Don Bassingthwaite - The Grieving Tree

Blood pounded in Vennet’s ears. He flipped the shard around in his hand and drove the narrow end deep in Dah’mir’s wounded chest. Warm, ragged flesh licked his fingers. He snatched them away. Dah’mir staggered back a pace and stared down at the blue-black stone in his chest.

Then he flung back his head and roared.

The flesh of his chest writhed and knit together around the shard, leaving its flat top glittering against his pale skin. The writhing of the priest’s flesh didn’t stop there, however. His skin thickened, the metallic luster of copper spreading across his chest, up to his throat, and down to his belly. The black leather of his robes became scaly and thick, merging with his body-which grew and kept growing. Arms and legs twisted. Hands grew massive talons. Dah’mir stretched and immense copper-sheened wings burst from his sides, a tail from the length of his back. His chin became sharp and pointed, his face a muzzle. Horns thrust back against his head. His wild eyes opened into great shining orbs of acid green.

The dragon reared back and a second roar shook the cavern. “I am restored! Thank you, my master! Glory to Khyber, the fallen and shunned!”

Vennet curled back, thrusting himself away from the awesome majesty of the wyrm. The presence that Dah’mir had worn as a man seemed magnified. Conflicting urges tore at Vennet: flee from the monster or fall down and bow before Dah’mir’s power. He screamed, vomiting his fear, and cowered. His saber was in his hand, held like a shield. His dragonmark burned across his back. On the other side of the cavern, Hruucan laughed at him, his fiery tentacles lashing.

The echoes of roar and laughter spoke to him. He’s a dragon! You’ve pledged yourself to a dragon!

“I know,” Vennet croaked.

Not many people live to see both a dragon and a daelkyr .

“Then I’m dead.”

Not yet .

Dah’mir settled back to crouch on four legs, his wings folded against his scaly sides. “I will not fail you, master. A new line of servants will bow before you.” He dipped his body, lowering his horned head to the ground, then sat back. His wings fluttered around him and his body writhed once more, this time folding in on itself, becoming smaller, becoming human-sized once more-

— then, strangely, even smaller. Scales becomes greasy black feathers and Dah’mir stood in the center of the cavern as a heron, just as he had in Vennet’s cabin. Except this time, he was the one who looked startled. He swelled back into a dragon, then shrank into a heron once more.

“My human form!” he screeched. He twisted and spread his feathered wings. “Master, what happened to my human form?”

The laughter of the unnatural creatures of the daelkyr’s court reached through the eerie lens as a faint hissing, but Vennet could read the mocking expression on their faces. The daelkyr sat forward on his throne. His voice throbbed in Vennet’s mind. It didn’t seem so terrible now, as if the ancient words had burned away his pain and fear. He still cringed though at the cold anger of the daelkyr’s tone. Failure is punished .

Dah’mir flinched. “Master?”

Bring me my servants and your human shape will be restored .

“But master, how? How can I do your work? I cannot walk among humans! I have no hands!”

Use the hands of others. Let them walk for you . The daelkyr’s expression dimmed. He sat back. Bring me my servants .

Vennet saw Dah’mir tremble. His heron-head dipped. “I understand.”

The lens within the great Gatekeeper seal shimmered and the vision of the daelkyr’s weird court snapped and collapsed. Dah’mir turned on spindly legs to look first at Hruucan, then at Vennet.

The half-elf slid his saber back into its scabbard and held out his hands. “Dah’mir,” he said. “My master.”

The long, dark walk up from the cavern and out of the mound seemed faster the second time. Maybe it was because the whispers of the dolgrims had fallen silent. Maybe it was because Vennet felt none of the fear he had before. He felt strangely giddy, in fact, and only Dah’mir’s rage kept him quiet.

Anger was an aura around the heron. He flew where he could, leaving Vennet and Hruucan to follow in his wake, and walking where he couldn’t, forcing them to match his waddling pace. He said nothing.

Dawn had broken when they emerged from the mound. Vennet blinked at the radiance. Hruucan bared his teeth at the light that fell on him, but without eyes, he didn’t flinch. Dah’mir leaped into the air as soon as he could, beating his wings to gain height-then transforming into his dragon form in mid-air. He settled back to the ground of the battlefield before the mound and his shining eyes looking down on Hruucan and Vennet.

“Your desires come to the fore, Vennet,” he said, his voice a rumble. “We’re going after your ship. I need Dandra and Tetkashtai. I will begin my research with them.” His talons gouged grooves in the ground. “You will be the first rider I’ve born willingly in my life. Feel honored.”

“I will,” Vennet said. “I do.”

“Wait!” hissed Hruucan. His tentacles whipped through the air. “You can’t leave me. If Singe is on that ship …”

“I wouldn’t leave you behind,” said Dah’mir. His eyes narrowed as he considered the fiery dolgaunt’s tentacles. “Fire revives you, but can you extinguish yourself?”

Hruucan’s tentacles stiffened. “No.”

“Then let me.” Without warning, the dragon reared and his tremendous leathery wings hammered on the air. Vennet twisted away and covered his face to protect himself against the sudden blast of wind and dust stirred up. Grit choked the air, worse than salt spray in a storm.

Look to Hruucan , the rushing wind whispered in his ears. Vennet turned.

The dolgaunt was staggering against the air and dust, his flames guttering like candles, simultaneously blown away and smothered. His tentacles streamed out and vanished. The red embers beneath his skin flared bright, then turned black.

Hruucan fell to the ground, a charred corpse.

Dah’mir folded his wings. The dust in the air began to settle. Without even being asked, Vennet went to Hruucan’s body. His skin was hot, crisp, and fragile, like burned paper. The half-elf stripped a tunic off the rotting body of an orc who had died with an axe in his skull. The fabric was stiff and stank of decay. There were maggots clinging to it but he shook them off and wrapped the tunic carefully around the bundle that was Hruucan. “To keep him from crumbling as you fly,” he told Dah’mir.

The dragon nodded and bent down so that Vennet could climb onto his back. “Sit at the base of my neck,” he said. “Hold tight.”

Vennet barely had time to settle himself and wedge his hands among the thick scales that ran down Dah’mir’s back before the dragon coiled and leaped into the air. His wings snapped out, beat down and caught the wind. They climbed. Dah’mir let out a strange whistle and the herons that had traveled with them from Zarash’ak burst from the riverbank below to soar up and meet them. They had to fly fast-even barely beating his wings, Dah’mir was still climbing. The Shadow Marches spread out below Vennet and he laughed.

Like flying in an airship , the passing wind howled.

“Better!” Vennet shouted back.

Far ahead, clouds piled up in a thick bank. Dah’mir soared toward them and after what seemed like only a few moments, they plunged into the thick mists. The sunlight vanished, leaving everything damp, cool, and dim.

“Prepare yourself!” Dah’mir roared. Peering past his neck, Vennet saw him stretch out a foreleg and heard him snarl a word of magic.