Geth’s lungs burned, but he smiled back, baring his sharp teeth. A growl forced its way from the back of his throat and he swung his feet off the ground. Supported by Kobus’s own rigid arms, he drew his legs up to his chest and snapped them out in a hard double kick straight into the orc’s surprised face.
Bone crunched. The hand around Geth’s throat tightened briefly, then relaxed. Kobus swayed and fell backward, dragging Geth over on top of him. The shifter fell across the orc’s massive chest, sucking air gratefully, then pushed himself free and rose to his feet.
The roar of the watching orcs almost knocked him down again. Orshok and Ekhaas rushed to him, just as Kobus’s friends rushed to him. Geth waved the druid and the duur’kala back, though, and let his shifting slip away. It took some of the pain Kobus had inflicted on him with it, but he knew he’d still be sore once the bruises really set in. He staggered over to look at Kobus. The big orc’s face was covered in the blood that ran from a split lip and a broken nose. One eye was already swelling shut, but the other was open and it rolled toward Geth. Kobus’s face twisted and his body started to shake. His arms rose and swept aside the friends who had been trying to tend to him.
“Geth! Watch out!” Orshok yelled.
Geth just stepped up closer to Kobus, reached down, grabbed one of his arms—and hauled the orc to his feet. Blood sprayed him as Kobus’s shaking finally erupted into laughter. Geth joined in and then they were slapping each other’s shoulders and back like old friends.
“Domad’ad,” said Kobus. “Domad’ad chuf.” He started to pull Geth off into the camp.
“Wait,” Geth told him, choking on his laughter. “Orshok, can you heal Kobus?”
“Krepis will do it,” said a new voice. “We need to have a talk now.”
“Batul!” Geth pulled away from Kobus. Batul stood with Orshok and Ekhaas, wrapped in a simple blanket, his white beard and hair wet, and his parchment-fine skin plumped and slick as if he had just emerged from a very long, very hot bath. All at once the infectious excitement of the horde camp and the easy peace of long travel seemed to vanish, replaced by the long suspended urgency of their mission. Geth pushed close to Batul.
“We have news!” he said. “Dah’mir serves a daelkyr called the Master of Silence imprisoned beneath the Bonetree mound, but he’s stirring. Dah’mir wants to turn kalashtar into servants of the daelkyr because he thinks their psionic powers—”
Batul held up a hand. “Calm down,” he said. “We know. Why do you think we’re all here?”
Geth stared at him in speechless shock, then glanced at Orshok and Ekhaas. Both of them shook their heads. Geth looked back at Batul. “What? But … how?”
The old druid smiled. “Let’s find somewhere quiet and tell each other our stories.”
Ekhaas was the one who told their story. She was a duur’kala after all, and even if she hadn’t been present for many of the events that unfolded since Geth and Orshok had last seen Batul, Geth had to admit that she recounted them better than he ever could have. She ended with their separation from the others outside Tzaryan Keep, with Singe and Dandra heading east toward Sharn to warn the kalashtar while they turned west to find Batul and the other Gatekeepers. “Except,” she concluded, “that it seems we didn’t need to.”
“But I’m glad you did,” said Batul. “If only because it’s been many years since I’ve heard a story told by a duur’kala of the Kech Volaar, and I thank you for the experience.” He sat back and looked up at the dark ceiling of the tent in which they sat, his good eye seeming to contemplate the shadows while his milky blind eye stared into deeper mysteries. “Aryd the Seeress is a figure from some of our oldest legends. I know only a few of them, but the Battle of Moths … I don’t recall ever hearing such a tale, though I have heard that the circle that once stood where the Bonetree mound stands was raised to commemorate a great battle.”
“The duur’kala take care to remember what must not be forgotten,” Ekhaas said.
Batul looked back down at her. “The duur’kala would do well to remember other things as well. Like humility.”
“Easy,” said Geth, straightening up from the basin where he had been washing Kobus’s blood off himself. “We’re all friends here.”
Batul bent his head. “I’m sorry. Forgive a cranky old druid for being lectured by a child.”
Ekhaas looked like she might be ready with another sharp comment, but Geth caught her eye and glared at her. She clenched her teeth and said, “I beg your pardon. My pride wasn’t meant to offend.”
