Don Bassingthwaite - The Binding Stone

Even through the pain though, Singe knew that there were three parts of him that Hruucan hadn’t hurt badly-or at least not too badly. The dolgaunt hadn’t hurt his legs. He could still walk and fight. The dolgaunt hadn’t hurt his hands. He could still grip his rapier. And, except for the blow that still ached through his guts, the dolgaunt hadn’t hurt his groin. He would still be able to father children for the Bonetree clan.

None of his carefully prepared magic had helped him. Hruucan either shattered his spells before he could cast them or dodged the flames with uncanny speed.

Singe forced himself up onto his hands and knees, then groped for his rapier in the dirt and stumbled to his feet once more. “Come on,” he slurred at the waiting dolgaunt. “Give me another!”

Hruucan tensed, ready for another strike.

Before he could even move though, new shouts rose up from the crowd. For one brief, confused moment, Singe wondered if someone out there had finally started to cheer for him. Then it registered in this throbbing mind that the crowd was moving, turning away from the combatants in the ring to stare at something else. He lifted his aching head, trying to see beyond the glare of the high torches. Heat lightning had come to the night. When it flashed he caught a glimpse of fighting up on the top of the mound.

Something was happening below as well. Dah’mir was standing and shouting so loudly that the sound of his voice shuddered in Singe’s head. “The shifter! Bring the shifter to me!”

The crowd around the ring burst like a nest of baby spiders. Singe’s head swam. A shifter? The shifter? Crazy hope soared inside him. Geth had come for them!

Lightning flashed in sudden brilliance, throwing the shape that moved in front of him into stark relief. Singe blinked as thunder rolled. Hruucan still stood in the ring, tentacles streaming and swaying.

“We’re not done,” the dolgaunt rasped.

He leaped into the air and his legs snapped out. Both feet hit Singe’s aching chest, the dolgaunt’s entire weight behind them. Singe flew back to slam into one of the towering torch poles. He slid onto the ground, legs sprawled. Darkness swirled around him, threatening to draw him down.

No , he told himself, fighting to resist that pull. No! Not now!

Somewhere lightning flashed again. Singe’s head fell back against the pole, staring up at a sky that tossed in growing agitation-and at a long oil-soaked rag that had come loose from the torch above. It swayed back and forth in the wind, fat drops of flaming oil shaking off it and dripping down. Singe watched one splatter against his hand, the magic of his ring sucking the flame away before it burned him. A desperate plan formed in his head.

Hruucan looked at him for a moment longer, then turned away. Singe thrust himself to his feet and dove for the dolgaunt’s back. Hruucan spun around, but Singe grabbed him and pulled him close. The writhing buds on Hruucan’s skin reacted as if they had minds of their own, burrowing into Singe’s flesh out of instinct alone. The wizard gasped and held on with one hand as he stretched the other out free. “Let’s see you dodge this,” he choked-and hissed a word of magic. A tiny, intense tongue of flame sprang into the palm of his free hand. Hruucan’s horrid face tightened.

Singe tipped his hand and let the tiny flame fall.

Fire exploded around them. Hruucan tried to leap away from the flame, but Singe clung tight, holding him back. The dolgaunt’s mouth opened to scream and fire rushed in. Singe closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of Hruucan’s death. He couldn’t shut out the feel of it though. The dolgaunt stiffened in his arms, writhing skin turning crisp and hard under his fingers. The buds that had burrowed into his flesh burst against him like a thousand tiny sparks.

Protected by his grandfather’s ring, all Singe felt of the flames was a pleasant warmth. When that faded, he opened his eyes.

He held a blackened corpse, mouth frozen wide, tendrils and tentacles seared away. The wizard shuddered in horror and thrust it away. What had been Hruucan hit the scorched ground with a dry crunch and a spray of cinders. Singe swayed, suddenly weak, and sat down hard.

All around the ring, the swarming crowd had turned back, startled by the flames. Fire had consumed two of the torchpoles, but by the light of the remaining torches, Singe could see the pale faces of the Bonetree clan and a few startled dolgrims staring at him. Dah’mir had fallen silent. The distant sounds of fighting on the top of the mound went on, punctuated by another bolt of lightning and a high, unnatural squeal, but the fighting on the ground ended in a clash of metal, a familiar growl, and the thud of a falling body.

Geth leaped into the torchlight. Natrac and two other orcs were with him. The shifter spun, protecting the others as a dolgrim tried to take them from behind. A vicious-looking sword that Singe had never seen before flashed twilight-purple. In an instant, the dolgrim had one less arm and one more mouth, a jagged slash that opened across its belly. Another blow hacked deep into its deformed skull and it dropped. Geth wrenched the sword free and joined Natrac and the orcs in a cluster around Singe.

As Bonetree hunters and more dolgrims began to push in, forming a new and threatening crowd around a now much smaller ring, he spared a glance down at the wizard. “I had a feeling it was you in here,” he growled.

“The fire?” asked Singe with a weak smile.

“The screaming.” Geth glanced at the orcs. “Orshok, help him. Krepis, can you see what’s happening on the mound?”

As the larger of the orcs tried to peer off above into the night, the other squatted down quickly, pulling a flask from a pouch. “A healing potion,” he said to Singe, and the wizard realized with a start that he was the same orc who had helped them in Zarash’ak. The orc opened the flask. A smell like bitter tea mixed with overripe fruit stung Singe’s nostrils. He twitched his head away out of reflex, but the motion sent a spasm of pain down his back. The orc grabbed his face and turned it back to him, forcing the flask against his lips. “Drink,” he ordered.

The potion tasted as bad as it smelled, but as it worked its way down his throat, a cool sensation spread through his body that was utterly different from Fause’s foul healing. The worst of his pain eased away, leaving him with only bruises and scrapes. Singe drew a deep breath.

“I’d enjoy that,” said Natrac. “It could be your last.” He thrust a long knife fastened where his missing hand should have been at a Bonetree hunter as she took a step closer. She bared her teeth and darted back.

The orc helped Singe to his feet. The wizard squeezed in between him and Geth. Together with Natrac and the second orc, they numbered five. He looked out at the massed hunters and dolgrims who clustered around them just out of sword reach, shifting and jostling for best position in the coming slaughter. “You healed me for this?” he asked.

“You’re welcome,” Geth grunted. “Where’s Dandra?”

“In the mound. Unless-” His eyes darted across the crowd. He might have been wrong, but it seemed like one tall hunter was missing from the battle. Breath hissed between his teeth. “Ashi. Twelve moons, Ashi’s gone for her!”

“Ashi?”

“Long story. She’s changed sides. She’s blood of Deneith, Geth!”

The shifter cursed. “So we don’t know where Dandra is. Any spells handy?”

“A couple.” Singe tried to gauge the effect his magical flames might produce. “I might be able to open us a path to the mound, but getting away again would be something else.”

“We’ll worry about that when we have to,” said Geth. He hesitated, then added, “Singe, about Narath-if we get out of this, we’ll talk. No more running.”