Don Bassingthwaite - The Grieving Tree

The floor was an easy drop beneath him, the stones that had been removed to open the hole stacked neatly to one side. He lowered his rapier and carefully flicked it to the far side of the corridor. It fell to the floor with a swirl of light and a quiet clatter that rang like chimes on the still air. Singe paused, watching the darkness and listening, before twisting around and hissing back up the hole, “Let go!”

Hands released his ankles. Singe spread his legs, pressing against the sides of the hole in an attempt to control his descent, but he still came sliding out like the pit from a ripe cherry. He tucked as he fell, rolling back to his feet and snatching up his rapier in a smooth motion. He held it the weapon high and ready, light splashing around him.

Nothing stirred in the shadows. His breath hissed between his teeth and he stepped back over beneath the hole. He could see Dandra peering down at him. He gestured for her to join him. “Come down! Twelve moons, you have to see this!”

Geth was the last one down the hole. The slide into darkness was brief, the impact of his feet on the tunnel floor jarring, the cascade of dirt dislodged by his gauntlet extremely uncomfortable-it poured onto the top of his head and right down his back. “Rat!” he cursed, shaking himself and trying to dislodge it.

“Careful!” snapped Singe. The wizard was just lifting his hand from the head of Dandra’s spear. Light shone from the weapon just as it shone from his rapier. Geth growled and bared his teeth at him, for a moment caught up in their old, familiar rivalry.

Except that the anger in Singe’s eyes was real, just as it had been all the way along the road from Vralkek. Geth’s growl died in his throat and the shame that had haunted him since seeing Robrand again returned like a punch in his gut. The instant that Singe’s gaze left him, he pressed back into the shadows.

Why did it have to be Robrand working for Tzaryan? He could have happily lived his whole life without ever facing the old man again.

Orshok and Natrac came trotting along the tunnel. “You’re right,” Natrac said to Singe. “It ends at the collapse outside. Someone has been working down there-stones have been pulled out and pieced together on the floor like they were trying to match up fragments of writing.”

“Ekhaas,” Singe said. “I’d bet my hand on it.” He raised his sword so that its light shone full on a patch of writing. “This is some variation of Goblin. I recognize the script.”

“Can you read it?” asked Dandra.

Singe shook his head. “Not on my own. I can cast a spell that will let me, but the magic doesn’t last long. We need to go deeper-try and find the heart of the writing.”

“How? There doesn’t seem to be any end to it.” Dandra gestured with her spear, sending light dancing along the corridor. The strange writing on the walls stretched as far as Geth could see.

Singe reached up and touched some of the black characters. “Dah’mir left us instructions,” he said. “Look neither left nor right. The riches there are not for you. Hold to the path that leads to the Hall and find what waits in the shade of the grieving tree.”

“If there were ever riches here, they’re long gone,” said Geth. Singe glanced at him coldly.

“They’re not gone.” He patted the wall. “They’re here.”

Understanding lit up Ashi’s face. “The Bonetree hunters would have no use for writing-”

“-but Dah’mir would!” Dandra finished for her. She looked to Singe. “Do you think this writing is why he laired here?”

“I wouldn’t rule it out.” He lifted his rapier like a beacon and started down the corridor. “Follow me.”

For a moment, Geth wondered if the wizard realized how much he resembled Robrand when he took command of a situation. The thought brought another twinge of shame-another flash of better times among the mercenaries of the Frostbrand company. He forced it out of his head. Dandra had said it best: they had to work together.

That would have been easier if Singe had been willing to give him something more than a sour frown. Geth drew a shallow breath. “One battle at a time,” he muttered to himself, then winced. Another of Robrand’s gems of wisdom. He reached across his body and drew his sword, taking what comfort he could in the simple, solid weight of the weapon.

Around his throat, the stones of Adolan’s collar were a reassuring weight as well. He touched them. Grandmother Wolf, he thought, I wish you were here, Ado.

They crept down the dark hallway slowly, spreading themselves out so that they were close enough for comfort but far enough apart to swing their weapons if the need arose. The further they traveled along the script-lined corridor, however, the more Geth suspected that they had nothing to worry about. The shadows were still and silent. The dust of ages that lay on the floor had been disturbed by passage-Ekhaas, he presumed, since all the footprints looked the same-but there was no sign of struggle or violence. The air smelled of nothing but dust and rock … and maybe, if he breathed deep, old metal. He slid his sword back into its sheath.

At his side, Natrac leaned a little closer and whispered, “A different place from Jhegesh Dol.”

Geth nodded silently. The ghostly daelkyr fortress that the two of them had passed through in the depths of the Shadow Marches had been lonely and eerie as well-but it had also born the horrendous touch of its otherworldly master and been haunted by the spirits of his tormented victims. The tomb-like quiet of Taruuzh Kraat was welcome by comparison.

“They’re the same age, though, aren’t they?” Geth said. “The Dhakaani Empire was destroyed in fighting the Daelkyr War. Taruuzh Kraat and Jhegesh Dol might have both been occupied at the same time.”

“On opposite sides of the war, thank the Host.” Natrac nodded to the blade in Geth’s scabbard. “But your sword is that old, too.”

Geth looked down at the heavy Dhakaani weapon. “I try not to think about that.”

Natrac was silent for a moment, then added, “You really have Singe worked up. Him and Robrand both.”

“I try not to think about that either,” growled Geth. “Hold tight to your own secrets, Natrac.” He moved away from the half-orc.

The corridor they followed curved gently and soon rooms began to open off of it, then intersecting hallways. All of them were lined with writing as well, some of the characters larger or smaller, some patches of text isolated, others running uninterrupted for paces. It was like walking through an enormous book. Aside from the writing, the rooms they passed were empty. Geth took a wary glance through each doorway and down each hall that they passed. The ruins might have been dry, but the passage of centuries had left behind only those things that could resist time’s hunger. A fireplace, a counter crafted of stone and brick, scattered metal fittings amid the stains left by long decayed wood, a jumble of broken crockery fallen where some shelf or cupboard had crumbled.

And while Taruuzh Kraat might not have carried the terrible threat of Jhegesh Dol, the unending streams of text began to wear on him. Geth caught himself twitching and turning at half-glimpsed motion, only to realize that it was just another passage of writing on the wall. He bared his teeth and the hair on his neck and forearms bristled.

“When I was at Wynarn,” Singe said abruptly, his voice brittle on the still air, “there was a researcher who specialized in planar cosmology. He usually wrote out his calculations in chalk on a slateboard, but sometimes when he was caught up in a problem that was larger than in his board, he would write on the walls of his classroom. One morning another researcher came in and found him backed into a corner, trapped by his own notes.”