Below, what were Dah’mir’s plans for Dandra?

  “Leave off, outclanner,” Ashi growled. Singe flinched around to stare at the hunter. The big woman was rising, anger on her face—but anger that was, thankfully, not directed at him. She held out a flask. “Her body needs water more than it needs food. Leave off trying to feed her and see that she drinks.”

  Singe hesitated, then took the flask. Dandra took the water more easily than she took the food. As she drank, Singe glanced back at Ashi. The hunter was glaring at Medala and Dah’mir as they sat by the fire. An idea slid into his mind. He let it brew for a few minutes, turning it back and forth in his mind. After a moment, he said, “Ashi?”

  She looked back at him and her mouth curled, the pale rings in her lip catching the light of the fire. “You have nothing to thank me for, outclanner. Dah’mir placed me in charge of you and I do my duty to the Bonetree.”

  “I wasn’
t going to thank you,” he told her. “You’re holding us prisoner, you’ve kicked me in the stomach, and I think there was a promise to tear out my guts with your hands.”

  Her teeth clenched. “Dah’mir has forbidden that.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Singe drew a deep breath and said, “In Zarash’ak, the things you said about Geth …”

  “I meant them. He was a good enemy—rond e reis, fierce and tough. He didn’t deserve to die as he did. Take comfort that he probably drowned quickly.”

  Singe closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “You’re a woman of strange honor, Ashi.”

  “You don’t understand the Bonetree, outclanner,” Ashi said harshly. “Our ways are simple. If an enemy deserves my respect, I will give it to him. Death in combat is honest. Murder, torture—those are the weapons of the weak.”

  “You cut off Natrac’s hand.”

  Her eyes flashed and she lunged forward, slapping him sharply. “Don’t make me forget my duty,” she seethed, then sat back. “Vennet cut off the half-orc’s hand. It was a shame to me.”

  “You didn’t like Vennet,” said Singe. Ashi shook her head. Singe paused, then added carefully, “And you don’t like Medala either.”

  She stiffened for a moment before grunting, “The falling man finds the ground. What of it? My duty to the Bonetree comes before anything you can say, outclanner.”

  “But not a duty to the powers of Khyber? You’re hiding something from both Dah’mir and Medala, Ashi.”

  The hunter froze.

  “For all that you insist on calling me ‘outclanner,’ you know my name,” Singe murmured. “You know Geth’s and Natrac’s. I think you know her name, too.” He pointed at Dandra. “But I’ve noticed that you do the same thing Dah’mir and Medala do—you call her Tetkashtai.”

  “Medala gave us Tetkashtai’s name before we began the hunt,” Ashi said stiffly.

  “Still, you haven’t told Dah’mir or Medala that you also know her by another name. And you didn’t exactly jump to tell Dah’mir about that orc.”

  It had been Fause who’d let mention of their mysterious ally slip to the green-eyed man. Singe had glimpsed anger in Dah’mir’s face at mention of the orc’s interference, though he’d acted as if it was nothing. The wizard looked up at Ashi. “Why are you holding back?”

  Ashi glared at him. “Perhaps it makes me happy to know something that they do not,” she said. “We are taught that Dah’mir is all-knowing and infallible, one of the favored servants of the great powers of the Dragon Below—even speaking his name out loud is forbidden among the clan. But when he set Medala, an outclanner, above his people, I doubted. As I doubted when he set Hruucan to lead the hunters after I was sent to follow you.”

  “So you know that Dah’mir isn’t infallible,” said Singe. He leaned forward. “And if he wrong about one thing, it might be that he was wrong about something else.”

  Ashi’s eyes narrowed. “I may not like Medala, outclanner,” she said, “but if you’re trying to turn me against my clan, you will fail. And Dah’mir is the heart of the Bonetree clan. I may doubt, but from the day we’re born, we’re taught to revere him!”

  “From the day you’re born?” Singe blinked and twisted to look at Dah’mir. The man had a strangely ageless quality about him, but he was no more than decade older than Singe was himself. “Ashi,” he said in mocking disbelief, “maybe you were taught that way, but think—your parents wouldn’t have known Dah’mir as anything but a young man!”

  Ashi snorted. “Now you’re the one who’s wrong about something. Did you think Dah’mir was some trickster-priest taking advantage of our beliefs?” She rose. “He created the Bonetree. He has shaped and guided the clan for more than ten generations.”

  For a moment, Singe gaped at her. “What—? How?”

  “He’s favored by the Dragon Below,” said Ashi. “Do you need to know more?”

  She turned away as Singe sat back, stunned, his nascent plan of exploiting her dislike for Medala shaken. Ten generations, he thought in wonder. Elves lived that long, and dwarves sometimes too, but even they carried their years in their face and eyes. Dah’mir was neither elf nor dwarf, and his acid-green eyes were as bright as a youth’s. One of the undead might exist unchanging for so long, but the undead didn’t bask in the light of day as Dah’mir did.

  “Twelve bloody moons,” he breathed. In all that Dandra had described, he had never thought that they might be facing someone so ancient! Was that the secret of his unnatural presence and his power over the kalashtar? What other secrets, he wondered, lay behind those acid-green eyes? He looked around Ashi.