It was a pretty apology, though Geth noticed that her ears stayed resolutely erect. Batul said nothing, so neither did he.
Seated on the other side of the tent, Orshok spoke up. “Does what we learned in Taruuzh Kraat agree with what you already know, teacher?”
Batul nodded. “Yes,” he said. “That the Master of Silence is stirring. That Dah’mir hopes, by driving kalashtar mad and drawing them to the service of the powers of Khyber, to give his master servants with the psionic powers of mind flayers but without mind flayers’ vulnerability to Gatekeeper magic. Those things we knew. They’re the reason why the Gatekeepers meet in council and why the horde was summoned while we debate.” He stroked his beard. “But that Dah’mir has found new—and more powerful—binding stones to use in his plans, that we didn’t know. I’ll need to take this to the other Gatekeepers.”
Supporting himself with the stout length of his crook-headed hunda stick, the old orc rose to his feet.
“Wait, what about your story?” Geth asked. “How do you know all this? It can’t have been a vision, can it?” He tapped his cheek under his right eye to indicate Batul’s own blind eye, the eye with which the druid claimed to have occasionally glimpses of the future.
Batul blinked and shook his head. “I almost forgot. I’m sorry—so much is happening and the council’s debates …” He sighed and leaned heavily on his hunda stick. “No, it wasn’t a vision. The only clear vision I’ve had of late was your journey along the river, and even that wasn’t so clear as it might have been—I thought Singe and Dandra might have been with you, and I didn’t foresee Ekhaas’s presence at all.”
“How then?”
Batul looked up, the gaze of his good eye sweeping them, and nodded again. “Perhaps it’s best if I show you. Come with me. Leave your gear here, if you like. This tent will be yours.”
Geth pulled on his shirt and picked up Wrath. They followed Batul out of the tent. As they passed through the camp, sporadic shouts and cheers followed them. Or at least followed Geth. The shifter returned the shouts with waves and said to Batul out of the corner of his mouth, “What did you tell them about me?”
“The truth,” Batul told him. “Perhaps the rest of Khorvaire is jaded, but here in the Shadow Marches we still appreciate a hero’s story. The fight with Kobus will only add to yours.”
Geth felt a vague flush of shame. “I don’t fight for glory. How much of the fight did you see?”
“Nearly all of it. Orshok told me why you felt the need to take on Kobus.” He moved a little closer and added softly, “He said you were defending your honor so you could fight alongside the horde with pride—before you even knew what the horde was fighting.”
“I didn’t say that exactly …”
Batul shook his head. “But you said it nearly enough, didn’t you? Geth, you’re impulsive, but I know you think more than that.”
Something flickered in the back of Geth’s mind, the fleeting shadow of curiosity. He looked at the old druid sharply. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about being aware of what you do. Have you felt the excitement in the camp?”
Geth nodded and Batul smiled. “Incredible, isn’t it? Warriors arrive in the camp and fall into the horde as if they’ve been sharing a fire for days. The council is nearly ready to make a decision and getting a dozen Gatekeepers to agree on dinner usually takes weeks of debate. We’ll march soon, I think.” His good eye flick
ered in the firelight. “If I were you,” he added, “I wouldn’t let anyone else know how much Wrath lets you understand.”
Batul’s soft tones vanished before Geth could even nod again. “Here,” he announced and stopped.
They stood before a large tent. Unlike the others in the horde camp, it stood on its own, separated from its nearest neighbors by five paces of open ground on all sides. Two guards whose stony faces clearly indicated that they wanted to be somewhere else stood guard at the tent flap. Their presence, however, wasn’t the only protection for the tent. Two birds—one a hawk, the other a crow, both probably bound to druids of the council—perched on the roof pole. The outside of the tent had been painted with symbols, and the ring of empty ground planted with carved poles bearing strings of bones, stones, and feathers. Some of the symbols on the tent and poles were similar to those on the stones of his collar. Symbols to repel or contain the power of the Gatekeepers’ enemies.
Unlike other tents and huts in the camp, a lamp burned inside the painted tent, casting a glow on the walls. Whoever was inside needed light to see.
