The Binding Stone: The Dragon Below Book 1

by Don Bassingthwaite

  “Geth!” called Natrac from the middle of a growing mass of colorless, tormented figures. The half-orc was beginning to look frightened. “Geth! Help me!”

  Baring his teeth, Geth rolled back to his feet and lunged into the crowd, sweeping his hands through ghostly flesh until he grabbed something solid. Natrac’s arm. He hauled the half-orc toward him, batting and growling at the phantoms as they tried to follow. Natrac was pale and stumbling, but Geth dragged him on down the corridor. “Move!” he urged. “We can’t hurt them, but they can’t hurt us either. We can get through this!”

  “I don’t know if we can,” gasped Natrac as a new noise, a scraping noise, began to rise against the desperate whispers. “Look!” He flung out an arm. Geth turned from the phantoms behind them to look ahead—and froze.

  Creeping along the floor and across the walls of the corridor was a swarm of amputated limbs: feet and hands, legs and arms. They scuttled on fingers and writhed like snakes.

  The scraping noise was the sound of the bloody razors and blades that many of the creeping limbs clutched between gnarled fingers and overlong toes, dragging the metal against the stone of the corridor as they crawled.

  A growl rumbled in Geth’s throat. “Tiger, Wolf, and Rat!” His fingers closed tight around his hunda. The weapon was no use against the phantoms, but if the creeping limbs were solid enough to carry blades, he prayed that they were solid enough to take a blow.

  Whether it would kill them, that was something else.

  “Dol Dorn’s mighty fist,” spat Natrac. “What I wouldn’t give to have a wizard or one of those druids here right now!” He scrambled to his feet and put his back against Geth’s. “Singe’s or Dandra’s fire would be very good, but I’d even take Vennet’s wind if he could blow those things away!”

  Desperation sparked an idea in Geth’s head. “Grandmother Wolf guide me,” he gasped—and dropped the hunda stick to tear at the pouch at his side. Natrac glanced down as he ripped frantically at the knotted drawstrings.

  “Sovereign Host!” the half-orc choked, understanding flashing instantly in his eyes. “You’re not going to—”

  Geth looked at him as the knots parted and the pouch gaped open. “You know what to do if you have to,” he said.

  He glanced up and down the corridor as the phantoms and their severed limbs closed on them, then he squeezed his eyes shut, plunged his right hand into the pouch, and seized Dandra’s psicrystal.

  Dandra’s scream brought Singe flailing out of sleep—and, all around them, the young hunters of the Bonetree clan leaping to their feet with their weapons drawn. Singe flung himself at Dandra. The kalashtar was once again stiff, her eyes open and staring to the west, but this time her body was trembling.

  “Relax!” he gasped at her, “Relax!”

  A shadow fell over him. He glanced up. It was Ashi, her sword drawn, but Medala was leaping forward as well, Dah’mir pacing after her.

  “What is this?” Medala said. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Maybe she had a bad dream,” Ashi said tightly.

  “Kalashtar don’t dream!” spat Medala. A chime rang in Singe’s head and pain lanced through him. Ashi was staggering as well, clutching at her head. The wizard clung to Dandra desperately.

  Twelve moons, he thought through the dazing agony, what was Geth doing with that psicrystal?

  Tetkashtai swept into Geth like a wildfire. She burned within him, her presence huge and powerful. When Dandra had first shown Tetkashtai to him and Singe, it had been like standing in a yellow-green mist. Having Tetkashtai actually within him was more akin to standing inside a raging, wailing inferno.

  If this was what the orc in Fat Tusk had experienced, Geth realized, it was small wonder he had succumbed so quickly to Tetkashtai’s possession! At least he knew what he was dealing with. Straining to focus all of his concentration on the presence, he threw out a single, silent shout. Tetkashtai!

  You! Tetkashtai screamed back. Her voice was like thunder. A deluge of images blasted through him, eerie memories of him as seen through someone else’s eyes. Geth staggered under the weight of Tetkashtai’s attention. How did Dandra cope with this?

  Tetkashtai ripped the thought out of him. Even if she’s nothing more than a rogue psicrystal, the presence howled, Dandra’s mind is more advanced than yours and she occupies a kalashtar’s body—one that I will reclaim!

