Don Bassingthwaite - The Binding Stone

Except that instead of easing with awareness, Ner’s face drew tight in pain. His body tensed. Breff gasped out her name in alarm. Ashi froze, uncertain of what to do.

Then Ner’s mouth moved and he spoke. “Hruucan!”

The voice that came from Ner’s mouth sounded like the old hunter’s, but Ashi knew that it wasn’t his. The tones were clipped and sharp and the huntmaster had never in a month called the dolgaunt by his name. The words that emerged from Ner’s mouth, she recognized in her gut, belonged to Medala. The outclanner was speaking through Ner.

Hruucan reacted without surprise. “I’m here, Medala.”

“Failure is written in this fool’s mind. Dah’mir is disappointed.”

Ashi’s mouth went dry. Even Hruucan looked slightly distressed. “Medala-” the dolgaunt began.

Medala cut him off. “The Bonetree hunters will do no good hobbling in pursuit of an enemy. Dah’mir commands you to bring them back to the ancestor mound, Hruucan.”

The dolgaunt relaxed visibly. Ashi, however, exchanged a look of shock with Breff. Gathering her courage, she looked into Ner’s blank face. “But what about Ner, Medala? He’s our huntmaster!”

“Is that Ashi?” snapped Medala without answering her protest. “Dah’mir has instructions for you as well. You are the best of the surviving hunters-he places the pursuit in your hands. Follow wherever your quarry goes. Be stealthy. If the opportunity presents itself, you may kill the shifter and the wizard. Your quarry is all that’s important. Take the crystal band when I am finished. Use it more often than Ner has. When it is possible, help will be sent to you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Ashi said automatically, then added quickly, “No. Why is Hruucan being placed over Ner, Medala?” There was no response. “Medala?” she asked, stepping closer to Ner.

The huntmaster’s eyes rolled back. A thin gurgle broke out of his throat and before Ashi could even reach for him, he collapsed. Ashi stared down as a trickle of blood came dribbling out of his nose. His eyes stared directly up at the sun.

“Ner?” she whispered.

Hruucan tilted back his cowl to stare at her. She caught a glimpse of the burned, dead skin of his face. “Ner failed Dah’mir and the Dragon Below,” the dolgaunt said harshly. “You have your instructions. Take the web.”

Ashi bent woodenly and tugged the band from Ner’s head. The light that flashed from the crystals seemed cold. Handling it as little as possible, she reached down and stuffed it into Ner’s hip pouch, then tugged the pouch off of his body. She met Breff’s gaze again as she stood. His eyes were wide. “Su Darasvhir,” he said in stunned voice.

For the Dragon Below.

“The trail grows cold,” said Hruucan. “Do you need any supplies?”

“No,” grunted Ashi. “I have everything I need.” Her hand tightened on Ner’s sword.

Yrlag lay along the south bank of the Grithic River, a deep, cold waterway that marked the border between the Eldeen Reaches and the Shadow Marches. In actual truth, there was little to distinguish one region from the other-low, harsh scrubland rolled across either side of the Grithic, wild and ungoverned. The only reason that Yrlag existed at all was trade. The wilds of the Eldeen, the uplands of the Shadow Marches, and even the barrens of Droaam came together along the Grithic. The river was the gateway to Crescent Bay and the sea coast. With no other cities easily accessible, traders and outlaws of every race and morality passed through the town, exchanging the goods of the wilderness hinterlands for the luxuries of the wider world.

Geth had seen a lot of tough towns in the years he had served with the Blademarks of House Deneith. He had seen more in the years between Narath and his return to the Eldeen. Almost none were as tough and dangerous as Yrlag. Dandra, Singe, and he rode across the decrepit bridge that spanned the Grithic in the company of a mixed band of mangy gnolls and smelly humans. Bandits without a doubt. Dandra stared at them. Singe kept one eye on them. Geth rode in relaxed calm. The band looked like they were returning from whatever raid had taken them into the Eldeen. They were in a good mood and on their way into Yrlag to sell their stolen plunder. There was nothing to fear from them at the moment.

When Singe wasn’t keeping watch on the bandits, he was staring at the bridge beneath them. About halfway across its span, with the din and stench of Yrlag growing in their ears and noses, he guided his horse close to the low rail at the edge of the bridge and peered over. When he straightened, he glanced at Geth.

“The footings on this bridge are massive,” he said in wonder. “They look much older than the road surface, but they’re in better condition.”

“They are older,” Geth said. “Adolan-” He grimaced. The druid’s name lay across his tongue like the collar of black stones lay around his neck. “Adolan told me once that Yrlag is built on the ruins of a hobgoblin town from the time when the Dhakaani Empire spread across the whole south of Khorvaire. Yrlag was its westernmost outpost. New bridges have been built on top of the old hobgoblin footings ever since.”

He turned away from the Aundairian and slouched down in his saddle. A week’s travel had taught both Singe and Dandra when he wanted to be left alone. If the footings of the bridge still interested Singe, he kept his curiosity to himself. Geth forced his mind into the unthinking blankness that had become more of a companion to him in the last week than either the wizard or the kalashtar.

There had been too much time to think on the journey to Yrlag. None of the trio had felt much like talking. Geth almost wished that the Bonetree hunters had caught them-simple, mindless fighting would have been good-but there had been no sign of pursuit. Every night after Singe had cast the spell that created a simple, featureless black dome to give them shelter, Geth had backtracked along their trail, setting snares to catch the next day’s food and watching the darkness. When he rose in the morning to collect his catch, he watched the empty landscape. By dark or by day, there was nothing to see. The Bonetree clan might almost have given up their hunt-but his gut told him they hadn’t.

An old central street ran through Yrlag from the great bridge down to the deep pool cut into riverbank that served as a waterfront. Geth suspected that the pool, like the bridge, had been created by the ancient hobgoblins, an enhancement to the already deep riverbed. As they came off the bridge, he scanned the makeshift booths and stalls that lined the street, pulling the bundle that contained his great gauntlet from the back of his saddle and holding it protectively. Yrlag pickpockets would steal anything they could get their hands on.

In a niche between two booths, a tall figure draped in a badly fitting cloak caught his eye. From under the hood of the cloak, a woman’s lean face stared back at him, framed by dark gold hair woven with beads and pierced through the lower lips with two small hoops.

Geth twisted around so sharply in his saddle that his horse whinnied and pranced in alarm. Singe cursed and reached out to grab the animal’s bridle, bringing it back under control. “Geth! Watch what you’re doing!”

“Singe, it’s the Bonetree hunters! I saw one of them!”

Geth spun back to stare at the niche-and saw only a ragged old cloak hanging from a knotted post and shifting in the breeze. Geth blinked and rubbed his eyes. Singe followed his gaze and raised an eyebrow.

“I saw her!” Geth insisted. “The big woman.” He dredged up the name the old hunter had called out during the fight at the Bull Hole. “Her name is Ashi.”