Batul passed by the guards and lifted the tent flap. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said through the gap, “but there are people you must see.” He gestured for Geth to enter. The shifter ducked past the flap—and cursed, tearing Wrath free of its sheath and trying to fling himself back so fast he stumbled into Ekhaas.
Seated on a low sleeping platform, a kalashtar woman looked up at him with empty eyes. Her face was worn and thin, its angles as sharp as an over ground knife blade. Her hair, shot through with gray, was bound back and she wore an orc’s rough clothes. The last time Geth had seen her, she had been wearing the filthy remains of a fine dress and her hair been matted and wild—and she had been wracking him with pain using nothing more than the power of her mind.
“Medala!” he snarled. He pulled himself away from Ekhaas and dropped into a defensive crouch, Wrath pointed at Dah’mir’s mad servant. His heart was thundering in his chest. He heard Orshok cry out as well and managed to find words in a dry throat. “This isn’t possible. You’re dead.”
“I wish I were,” Medala said. Her voice, though grating and hoarse, was as empty as her eyes.
Batul put a hand on Geth’s shoulder. “She’s the one who warned us about the Master of Silence. A little less than a month ago, hunters from Fat Tusk found her wandering the marshes, starving. They brought her to me.”
“She’s dangerous, Batul! She almost killed both of us.”
“The symbols around the tent hold what’s left of her power in check, Geth,” Batul said calmly.
Medala gave a bitter laugh. “Be at ease, shifter. I could no more touch your mind now than I could touch the Ring of Siberys.”
She rose. Geth tensed, but she made no further move. Medala had been a tall woman, but her frame had become gaunt and hunched. “When Dandra unleashed Virikhad’s mad mind against me, he and I fought for control of my body the only way we could.” She touched her forehead. “With our wills and our psionic powers. You saw us vanish and thought us dead, but that was Virikhad’s doing. He had powers over space and he flung us … elsewhere.”
A shudder shook her body, but she smiled grimly. “My powers are over the mind. I was stronger. I was returned to the place where I had been—the Bonetree mound, though your battle with Dah’mir was long over. My battle with Virikhad, however, had broken Dah’mir’s hold over me. I fled with one thought in my shattered mind: revenge on Dah’mir and his master.” She was trembling and her voice rose. “Would you deny me that, Geth? I know from Dandra’s mind that revenge was what you sought when you came to the Shadow Marches. Will you not let me take my revenge on the evil that broke me?”
Geth stared at her trembling form in shock. Batul touched his shoulder, pushing him toward the flap and out of the tent. “Sit,” the old orc said to Medala. “Be at ease. You’ll have your revenge. The Master of Silence will be stopped.”
Eyes focused on nothing visible, Medala nodded and folded back down onto the sleeping platform. Geth didn’t look away from her until Batul had herded Orshok and Ekhaas out of the tent as well and pulled the tent flap closed after himself—then Geth swallowed. “She’s still mad, isn’t she?”
Batul gestured for them to follow him away from the tent. “I don’t think she could ever be sane again,” he said, “but when she told me about the Master of Silence, how could I ignore her? I summoned other Gatekeepers to council, and the horde was called.” The druid spread his hands. “And now you bring news to confirm what she says.”
“Do you trust her?” asked Ekhaas.
Batul turned to the hobgoblin. “No more than I have to,” he said. “But she’s powerless. The daelkyr are the Gatekeepers’ ultimate enemy. If Medala can help us ensure that one remains sealed in his prison, then she is our ally.” He glanced from Ekhaas to Geth. “What about you?” he asked. “You’ve delivered your message. Are you going to stay for the fight?”
Geth looked at the tent. He could see Medala’s silhouette—broken by the protective symbols painted on the tent wall—against the glow of her lamp. Once again, a nagging doubt flickered in his mind. He wished Dandra were there. She knew Medala, and he was certain she would have been able to tell if her lust for revenge was real. It certainly seemed to have the ring of truth to him.
But Batul was right. The Gatekeepers’ ancient duty took priority over lingering suspicion. If Adolan had been there, Geth knew what he would have done—and he knew he couldn’t do any less. The shifter drew a deep breath. “We’ll stay,” he said. He bared his teeth. “We’ll fight!”
A broad smile spread across Batul’s wrinkled face. “I knew you would.”
