Don Bassingthwaite - The Grieving Tree

A chill spread through Singe. Ekhaas wasn’t the only one who could guess what would happen. “It’s a Grieving Tree,” he said to Dah’mir. “It’s a Dhakaani execution device.”

“Not just a Grieving Tree, Singe,” Dah’mir said. “The Grieving Tree. The very first one, created by Taruuzh. It’s also more than just a device. The original Grieving Trees were alive in their own way. They grew-that’s one reason why this one is so big. And like any living thing, they needed to be fed.” His acid-green eyes flashed. “This tree hasn’t been fed in a very long time.” He spoke a word that sounded like Goblin.

Singe felt a stirring at his back and twisted around.

The Grieving Tree was moving, the strangely curved stone segments that made up its trunk and limbs grinding as they rotated against each other. They shuddered and dipped as the tree flexed. Singe’s blood ran cold. Natrac choked and tried to squirm away. Dah’mir spoke another word.

A thick branch bent down and curved stone curled around the half-orc, whisking him up into the air and passing him from limb to limb until he hung in the shadows high above the ground. Sharp ridges and thorny spikes rippled-and dug into his flesh. Natrac flung back his head and screamed.

Wherever a branch embraced him, the grooves carved into the stone turned dark and red, catching and channeling his blood. A shudder like an unseen, unfelt breeze shook the tree. Natrac’s scream fell into a deep moan.

Dah’mir’s voice was light. “Death on a Grieving Tree is slow. The tree takes only a little blood at a time. A strong person could linger on the tree for days. I recall a legend of a fallen Dhakaani hero who hung on the tree for two weeks before she died.”

Natrac shifted-or tried to. The effort only dragged a new scream out of him. Dah’mir spoke the Goblin word a second time. Another branch twisted, reaching for Orshok. The druid saw it coming and shouted in fear. “No!” Singe yelled. He threw himself on top of the young orc, trying hold him down, to keep the tree from dragging him up. It was no good. Carved stone slid underneath Orshok and lifted both of them. His hands still tied, Singe couldn’t grasp him. He slid and fell, landing flat on his back. The impact drove the air out of his lungs. Stunned, he could only stare up into the branches and watch Orshok thrash in agony as spikes dug into his flesh and the tree released his blood.

“No,” he choked. He wrenched his neck around, trying to look for Geth, for Dah’mir. His eyes found Robrand. “Do something!”

The old man looked frightened and shockingly frail. He didn’t move. Beyond him, Tzaryan wore an expression of cold curiosity, studying the tree as if calculating how he could make use of it. Vennet’s face was alight with horrid, mad fascination.

In the passage, Geth’s face was pale and tormented-but hard. His lips were pressed tight together.

Dah’mir began to speak the word that commanded the tree a third time …

“No.”

Dah’mir stopped, the word of command poised on his tongue. Singe twisted around.

Hruucan stood over him, the fire of his body casting a bloody light up into the branches of the tree. His face was turned to Dah’mir. “No,” he said again. “The tree can’t have him. He’s mine. I claim him.”

The dragon’s mouth curved into a frown. “Your kills end too quickly, Hruucan.”

“This one won’t.” A tentacle of flame reached down. Singe tried to roll aside but Hruucan was quicker. The tentacle writhed after him, catching his leg and hauling him back. Once again, the ring that Singe wore devoured the flame before it burned him, but just as before, there was more to Hruucan’s fiery touch than heat. His leg twitched, curled, and seemed to go numb. When the tentacle tore away, it ripped something out of his very soul. Singe jerked and cried out. Patches of darkness blotted his vision.

Dah’mir’s voice came out of one of those patches. He sounded amused. “Take him with my blessing then,” he said. “Enjoy your revenge.”

Hruucan reached down with a charred hand and grasped the front of Singe’s shirt, hauling him to his feet. The wizard stared in the black pits of the dolgaunt’s empty eye sockets as he bared sharp teeth. “I will,” Hruucan said.

His free hand rose and clamped across Singe’s face.

Geth’s stomach was filled with stones. His head had been packed with broken glass. His ears hurt. His eyes burned. His fists were clenched so tight that his fingers ached. He didn’t look at Ashi or at Ekhaas, though he could hear them. Ashi’s breath came in harsh rasps. Ekhaas was singing something softly, her voice near to cracking.

Out in the great chamber, Singe shrieked and came near to collapsing under the touch of the fiery undead thing that Hruucan had become. On the Grieving Tree, Orshok’s voice rose in a babble of pain and Natrac moaned like an echo of Taruuzh in the caves below.

His friends were dying and there was nothing he could do.

Giving Wrath to Dah’mir would be giving the dragon Taruuzh’s stones. He couldn’t do that. He’d thought about breaking the sword-but that would only slow Dah’mir down. He could still take Dandra and Tetkashtai and kill the rest of them. Geth couldn’t accept that either. There had to be something else he could do, something clever. Something that Singe or Dandra would have thought of. They were the clever ones. All he could do was fight.

Another voice rose in agony. Robrand whirled around and stared into the passage. “Dol Arrah’s mercy, Geth-give him what he wants! End this! For Etan’s sake, end it!”

Dah’mir’s eyes stirred with interest and Geth could see the looks of surprise that Tzaryan and Vennet gave the old man.

“General! You know these two?” Tzaryan asked.

“They were under my command in the Frostbrand, my lord.” Robrand’s voice shook. “Etan was … is a friend. I promise you, I’ve given them no information or aid since they’ve been here that would dishonor the contract between us, but this-” He took a step toward the tunnel and raised his hands to Geth. “You can stop this, Geth. Whatever the dragon wants, give it to him!”

Geth’s throat felt raw. “I can’t,” he croaked.

Robrand’s face seemed to collapse. “You …” he said. He raised a trembling arm and pointed it at Geth. “You are a coward. You always have been. You always will be. Even when you can’t run away, you’re too much of a coward to act!”

The words were like blows. Only a few hours before, Geth would have curled up under them like the coward Robrand accused him of being, frightened of his old commander’s rage, ashamed of his own past.

Not now. Fury replaced shame and fear. Geth took the blows and hit back. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, old man! You don’t know what’s at stake here-and you don’t know what was at stake in Narath! Why don’t you close your mouth and look at who you’re standing with before you call me a coward again!”

Robrand staggered, then stood straight. He turned to Tzaryan. “My lord, your assessment of the risk in storming the passage does no credit to your troops. They can take the enemy position without undue loss.”

A part of Geth flinched at being referred to as the enemy. He bit it back, though. He and Robrand had chosen sides. His rage already roused, he snarled out at Robrand, “Send them in! Let’s see just how well you’ve trained them!”

Ekhaas twitched. “You’re as mad as the half-elf!” she hissed. Geth ignored her and glanced at Ashi. The hunter nodded grimly, her hand tightening on the grip of her bright Deneith honor blade.

Beyond the passage, Tzaryan looked up at Dah’mir. The dragon’s eyes narrowed to shining slits as if he was contemplating his options. On the platform under the Grieving Tree, Hruucan released his grasp on Singe. The wizard gave a low cry and dropped to his knees. Hruucan turned away, only to snap around in a whirling kick that cracked into Singe’s side and sent him sliding across the platform. Singe hit the trunk of the Grieving Tree hard-hard enough to shake the carved stone-and lay still. Hung on the branches above, though, the shock of his impact brought new screams from both Natrac and Orshok.