  You can claim it later, Geth shouted at her, you have something else to worry about first! His words came out like a child’s whine, overwhelmed by Tetkashtai’s forceful presence. He abandoned words and flung a memory at her, his last glimpse of the phantoms and the creeping limbs that menaced him and Natrac.

  The presence caught the image and swallowed it. The whirlwind of yellow-green light tensed slightly. Stupid shifter! Tetkashtai seethed. What have you done?

  You’ll help us?

  What choice do I have? Tetkashtai spat. Open yourself to me, Geth! You’re no kalashtar. I will need everything you can give just to access the simplest of my powers!

  Geth hesitated, then gave up any attempt at holding Tetkashtai back.

  She seized him, and he felt like a stranger in his own body. His eyes snapped open and his head turned. Natrac whirled past him as Tetkashtai glanced at the phantoms, then at the creeping limbs. The limbs are more dangerous, Geth tried to tell her. The phantoms can’t actually—

  Be silent. Tetkashtai ordered him. She stretched out, reaching down into some place within him that was not quite his spirit and not quite his body. Whatever it was, pain ripped through him as Tetkashtai pulled something of him into herself. He sagged down. She heaved his body upright.

  “A trickle,” she said with his voice. “Pathetic, but it will have to do.”

  “Geth?” asked Natrac.

  “No,” said Tetkashtai.

  Geth felt her concentrate, felt the storm of her presence draw together into a shining, focused spark. A little bit of the energy she had stolen from him spun out from that spark. Something seemed to open up within him, a pulse, a beat. It rose from his chest. He could feel it in his throat, and then in his ears: the droning chorus that had always accompanied Dandra’s fiery powers. Whitefire. The word whispered itself into his mind through the connection with Tetkashtai.

  “The spirits!” shouted Natrac.

  In the corner of Geth’s vision, he saw the half-orc whirl as the colorless shapes of the phantoms surged around them once more. Natrac’s hunda stick lashed out, sweeping through the disfigured shapes again and again, trying to keep them back. It didn’t work. They swarmed over him—and over Geth. Tetkashtai paid no attention to either the spirits that tried to tug at her or Natrac’s calls for help All of her attention was fixed on the creeping limbs as they crawled closer. And closer.

  Tetkashtai, what are you doing? Geth asked. His voice seemed weaker than ever, a pitiful mewling. Hurry!

  Patience. The focused spark of her presence flashed. She curled his left hand into a fist and raised it, pointing at the approaching swarm. As the chorus of whitefire rose like a triumphant song, Tetkashtai opened Geth’s hand.

  Pale flames poured out in a roaring cone that seemed to fill the corridor. Hands, feet, legs, and arms shriveled like spiders flung into a candle, reduced in an instant to nothing more than hunks of burning, charred flesh. The knives and razors that they had dragged with them fell to the floor with a clatter. Only a few skittering hands escaped the inferno, scattering back into the shadows. Whispers rising into wails, the phantoms fled as well, their ghostly forms vanishing through walls and back down the corridor. Shivering, Natrac forced himself upright.

  “Dol Arrah’s mercy,” he panted, leaning heavily on his hunda.

  The tight spark of Tetkashtai’s concentration unraveled, whirling back out into a yellow-green storm. Geth let out a silent gasp as the presence wrenched at him. Still there, Geth? she asked.

  Speaking was an effort. Let go of the crystal, Tetkashtai. Give me back my body!

  Te
tkashtai laughed, both in his mind and out loud. Give it back? she said silently. Why would I do that? I know what you’re planning, Geth. A return to Dah’mir? No. A return to the crystal? Never. Tetkashtai’s voice rose into a shriek. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be trapped in that crystal? I’m not going back there!

  Tetkashtai turned Geth’s body to face Natrac and the throbbing chorus of whitefire rose again. A look of new fear flickered across Natrac’s face. The half-orc’s hand tightened on his hunda and he lashed out, staff aiming for Geth’s wrist, trying to make Tetkashtai drop the crystal as Geth had in Fat Tusk.

  But Tetkashtai was faster. She slid Geth’s toe under the shaft of his own hunda and flipped it up into the air. His left hand caught the staff in mid-air, twisting it and knocking Natrac’s clumsy blow away.