He turned away and flung up his arms, shouting something in Orc. All around them, warriors let out a cheer and crowded around. Mugs of ale and gaeth’ad were thrust forward. Hands slapped at their shoulders and backs. Ekhaas looked startled. Orshok looked ecstatic. Geth grabbed Wrath, trying to catch the end of Batul’s cries.
“The hero of the raid on the Bonetree fights with us!”
The roar that erupted was deafening. A rushing excitement, an anticipation that he hadn’t felt in a long time filled Geth. He drew Wrath and raised it high. The roar of the horde redoubled, and he let himself fall into it.
CHAPTER
5
The door to the apartment was locked, of course, but Tetkashtai had a trick of unlocking it with a thread of vayhatana. Dandra knew the trick too. She concentrated, spun out the invisible force with her mind just so, and the lock responded with a click. The door swung open. Dandra clenched her jaw and stepped across the threshold. Entering the apartment she had only ever seen previously as a psicrystal around Tetkashtai’s neck was even stranger than walking the streets of Sharn. The familiar surroundings seemed smaller, out of proportion. Dim, naturally. She raised the shade of the everbright lantern that was on the table. A musty odor hung in the air and it took her a moment to decide—because there had been no sense of smell as a psicrystal—that it didn’t belong there. She crossed the room and pushed open the windows. Fresh air and the scent of rain blew in.
The others entered behind her, Natrac shaking off his cowl, Ashi sputtering as she stripped off the wet scarf that clung to her face. “I don’t understand,” she said. “What happened out there? Why did it seem like they didn’t want us to know what was wrong with Erimelk?”
Singe was the last one through the door, and he closed it quickly behind himself before Ashi’s voice could carry. “I think it seemed like they didn’t want us to know because they really didn’t want us to know.” Water dripped from his hair and pulled his beard down into a point. “Who is this Nevchaned, Dandra?” His lips twitched. “Or should I call you Tetkashtai?”
The name made her flinch. “No, you shouldn’t,” she said. “Light of il-Yannah, I knew as soon as the words were out my mouth that it was a bad idea. It just seemed so easy at the time.”
“It was a good idea,” said
Natrac. “They know Tetkashtai. If these people are as insular as you say, maybe they’ll say things around her they won’t say around us.”
“So we’re going to start out by lying to people we want to be our allies? Il-Yannah, I lied about Medala and Virikhad too.” Dandra tried to cover her frustration at herself by going to the cupboard where Tetkashtai and the other kalashtar had kept some towels. Like the apartment, they were musty, but at least they were dry. She passed them around.
“Nevchaned is a weaponsmith,” said Dandra. “He made her … my spear.” She touched the weapon strapped across her back. “He’s also one of the kalashtar elders.”
The wizard’s eyes widened slightly. “Ah,” he said. “So maybe not one of the best people to start off lying to.”
“No,” Dandra agreed. She shook her head. “I’ve fought Dah’mir, Tzaryan Rrac, Hruucan, dolgaunts, dolgrims, and Bonetree hunters—why does facing my own people feel more terrifying than any of them?”
Singe gave her wan smile. “Remind me to tell you about my family some day.”
“The idea of facing House Deneith scares me,” said Ashi. Dandra twisted her head to look at the hunter. “I used to be worried that they wouldn’t accept a hunter of Shadow Marches, or that they would find that I had no Deneith blood at all and I would be left without a clan. Now I worry what will happen when the time comes that they find out about this.” Ashi traced a finger down one cheek and along the line of her jaw, following the vibrant pattern of her dragonmark.
“If you don’t like the way Deneith treats you, you’ll always have a place with us,” said Dandra.
Ashi raised an eyebrow. “Then why do you worry what the kalashtar will think of you?” she asked. “You have a place here too. Aren’t we your people?”
Dandra stared at her. Aren’t we your people? She had Tetkashtai’s memories of the kalashtar of Sharn, of Medalashana as her best friend and Virikhad as her lover—but she felt closer by far to the men and women who had stood by her side over the last months than she did to any kalashtar. Her mouth twitched and a smile escaped her. “You’re always surprising me when I least suspect it, Ashi. Thank you.”
The Killing Song: The Dragon Below Book III Page 5
