Don Bassingthwaite - The Grieving Tree

The long stretch of rubble from the first of the collapsed chimneys appeared among the long grass. The second pile of stones was close as well. So was a third, far more tangled with creeping vines and scrub trees than the others-it must have fallen even earlier. Maybe it had been overgrown when the Bonetree hunters had come on their quest. Singe called a halt. “Spread out,” he said. “The Bonetree story mentions the door above the tangled valley. See if you can find an entrance into the underground ruins.”

It look only a few minutes of searching, though, before Natrac called out, “Here!” The half-orc stood in a depression in the ground, a kind of wide trough. One end of the depression, Singe saw as he and the others joined Natrac, was smooth and relatively level-the remains, perhaps, of a shallow ramp cut into the earth. Wind and rain had softened its edges and corners, blending it back into the landscape.

What would have been the deeper end of the ramp, however, was now a rugged patch of ground several paces long and sunk down by a good half pace. Geth climbed over it and pulled up a knot of grass. Tangled roots lifted thin soil with them. Underneath lay a jumble of stone.

Geth looked up. “Whatever was under here, it’s collapsed now. It might have been an entrance, though.”

They were the first words the shifter had spoken to him for days and Singe ground his teeth against a surge of loathing. Seeing Robrand had opened up old wounds. The loss of the Frostbrand pulled at him in a way that it hadn’t in years. Talking to Geth in any way was the last thing he wanted to do.

Fortunately, Dandra spoke before he was forced to. “I could try using vayhatana to shift the rubble.”

The idea was enough to pull Singe out of his anger. “No,” he said before she could attempt it. “There’s more to excavating a collapse than digging out rubble. You have to shore it up to make sure it doesn’t collapse again. I learned that from a company of sappers during the war.” He walked the length of the depression, staring at the broken ground. “We also don’t know how far the collapse goes. It could extend-”

“Singe,” said Ashi sharply, “don’t move.”

He froze at her warning, an instant reaction learned-like his knowledge of excavating-during the war, then stepped back cautiously as Ashi hurried forward to crouch over the ground he had been about to walk on. Leaning over her shoulder, he saw a footprint preserved in dried mud.

“What about it?” he asked.

“Look at the grass,” Ashi said, examining the footprint carefully. “It hasn’t rained here recently. This footprint at least a couple of weeks old. Someone was among these ruins not too long ago.”

The others came to cluster around them.

“Tzaryan?” suggested Natrac. “Ogres on patrol?”

“The footprint isn’t that big.”

“Robrand?”

Ashi shook her head, the beads in her hair clacking softly. “Robrand’s boots are old and well worn. Whoever left this wears good boots with no signs of wear at all.”

“Ekhaas wears good boots,” said Geth, still standing down in the depression. “And they might be magical. Magical boots don’t wear out, do they?”

His curiosity aroused, Singe answered without thinking. “Not usually, no.” He bit back a curse at having spoken to the shifter, but he had to admit that Geth might have been onto something. Ekhaas could have made the footprint. If she had, what had the self-appointed protector of the ruins been up to? A patrol of the territory she claimed? “Ashi, do you think she left any other tracks?”

The hunter rose and moved carefully, her eyes on the ground, in the direction the footprint faced. Her hand hovered in the air, then pointed. “Here-the mark of a heel. Here-another footprint. All in a straight line.” She stopped and held out her arm, marking the path.

The footprints led directly to a shallow hollow filled with thorn bushes. Orshok took one look at the bushes and said immediately, “Those are dead.”

Singe considered the bushes. “Are you sure? They just look dry.”

“I know dead plants when I see them.” The druid went up to the bushes and bent down low, peering underneath the tangled branches. “There’s something behind them. A big piece of leather.” He stood up and reached in among the bushes with his hunda stick, hooking the crooked end of the staff around a branch and tugging the mass of dry wood to one side. Geth helped him, gripping the prickly wood with his gauntleted hand. The dead bushes moved in a single mass to reveal a large section of heavy hide that was very nearly the same color as the soil. Stones had been lashed to the edges of the hide to give it extra weight and anchor it against the side of the hollow. Geth grabbed one and pulled the hide away.

Underneath was a hole just large enough for a big person to squeeze through.

“Well, well,” murmured Singe. “Not exactly a door, but I don’t think we need to be fussy.” Drawing his rapier, he laid a hand against the blade and spoke a word of magic. A warm glow spread along the metal, practically invisible in the sunlight but bright as a torch when he extended the sword into the dark hole. The sides of the hole were smooth earth, packed solid and held firm by old roots; just a short distance beyond the tip of his rapier, the hole passed through the stones of a broken wall and opened into shadows. Of the space beyond, he could see nothing. He cursed under his breath and pulled back the sword. There could be a short drop on the other side of the hole-or a long one. He looked around at the others. “Any volunteers to go in first?” Everyone glanced at everyone else. Singe grunted. “Fine. Ashi, Orshok, hold onto my legs.”

Geth interrupted again. “I’m stronger than Orshok,” he said. “Maybe I should-”

Singe sucked air between his teeth. Talking to Geth was one thing. Placing his safety in the shifter’s hairy hands was another. “Don’t touch me.”

Geth stopped and dropped back, a flush on his face. The others fell silent for a moment as well. Singe felt blood burn in his face for a moment as well-at least until the memory of Treykin, dying horribly in the streets of Narath but refusing to let an Aundairian touch him, came back to him. He stood straight. “Orshok can do it,” he said tightly. “You’re no weakling, are you, Orshok?”

The young orc glanced from him to Geth, then shook his head slowly. “No?” asked Singe. “Good.” He turned back to the hollow, putting Geth behind him.

His righteous anger lasted until he knelt before the hole and stretched his arms-sword hand first-into the hole, then his head, shoulders and torso. Suddenly he felt like a rodent. The space was cramped. Stray roots tickled his cheek and neck. Dirt sifted into his hair. When he felt strong hands locked around his shins and ankles, he took a deep breath and squirmed forward, pulling himself with his elbows and his free hand.

His body blocked daylight, leaving only the magical illumination of his rapier blade. He stretched the sword out ahead of him. Its light fell on the stones he had seen before, then passed on into the space beyond to flash against another wall not far away.

There was writing on the wall, stark black characters on gray stone.

“Singe,” said Ashi, her voice muffled, “we’re almost at your knees!”

“Keep going!” he called back softly. He wriggled a little more and pushed his arms past the broken wall and into open air beyond. Another push and his head was through as well. Arching his back and propping himself up with his free hand, he stared in amazement.

He had emerged in a corridor constructed of large stones, carefully smoothed and tightly fitted. Angular writing-some form of Goblin-covered both walls, scrawled across the stones in irregular patches as though a scribe had taken to graffiti. The strokes of the writing were sharp-edged, like a pen on paper, but there was no sign of ink or paint. Instead, it was as if the stone itself had been stained-a simple magic, but one applied on scale far larger than Singe had ever imagined. The light of his sword didn’t reach far, but it looked like one end of the corridor headed back toward the collapsed entrance, while the other continued on into darkness. The writing marched into the shadows in an unending stream.