  “What was it Vennet said to Dandra in Zarash’ak?” Tetkashtai asked with Geth’s voice. “Not a spear as such, but on short notice, I think a staff will do?”

  A thought set the hunda stick ablaze in her grasp, though Geth felt nothing of the flames. Tetkashtai flicked the hunda again and the burning wood cracked across Natrac’s good arm. The half-orc yelped and dropped his staff. Geth felt Tetkashtai’s surprise at the ferocity of her strike. “Harder than I intended,” she said. She flexed his muscles. “Strong. Fast. You might not be a kalashtar, shifter, but I think I like your body.”

  If you like that, growled Geth, you’re going to love this. Gathering all of his remaining strength, he struck deep into himself, into a place the presence hadn’t even tried to approach—and shifted.

  Tetkashtai gasped at the wild power that surged through his veins, swooning as his lycanthrope heritage rushed over her. The yellow-green storm of her being flared and guttered like a torch in the wind. In that moment, Geth pushed out against her control, spinning his body around fast and slamming the back of his right hand against the cold stones of the wall. Pain shot up his entire arm and his clenched fist twitched in pure reflex to the impact.

  Before Tetkashtai could do more than wail in frustration, the psicrystal slipped between his fingers and bounced across the floor with a soft ringing sound. The pain in the shifter’s right hand was matched by a searing burn in his left. Geth hurled the flaming hunda away from him and collapsed back against the wall, his chest heaving.

  As suddenly as she had stiffened, Dandra relaxed, her eyes gliding closed. Singe held onto her, clutching her tight until the chime of Medala’s power faded and the kalashtar wrenched him away. She examined Dandra, then spun to the wizard. “What happened?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Singe choked. His head spun and throbbed. It was a good thing that his ignorance was the truth, because whatever Medala had done to him had left him without the will or energy to spin out a lie.

  Maybe she knew that too, because she didn’t press him any further. She turned to Dah’mir as the green-eyed man stood watching. “Something’s wrong,” she said. “Tetkashtai is fighting your power.”

  “Amazing,” murmured Dah’mir. “She’s doing what you failed to, Medala.”

  A chill ran through Singe’s body. Someone else might have been intimidated by the possibility but Dah’mir seemed intrigued. Maybe even proud.

  Medala’s face twisted with jealousy but Dah’mir took no notice. He glanced at the young Bonetree hunters as he turned to sweep away. “Keep a watch on her and the wizard both,” he told them.

  In spite of her rage, Medala trotted after him like an obedient dog. Singe shrank back as the hunters turned to him with the smiles of foxes set to watch a chicken coop—smiles that faded as Ashi stepped over Singe and took up a position facing her own clan. Her eyes were dark from whatever attack Medala had inflicted on her, but her jaw was set and her sword was drawn. Muttering in frustration, the hunters slid back into the shadows.

  Ashi didn’t speak. Neither did Singe. His head pounding, he crawled back to Dandra and lay down close beside her.

  “Lords of the Host,” hissed Natrac. The crook end of his hunda poked Geth’s chest. The shifter slapped it away and looked up at him.

  “She’s gone,” he growled. He leaned his head back against the stone wall for a moment more, and released his shifting. It faded away, taking the worst of the pain in his hands with it. Some of whatever energy Tetkashtai had drawn from him trickled back as well. He heaved himself to his feet. There was a stink of burning flesh that he hadn’t been aware of while Tetkashtai controlled his body. He clenched his teeth and tried to breathe shallowly.

  The whitefire had scoured the corridor, scorching the stone. Dandra’s crystal lay shining against the black remains of a goblin foot. Geth slid the pouch from his belt and approached the crystal with caution. His head told him that Tetkashtai couldn’t take hold of him again unless he actually touched the crystal, but his heart was still afraid; he could feel the presence’s touch ripping at his essence, bending his body to her will. Taking up a fallen razor—still warm from the blast of flame—he flicked the crystal gingerly back into the pouch.

  “You’re going to keep it?” Natrac spat in amazement.

  “Dandra can control Tetkashtai,” said Geth stiffly, knotting the pouch’s drawstrings again. “She’ll need the crystal when we rescue her and Singe.”

