Don Bassingthwaite - The Binding Stone

“Get off me!” Dah’mir roared. He shook his leg again, but Geth clung tight, trying not to slash himself with his own sword. Dah’mir flexed, folding both legs to scrape them together. Geth clenched his teeth against the wind that tore at his breath and thrust himself higher, beyond the dragon’s awkward reach. Dah’mir roared again. His wings snapped out, his neck arched and his entire body rolled as he swept into a turn.

For a moment, the night sky, clouds breaking, swung below Geth. The Ring of Siberys flashed past in a shining arc, then Dah’mir righted himself and the Ring was replaced by moonlight reflected in water far below. The long loops of the river streaked by; the Bonetree mound, still lit by Dah’mir’s magic, grew like a swelling boil.

“Cling then!” said Dah’mir over the wind. His legs folded close and his wings beat even harder, speeding him forward. “Cling like a flea and watch your friends die before me!”

A blue-black flash caught Geth’s eye. One arm and both legs hugging the dragon’s thick foreleg tight, he twisted his head and looked up at Dah’mir’s massive chest, straining not much more than an arms length above him. Just as it had glittered against his leather robes as a man, a single Khyber dragonshard seemed set in Dah’mir’s chest as a dragon. The scales surrounding it were gnarled and misshapen. Geth clenched his sharp teeth tight.

“Fleas bite, dragon!” he snarled.

He leaned out and swung his sword as hard as he could at the dragonshard and the twisted scales around it.

The Dhakaani blade flashed with a dull glow, as if nature’s rage still clung to it, as if the Gatekeeper magic had breathed anger into the metal. Its jagged edge shattered the Khyber shard and bit deep into Dah’mir’s flesh-deeper than Geth would have hoped or expected.

Black blood burst out of the dragon’s chest, drenching Geth in a hot, steaming spray. Dah’mir twisted and crumpled in midair, the thunderous rhythm of his beating wings out of time. A grating howl louder than anything Geth had ever heard burst out of his jaws. The shifter caught a brief glimpse of a dark cloud bursting up from the banks of the river-the black herons of the Bonetree-before Dah’mir’s wings stopped beating altogether and he tumbled out of the sky, plunging toward the rising herons.

Geth’s guts pushed themselves up into his throat and he choked on a scream as he fell along with the dragon. He felt Dah’mir’s leg wrenched away from him. Talons slashed at him, but fell short. Geth caught a glimpse of acid-green eyes, the bright light of madness in them dimmed by agony but still sharp and now tinged with hate as well.

They flickered-then shifter and dragon were plunging past the darting wings of the black herons. Greasy feathers surrounded Geth, obscuring even Dah’mir’s writhing bulk.

A scant moment later he fell out of the whirling flock. He had only long enough to realize that he was falling alone before the water of the river slammed into him.

A blaze of agony woke him, a fire that cut through the darkness and throbbed through his shoulders and torso. Hands held him tight, dragging on him. The sound of a dragon’s roar echoed in his ears. He cried out and struggled, trying to defend himself.

The dragon’s roar gave way to cursing. “Twelve moons! Someone get that sword away from him!”

Singe’s voice, Geth realized. Then Dandra’s. “Hold him out of the water and I’ll lift him.”

A moment later, a gentle pressure surrounded Geth’s body. The hands that had held him let go and he rose slowly from water into air. His body turned. There was some pain but not as bad as it had been moments before. Geth’s eyes flickered open.

He hung suspended in the air. Beside him, Singe, Ashi, and Dandra crouched in a wide, flat-bottomed boat. Dandra’s gaze was focused on him. Her yellow-green psicrystal hung around her neck. Her fingers flickered and his dripping body slid sideways, then down into the boat. Hard wood pressed against his back and he coughed out a groan of pain.

Dandra bent over him. “Geth, can you hear me?”

Geth coughed again and water spattered out of his mouth, but he nodded. The air was gray with the light of early morning. “Where-?” he asked.

“On the river south of the ancestor mound,” said Singe. “Lie still.” He prodded Geth’s torso gently. The shifter gasped and writhed at the touch. His arm snapped up-and the Dhakaani sword with it. His fingers were clenched around the weapon’s hilt, wrapped so tight they were white and numb. Singe cursed, grabbing his arm and forcing it back down. “Careful!”

“Natrac? Batul?” asked Geth. His head was still reeling. Stringing more than a few words together hurt.

“Here,” said Natrac’s voice. There was a bump as another boat nudged up against theirs. Geth turned his head enough to see the hooked ends of hunda sticks slip over the sides of the boat, holding the two craft together. Orshok and Krepis peered over, then Batul pushed them aside. The old orc looked tired, though Geth thought maybe he looked worse.

“We’re all here,” said Dandra. Geth stared at her, then fixed his eye on Singe.

“Told you to run,” he said thinly.

“We did at first. But after you took Dah’mir for a ride, there wasn’t much point-the dolgrims and the Bonetree hunters were scattered.” The wizard looked down at him. “Ashi led us to the Bonetree boats when we saw you fall.”

“You and Dah’mir,” said Batul. The druid’s face was somber. “What did you do to him?”

“I hit him.” Geth started to lift the Dhakaani sword again, but the strength seemed to have gone from his arm-from all of his limbs. A vague memory stirred inside him of plunging beneath the surface of the river, then splashing back to the surface and holding tight to a floating log as the river currents bore him through the night. “The sword … Gatekeeper magic and Dhakaani weapons. The sword wounded him.”

Batul looked startled. “You brought Dah’mir down with one blow? That’s more than Gatekeeper magic.”

“There was a dragonshard in his chest-a weak spot in his scales.”

“But one blow?” Batul stared at the sword in Geth’s hand.

“We saw him disappear,” said Singe. “How badly was he wounded?”

The last glimpse of madness and hatred in Dah’mir’s eyes returned to Geth. A chill sank deep into his belly. “Not badly enough,” he said.

Banging on his cabin door and Karth’s shouts dragged Vennet out of sleep. “Captain! Captain!”

It took a moment before Vennet realized that the big man’s voice was tight with fear. Though they’d accepted Vennet’s explanation of events in Zarash’ak, most of the crew had been on edge since leaving the City of Stilts. Vennet had even switched Lightning on Water over to a Sharn-Trolanport run, hoping that some time well away from the Shadow Marches would ease their tensions. Through it all, though, Karth had been one of the few solid, sensible members of the crew. If he was frightened of something …

Vennet sat up sharply in his bed. “What is it, Karth?”

“Birds, captain! Dozens of them!”

“What?” Vennet threw aside the bedclothes-and froze.

Dawn’s pale glow glimmered through the shutters over the cabin’s window. Thin lines of light fell across a tall black heron with shining, acid-green eyes that stood in the shadows of the cabin. Something black and wet dripped from its narrow chest to puddle on the floor directly over his hidden strong box and the two precious dragonshards it contained.

Vennet felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead.

“Captain d’Lyrandar,” said the heron. “I have need of you now.”