Don Bassingthwaite - The Grieving Tree

“What is it?” Dandra asked.

Singe’s shoulders slumped and he looked back at her. “We’re back where we were after the Bonetree mound,” he said. “Dah’mir is gone and we’re helpless.”

“He probably thinks we’re dead this time, though,” said Natrac. “We don’t have to worry about him looking for us-or for Dandra.”

“I’d rather he was,” Dandra said. She planted the charred shaft of her spear in the ground. “It would mean I was still his only link to raising a new line of servants for his master. Now he’s got Taruuzh’s stones.”

A wave of exhaustion passed through Singe. A big chunk of mortared stones torn from Taruuzh Kraat’s walls lay nearby. He sat down on it and rested his forehead on his palms. His fingers tangled in his hair. “We were so close. We found out so much and Dah’mir still beat us. Now we’ve lost him again. It’s just like before. He’s gone and we don’t know where he is.”

“We have a clue though,” said Geth.

Singe raised his head sharply to look at the shifter. The others turned to look at him as well. Geth put his hand on the hilt of his Dhakaani sword. “It looks like Goblin isn’t the only language Wrath understands. Whatever language that was that Dah’mir spoke to Hruucan in before he and Vennet vanished, Wrath put his words into my head. Dah’mir told Hruucan to meet him in the bright blade after we were dead.”

“The bright blade?” Singe asked. “What’s that?”

“Not what,” said Ekhaas. “Where. Wrath translated Dah’mir’s words too well.” The hobgoblin raised her head proudly. “In Goblin, ‘bright blade’ is ja’shaarat -and Ja’shaarat was one of the greatest cities of the Empire of Dhakaan.”

“Where is it?” asked Geth.

“Beneath a human city,” Ekhaas said. “Ja’shaarat became the foundations of Sharn.”

“Light of il-Yannah.” Horror bloomed on Dandra’s face. “Sharn holds the largest population of kalashtar in Khorvaire! That must be why Dah’mir’s gone there.” She stood straight. “We have to stop him. We have to warn the kalashtar.”

“Kalashtar aren’t the only ones in danger.” Orshok struggled to sit up in Ekhaas’s and Ashi’s arms. His eyes were bright and sharp with lingering pain, but determined as well. “The Gatekeepers need to know that the Master of Silence is active!”

Singe sucked in his breath and looked at Dandra and Geth. “Which one?”

“Both,” Geth said grimly. “We’re going to have to split up.” His eyes shifted between Singe and Dandra. “You two go to Sharn. I’ll go to the Shadow Marches with Orshok and find Batul.” He glanced at Ashi. “You know the Marches, too-”

The hunter shook her head. “I need to stay with Dandra,” she said. She held up her free hand and the swirls of her dragonmark seemed to dance in the moonlight. “I’m the only one who can protect her from Dah’mir’s power.”

“I’ll go to Sharn, too,” said Natrac. The half-orc moved to stand beside Singe. “It’s been a while, but I still know the city.”

Singe nodded. Geth growled under his breath. “Two of us. I guess it doesn’t take more than that to carry news-”

“Three,” Ekhaas said abruptly. Geth started and Singe raised his eyebrows. Ekhaas’s ears twitched back. “I know the stories,” she said. “Someone needs to tell the Gatekeepers their history.”

Geth spread his hands. “Three, then.”

Singe felt a plan rising inside him, pushing back the despair he had felt only moments before. They weren’t helpless anymore and Dah’mir hadn’t gotten away from them after all-at least not entirely. They still had a task ahead of them. He pushed himself up from his seat. “We can take the road back to Vralkek,” he said. “We’ll be there in a few days and we should be able to find some kind of transport to Sharn and Zarash’ak.”

Ekhaas shook her head. “Unless you find a Lyrandar elemental galleon again, a ship to Zarash’ak will take you almost as long as traveling overland.” She pointed off to the northwest. “I know this part of Droaam. I can get us to the edge of the Shadow Marches.”

“And I know the Marches,” said Orshok. “We can travel fast. Going back to Vralkek would be a waste of time for us.”

Silence fell over the group as the druid’s words sank into each of them. “So,” said Dandra after a moment, “we part here.”

“Aye,” said Geth. “I suppose so. After we collect our gear from the keep.” He rocked from foot to foot uncomfortably. “I’ll send a message if I can. House Orien post from Zarash’ak to Sharn.”

“Send it to the Deneith enclave in Deathsgate district. I know a Blademarks recruiter there.” Singe looked at Geth-then swallowed his pride and stepped up to the shifter. “Geth, I’m sorry for what I said in Tzaryan’s dungeon. I shouldn’t have told everyone about Narath like that.”

Geth stiffened and Singe hurried to force out everything he wanted to say. “You weren’t ready to talk and I wasn’t ready to listen. I think I am now. Whatever happened in Narath, I’ve realized something. I know you’re no coward.” He spread his arms and said again, “I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Geth just stared at him with hard, flat eyes and Singe wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have said anything at all.

Then Geth lunged forward, wrapping his arms around him, and squeezing him in a rib-cracking embrace. “Took you long enough, you bastard!” he said. Singe wheezed from the pressure and staggered when Geth let him go, but the shifter swung an arm around his shoulders and held him up, leaning close to murmur in his ear, “Tak.”

“You’re welcome.” Singe straightened up painfully.

There had been no more trouble since the Revered had returned to the ancestor mound, then vanished again, taking his fiery Hand with him. Still, Breff had seen enough to be wary. For three days and nights after the Revered’s brief appearance, he’d sat watch in a hidden place among the remains of the Bonetree camp, staring at the scorched battlefield before the mound, watching corpses fester and the scavengers come to call. Just before dawn after the third night, he’d risen, weak with hunger and delirious from lack of sleep, and made his way across the battlefield. Ravens and jackals had watched him pass, not even bothering to rise from their decaying feast.

At the mouth of the mound, he’d kindled a new honor fire and sat with it, half-dreading the reappearance of the dolgaunt with his flaming tentacles. Nothing happened though and as the sun rose, he had let loose one of the fluting calls of the Bonetree clan. The camp was safe again. The clan could return.

There hadn’t been much to return to, but there wasn’t much left of the clan, either. They’d moved into the charred remnants of the camp, buried their dead and scoured the battlefield, and begun to reclaim their lives.

As the moons soared overhead on the finest night for many weeks, Breff sat back beside a campfire, his favorite drinking bowl-recovered from the burned camp-in his hand, and looked up at the sky. He was the huntmaster now. The clan was his to command, to keep ready for the Revered’s return. If the Revered returned …

He buried the thought. The Revered would return. He hadn’t abandoned the Bonetree, no matter what some of the hunters who had fled after the fiery Hand’s attacks might have said. “Su Drumas,” he murmured to himself, “Su Darasvhir.” For the Bonetree. For the Dragon Below.

He sipped from the bowl. It held only water flavored with rotto stem. His first command to the clan, he decided, would be to begin brewing beer again. His second would be to track down and bring back the cowards who had fled-