  She was standing less than a pace away, her eyes raised to the sky and the rising moons. Singe followed her gaze—and drew a sharp breath.

  Silhouetted against the silver glow of the night sky, circling down to land near the campsite, was a heron, its legs dangling and its long neck folded back on itself. The bird landed beyond the firelight, but he could see that its feathers were black and greasy, When it cocked its head, its eyes flashed green. Singe saw Dah’mir glance toward the bird and give an almost imperceptible nod.

  Ashi took a fast step back to Singe and Dandra. “Don’t move, outclanner. As you value your life, don’t move!”

  Bonetree hunters burst out of the night all around the campsite, screaming and howling their battle cries. Knives, spears, and clubs flashed. The cultists who had come from Zarash’ak leaped to their feet instantly, stumbling over each other in frightened surprise. They weren’t unarmed, though, and they snatched up weapons quickly. Confusion surged across the campsite as they met the hunters’ unexpected attack.

  Singe looked up at Ashi, standing in front of them, her arms spread wide to let the attackers know that he and Dandra were her prisoners. His rapier and Dandra’s spear were strapped across her back. For two days the weapons had been tantalizingly close, but Ashi had never been so distracted as this before! For a moment, Singe gauged his chances of seizing his rapier and making a break for the boats the cultists had drawn up at the river’s marshy edge beyond the camp.

  Then he looked at the attacking hunters again and let the idea fall away. Five of the eight cultists were already down, skulls smashed in, throats slit, or chests run through. Seeing Dah’mir and Medala still seated calmly by the fireside, one of the cultists attempted to surrender, dropping her weapon and throwing up her hands.

  A long knife opened a gash from her chest to her belly. Another cultist went down to the combined attack of two hunters, their clubs rising and falling in horrible rhythm. Fause and the final cultist spun around, back to back, facing the closing ring of hunters.

  “Dah’mir!” Fause called desperately as recognition seemed to finally sink into him. “These are your followers! Call them off!”

  The green-eyed man shrugged. “I only need one escort, Fause—and unfortunately, the Bonetree tend to be jealous folk.”

  The cult-leader cursed and raised his hands, trying to cast a prayer to the foul powers he followed. A club spun out of the ring and hit his head with a hard, hollow sound. He staggered—then straightened as another hunter thrust a spear into his body. The last cultist screamed, but the hunters closed in and dragged him to the ground. His screams ended in an ugly, bloody bubbling noise.

  Dah’mir rose at last, holding out his hands in blessing. The hunters broke away from their victims to kneel before him. Singe stared.

  They were all children, gangling and awkward adolescents—though there was nothing awkward in the way they had wielded their weapons. All displayed tattoos and piercings, just as the adult hunters had. All looked lean and tough. Ashi glanced down at Singe and gave him a thin grin. “The elder hunters were sent in pursuit of Tetkashtai,” she said. “The next generation takes their place while they are gone.”

  Some of the young hunters turned toward him and Singe shivered at the intensity in their blood-spattered faces. Ashi drew her sword and raised it before them. “Su Drumas!” s
he called.

  “Su Darasvhir!” the hunters shouted back. They spun away from Ashi to raise their weapons to Dah’mir—and to Medala. “Su Darasvhir!”

  Singe saw Ashi stiffen. He leaned closer toward her. “What is it?” he asked her.

  “They’ve changed since I’ve been gone,” Ashi said. She stared at the hunters as Dah’mir dismissed them. The young men and women moved swiftly, hauling up the bodies of the cultists and dragging them away from the campsite.

  “You said Dah’mir has shaped the Bonetree clan,” Singe pointed out. “What do you think he’s shaping it into?”

  “Close your mouth!” the big hunter snapped. She squatted down, her face troubled. Singe hesitated, then shifted a little closer.

  “Maybe they’re not the ones who’ve changed,” he murmured. Ashi tensed and Singe flinched back in anticipation of a blow, but Ashi didn’t move. He slid back again. “While you tracked us to Yrlag and while we were on Vennet’s ship—was that the first time you’d been away from the clan?”

  “I said close your mouth.” Ashi stood. She glared down at him. “You should start to learn the ways of the Bonetree,” she said. “You’ll need to.”

  “What are you talking about?” Singe demanded—but a vile suspicion was already growing in him. “Twelve moons,” he cursed in disbelief. “Dah’mir’s plans for me … he wants to bring me into the clan?”

  “How did you think he shapes the Bonetree?” growled Ashi. She stalked away, leaving Singe to turn and stare at the savage youths of the clan.

  Geth’s eyes twitched open to a hot white light that stabbed all the way through into his brain. He whined and squeezed them shut again, but the light pierced his eyelids. He tried to fling up an arm to cover his face, but he couldn’t move. Something held his arms at his side. Every muscle and joint in his body ached; every inch of his skin burned. Under the metal of his gauntlet, his right arm felt like it was itching and crawling. His whine rose into an uncontrollable howl. He twisted desperately—and the twisting seemed to shake his entire world.