  “If we can rescue them.”

  “When.” Geth stood up and replaced the pouch on his belt. “We’re going to get out of here. How’s your arm?”

  “It hurts,” Natrac said, “but at least it’s still attached to me.” He looked down at the remains of the creeping limbs and grimaced. “Do you think there’s more of them?”

  The shifter glanced at the shadows that the few remaining hands had fled into—he thought he could still see them, hiding like bugs in the crevices. The final wails of the vanished phantoms continued to hang in the air, too. They changed slowly as he listened, becoming less frightened and more anguished, as if the defeated spirits were somehow reliving their ancient torture. The hair on Geth’s arms rose. A darkness seemed to settle over the corridor.

  “Geth …” said Natrac softly.

  “Aye,” Geth grunted. “We need to keep moving.”

  His hunda stick was burning bright, more than half its length afire from Tetkashtai’s touch. The blades that the severed limbs had carried were scattered across the corridor, but Geth’s skin crawled at the thought of wielding one of them. He needed a weapon of some kind, though. He snatched up the burning hunda carefully. Thrusting it ahead of him like a long torch, he set off along the corridor at a brisk trot. Natrac followed close, his eyes on the shadows behind them. Though both he and the half-orc could see well enough even without the added light, the fire gave Geth back a feeling of control and strength.

  Especially when the phantoms’ wails rose into wrenching screams. Especially as the smell of blood grew stronger. Especially as the corridor narrowed and passageways opened off of it, plunging away into the darkness of Jhegesh Dol.

  Geth stopped short, pulling up so quickly that Natrac bumped into him and yelped before clamping his tusked jaw shut. “What is it?” the half-orc whispered.

  “The corridor. Look.” Geth held out the burning staff. The corridor they had been following split into three passageways, all identical.

  “Just keep going,” urged Natrac.

  “I don’t know which passage to take!” Flame hissed and popped as Geth switched his makeshift torch from one side to the other. “What if we’re not supposed to keep going straight? What if we’re supposed to turn?”

  “What if we’re not?” Natrac asked desperately. “How much time is there before sunrise? How long have we been in here?”

  A terrible roar, as close as if something very large and very frightened was being tortured nearby, rolled over them—then was broken by the heavy, wet chop of a falling blade. The roar rose sharply, then subsided into deep, horrified weeping. Geth clenched his teeth and stepped into the corridor straight ahead.

  The stones of Adolan’s collar grew so cold that they burne
d his skin. Gasping in pain, Geth leaped back, almost trampling over Natrac. “Not that way!” he snarled, his teeth bared. He touched the stones with his free hand and scraped a fingernail against them. It came away with white specks of frost melting on it. He showed it to Natrac. The half-orc grimaced.

  Geth turned to the passage on his right. Fingers held against the stones, he stepped forward carefully. The collar grew icy again—not quite so cold as before, but distinctly frigid. He swallowed. “I don’t think this is the way either,” he said. He moved back to the left-hand passage and walked into it.

  The eerie chill fell away from the collar and Geth let out his breath. “Here,” he said with relief. “This way—”

  His relief melted like the frost on his fingertip at the thin noise that came hissing along the passage. It was the coarse, sliding whisper of metal on stone, the sound of a knife blade pressed against a grindstone.

  “Host,” choked Natrac. He looked back to the right-hand passage.

  Geth tightened his hand on the end of his flaming hunda. “No,” he said. “This is the way.” He could hear the fear in his own voice, but he pushed forward. After a moment, Natrac cursed and followed him.

  The sound of the grindstone grew louder, though there were other sounds around it. More falling blades. The grating of bone saws. Sobbing. Screams. Always screams. The fire of the staff began to falter. Wordlessly, Natrac held out his hunda, offering it to him. Geth pressed it back.

  The passage ended ahead, opening into some wide, dark space. Burning hunda held low, Geth crept up to the mouth of the passage and peered out.

  He stood at the edge of a small balcony like a private box in some fancy Sharn playhouse, except that this box overlooked a wide, shadowed stone chamber. On the far side of the chamber, atop a short series of shallow steps, a long block of black stone stood like an altar.