Don Bassinghtwaite - The Binding Stone

He leaped lightly onto land, then held the boat so Orshok could clamber out. Natrac tried to do the same, but ended up slipping halfway into the water, thrown off balance because he had only one hand to pull with. It earned him a sneer from Krepis. "City-born half-breed."

Natrac's remaining hand tightened on his hunda. Batul grunted at them both.

When they were all on solid ground, Batul led them forward. Geth looked around as they walked. Under the light of the moons and the Ring of Siberys, the marsh was still. It also stretched almost completely empty for nearly as far as he could see. The only feature that stood out was a lone tree, twisted and dead.

Batul stopped under the shadow of the tree and stared ahead across the desolate marsh. After a moment, he spoke. "The Gatekeepers were created to defend the Shadow Marches against magical invasion from Xoriat, the realm of madness. For thousands of years, we waited and we trained. When the invasion finally came, though, even we weren't ready. Our tribes were devastated. The hobgoblin empire of Dhakaan was beaten back. The daelkyr, the foul leaders of the hordes of Xoriat, held the Marches in their fingers until orc and hobgoblin, Gatekeeper and Dhakaan, came together to drive them back and close the pathways to Xoriat." He stretched out a hand, sweeping it across the landscape before them. "Nine thousand years ago, before it was torn apart and its master put to the sword, this place was a daelkyr stronghold. Jhegesh Dol."

Geth studied the marsh. The only sign that a stronghold of any kind might once have stood here were a few large, scattered dark rocks. The grass and reeds of the marsh looked the same as anywhere else. The wind that blew over them smelled no different. The shifter glanced at Batul. "All we have to do is cross this?" he asked.

"Dagga." The old druid pointed. Geth followed his gesture; in the distance, he could make out the shape of another dead tree. "We will wait for you there. Cross Jhegesh Dol by dawn and Fat Tusk will fight with you."

Geth noticed that the orc didn't bother to mention the alternative. He glanced at Natrac. "Ready?"

The half-orc nodded. Geth took a breath and stepped out past the dead tree.

Nothing happened. He walked a few paces more. There was still nothing. He twisted around. Natrac was right behind him, looking as puzzled as he felt. Batul, Orshok, and Krepis had turned away from the dead tree and were pacing back toward the boats. "Batul!" he shouted. "Is this a trick? Nothing-"

Natrac sucked in a sudden, sharp breath and terror settled over his face as he stared beyond Geth. The shifter whirled back around.

The marsh was empty no longer. A misshapen fortress, cold and black, rose above them.

'Where did that come from?" Geth growled in disbelief.

Natrac shook his head. "I don't know! One moment there was nothing and the next…" He swallowed and said thinly, "It happened when you turned around. When you took your eyes of the marsh. There are legends about what orc tribes and dragonshard prospectors have found deep in the Shadow Marches. Old ghosts from the dark times of the Daelkyr War."

"There are legends about the deep forests in the Eldeen Reaches, too," Geth told him, a chill on his skin. He craned his neck back, looking up at the fortress. It was a hideous thing. The black stones that it had been built from were rough and irregular yet shone slick in the moonlight, as if grease or fat had been rubbed into them. High up on the fortress walls were tall windows that were no wider than his palm. Higher still, narrow platforms and towers jutted out, like vile growths. The battlements at the very top of the walls were jagged with blades set into the stone.

The fortress sprawled out to either side of him and Natrac, but directly in front of them was a gate, tall and narrow like the windows, set with blades like the high battlements. "We can't go around it," said Geth. He jerked his head at the gates. "I think we're supposed to go through."

Natrac nodded in reluctant agreement.

The blades that covered the gates looked dull and weathered, but Geth didn't feel like taking the chance of touching them. He and Natrac set the butts of their hundas against a flat space on one gate and leaned hard on the stout wood, pressing until the great gate swung open enough for them to slip through.

A rank stench of blood engulfed them. Natrac doubled over, retching at the smell. Geth clenched his teeth, biting down on his tongue, and fought the urge to do the same. Instead, he forced his head up and looked around them. The moonlight that bled through the open door made a tenuous silver path through a great, shadowy hall. Even away from the sliver of moonlight, though, there was enough light for him to see clearly. He almost wished that he couldn't.

Every part of the walls was decorated with blades and spikes. Empty torch sconces were formed from jagged swords of strange design. Knives made fantastic pinwheels on the walls. Halberds and other pole arms were bound in ranks around columns, their heads jutting out like sharp-edged frills. Doorjambs and archways wore crowns of iron spikes. High above, the ceiling was shingled in the overlapping blades of battleaxes.

The brown and black of long dried blood stained every surface.

Geth turned around, staring. "Grandmother Wolf," he murmured. The grating sound of Natrac's retching filled the air, echoing off the cold, hard metal. His whisper and even the soft scuff of his feet rose to join the cacophony. There was something else as well, though. He froze and gestured for Natrac to do the same. The half-orc wiped his mouth and staggered upright. They stood still and listened.

The echoes of their intrusion died out. For a moment there was silence-then a faint heart-wrenching scream of pain burst out from some unseen distance. Geth spun again, trying to locate the origin of the ghostly sound, but it seemed to come from everywhere at once. It rose and broke, falling away into a series of wordless, anguished sobs.

"Mercy of Dol Arrah, what was that?" gasped Natrac.

"It was the sound of someone with their tongue cut out," said Geth grimly.

The great hall narrowed ahead, shrinking down slightly to become a tall corridor that seemed to lead in the direction they wanted to go. Geth pointed his hunda silently. They crossed the hall and entered the corridor, both of them moving with swift stealth. Doors that bristled with clusters of long, tooth-like arrowheads lined the corridor, but neither Geth nor Natrac glanced at them, instead driving forward in unspoken agreement to get out of the fortress as quickly as possible. Geth's gut tightened with every step, though. It couldn't be that easy, he thought.

It wasn't. The corridor ended in another great chamber. At its far end stood a pair of metal-clad doors. To either side of them, stairs swept up, meeting at a broad landing and a dark archway. Natrac leaped forward to grab eagerly for the handle of one of the doors. Geth threw himself at the half-orc, holding him back. "Wait!" he ordered, and bent to examine the handles.

Long, knife-edge blades lined the inside of them. Anyone grasping the handles to open the doors would likely lose several fingers. Natrac hissed and clenched his hand quickly. Geth reached out with the crooked end of his hunda, hooking it around the handle and giving an experimental pull.

Nothing happened. The doors were locked or barred from the other side. Geth released his hunda-the wood now deeply scored from the blades in the door handle-and glanced at the stairs. "Looks like we're going up."

The room at the top of the stairs was darker than the hall and corridor below and it lacked the bizarre bladed ornamentation of the fortress's lower level. Geth wasn't certain he found that comforting. The upper room was cold and stark. If it had been an alley, he wouldn't have walked down it without a sword in his hand.