Don Bassingthwaite - The Binding Stone

Instinct and resolve took its place.

She had stood here nearly two months before with only one thought in mind: escape. And she had escaped. She had taken the long step, barely thinking as she had leaped hundreds of paces in a single stride.

She didn’t need to go so far this time.

Dandra stepped forward, bending down as she moved. Her fingers snatched up the violet crystal-

— and Virikhad exploded in her mind like a howling gale, tearing across the landscape of her psyche. Tetkashtai? Tetkashtai?

Time froze, like a moment in a dream. The assault of Virikhad’s mind on hers wrenched up memories of Sharn, of the passion that he and Tetkashtai had shared, of the passion that he had carried into his studies of dragonshards as well. Dandra felt his anguish at being trapped in the crystal. His violet light formed distorted images of the unchanging fastness of Dah’mir’s strange laboratory, visions of his own body wasting away, his skull being opened and his brain devoured by the illithids.

Worse, Virikhad had loved freedom and movement as much as, if not even more, than Tetkashtai. He had been an intensely social being. So long in the crystal without power or true sensation had left him with only raw pain and loneliness.

But Dandra couldn’t afford to give him what he needed. She let him wash over her, but gave him nothing to hold onto. She was a reed bending before his wind, offering no resistance. Her body continued to move, one leg following the other on a long step already put in motion. Her moving arm swung up again-

— to meet the fingers of Medala’s outstretched hand. For one brief moment, both women touched the crystal. Somewhere beyond Virikhad’s pain, Dandra could feel Medala’s twisted mind and her surprise at the sudden contact, at thirty paces crossed in an instant.

Dandra cast the barest thread of a link into Virikhad’s tortured light. I’m sorry , she said.

Before Medala could react, she let go of the crystal. Virikhad vanished from her mind. Dandra wrapped her hand around Medala’s, forcing the gray-haired kalashtar’s grasp tight around the violet crystal.

As Dah’mir’s presence fell over her once more, Dandra heard Medala’s wail like a distant echo.

The chime of Medala’s power fell abruptly silent. Air flowed easily into Geth’s lungs, the torturous pain passed like a memory, and for a moment all that the shifter wanted to do was lie on the cool dirt and breathe. The sound of woman’s scream of anguish, however, brought him to his feet. “Dandra!” he said-then froze, the name still on his lips.

Less than four paces away, Dandra stood calmly, her eyes placid and fixed on Dah’mir. The dragon was a metallic stream of motion, caught in the act of leaping toward the mouth of the mound but at the same time skidding and twisting to stare in surprise at Dandra, like a house cat chasing a cricket. Everywhere, dolgrims were scattering with squeals of alarm. Between Dandra and Dah’mir, Ashi was rising unsteadily to her feet, just as Singe, Natrac and the orcs were doing around Geth.

The anguished scream was coming from Medala. The kalashtar stood behind Dandra, one arm outstretched and her fist clenched as if she held something in her grasp. Her eyes were wild. In the scant moments that Geth stared, they seemed to grow even wider. Her head snapped sharply from side to side. Her scream rose and cracked.

Silver-white light blazed around her, flaring up then snuffing itself out in less than a heartbeat. When it vanished, it took Medala with it.

Something, some dark pebble, fell to the ground where she had stood.

Dah’mir’s huge, lithe form stiffened. “No!” he roared. “Medala!” Green eyes burned. Geth stumbled back from the sheer rage in the dragon’s gaze. He heard Orshok cry out in fear. Dah’mir’s scaly lips peeled back from his muzzle. “Khyber claim you all!” he snarled-and spat out a word that made Geth’s ears ache. A greasy, clinging foulness-less than smoke but more than shadow-burst out of the air.

Geth shouted as it groped and slithered across his skin, sliding into his mouth and down his throat, making him gag. From the corner of his eye, though, he saw Batul snap a gnarled hand into the air and shout an angry word in response.

Nature answered his prayer in a blast of wind that tore across the battlefield, scouring away the foulness of Dah’mir’s magic, and raising a cloud of stinging dust that brought renewed squeals out of the dolgrims. Geth’s clothes flapped around him. Dandra, eyes fixed on Dah’mir, was caught by the wind and shoved to her knees. Singe yelled something and leaped for her, staggering in the gale.

Dah’mir roared again and recoiled, his wings folded tight against his body, his eyes squeezed tight against the wind.

“Geth!” said Batul. “Now!”

Gatekeeper magic and Dhakaani sword. Geth clenched his jaw tight. He darted to Singe where the wizard knelt with his arms around Dandra. “Run!” he said over the wind. “Get everyone away!”

“What?”

“Do it! Do it like Robrand gave the order himself!” Geth reached to his belt, tore free the pouch that contained Tetkashtai’s crystal, and thrust it at him. “Give that to Dandra!”

He spun away and leaped for Dah’mir without looking back. He heard Singe call his name once, then the wizard began shouting commands at Natrac and the others. The shifter heard Batul shout something as well-another prayer, an invocation that throbbed with power.

The wind rose to a storm in answer. The grit it carried became painful, like a rain of needles. Geth reached deep and forced his tired body to shift once more. Renewed energy surged through him and the piercing pain of the wind eased as he plunged through it. Around him, though, the dolgrims that Dah’mir had commanded weren’t so lucky. They screeched and tried to flee from the druid’s magic, but it was as if nature held a special fury for the twisted aberrations. The creatures tried to flee, but the wind tore at their exposed skin, stripping it raw and bloody. They tumbled before nature’s wrath like autumn leaves.

In Geth’s hand, the Dhakaani sword began to glow with a dim twilight radiance, an ember fanned by the angry wind.

Geth pushed himself hard, racing with the storm. Dah’mir crouched back, hissing in frustration at the lancing wind that cut between his scales. Geth clenched his teeth. Batul was right, he thought-they had no hope of killing the dragon. If he was fast enough, though, maybe he could hold out against Dah’mir long enough to buy Singe, Dandra, and the others the time they need to escape.

He swept up the ancient sword and hurled himself forward.

“This is for Adolan, you bastard!”

Eyes still closed tight, Dah’mir roared back at him-and lunged, not at the shifter, but up, toward the sky. His body uncoiled. His wings cracked open. Muscular hind legs strained and thrust against the ground …

Geth didn’t hesitate for a moment. He threw himself into the air, leaping to meet the climbing dragon.

His body slammed into a foreleg as thick as a tree trunk and he grabbed onto the scaly limb as the ground whirled away beneath him. He was lifted out of the raging stream of Batul’s magic, and the air that rushed against him was cool, not stinging. Overhead, Dah’mir’s chest thrust and pushed. From his shoulders all the way along the length of his body and tail, his great wings swept the night. For a moment, Geth felt a rushing thrill at the experience-then Dah’mir shook his leg violently. Geth wrenched his head around, his hair whipping across his face, to look up. Dah’mir’s neck stretched out straight as he flew, but the dragon had managed to twist his head around enough to look down at his own massive chest. One angry green eye fixed on Geth and went wide.