The Binding Stone (The Dragon Below, Book 1) (30 page)

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Authors: Don Bassingthwaite

BOOK: The Binding Stone (The Dragon Below, Book 1)
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She was standing less than a pace away, her eyes raised to the sky and the rising moons. Singe followed her gaze--and drew a sharp breath.
Silhouetted against the silver glow of the night sky, circling down to land near the campsite, was a heron, its legs dangling and its long neck folded back on itself. The bird landed beyond the
firelight, but he could see that its feathers were black and greasy, When it cocked its head, its eyes flashed green. Singe saw Dah'mir glance toward the bird and give an almost imperceptible nod.
Ashi took a fast step back to Singe and Dandra. "Don't move, outclanner. As you value your life,
don't move!"
Bonetree hunters burst out of the night all around the campsite, screaming and howling their battle cries. Knives, spears, and clubs flashed. The cultists who had come from Zarash'ak leaped to their feet instantly, stumbling over each other in frightened surprise. They weren't unarmed, though, and they snatched up weapons quickly. Confusion surged across the campsite as they met the hunters' unexpected attack.
Singe looked up at Ashi, standing in front of them, her arms spread wide to let the attackers know that he and Dandra were her prisoners. His rapier and Dandra's spear were strapped across her back. For two days the weapons had been tantalizingly close, but Ashi had never been so distracted as this before! For a moment, Singe gauged his chances of seizing his rapier and making a break for the boats the cultists had drawn up at the river's marshy edge beyond the camp.
Then he looked at the attacking hunters again and let the idea fall away. Five of the eight cultists were already down, skulls smashed in, throats slit, or chests run through. Seeing Dah'mir and Medala still seated calmly by the fireside, one of the cultists attempted to surrender, dropping her weapon and throwing up her hands.
A long knife opened a gash from her chest to her belly. Another cultist went down to the combined attack of two hunters, their clubs rising and falling in horrible rhythm. Fause and the final cultist spun around, back to back, facing the closing ring of hunters.
"Dah'mir!" Fause called desperately as recognition seemed to finally sink into him. "These are your followers! Call them off!"
The green-eyed man shrugged. "I only need one escort, Fause--and unfortunately, the Bonetree tend to be jealous folk."
The cult-leader cursed and raised his hands, trying to cast a prayer to the foul powers he followed. A club spun out of the ring
and hit his head with a hard, hollow sound. He staggered--then straightened as another hunter thrust a spear into his body. The last cultist screamed, but the hunters closed in and dragged him to the ground. His screams ended in an ugly, bloody bubbling noise.
Dah'mir rose at last, holding out his hands in blessing. The hunters broke away from their victims to kneel before him. Singe stared.
They were all children, gangling and awkward adolescents--though there was nothing awkward in the way they had wielded their weapons. All displayed tattoos and piercings, just as the adult hunters had. All looked lean and tough. Ashi glanced down at Singe and gave him a thin grin. "The elder hunters were sent in pursuit of Tetkashtai," she said. "The next generation takes their place while they are gone."
Some of the young hunters turned toward him and Singe shivered at the intensity in their blood-spattered faces. Ashi drew her sword and raised it before them.
"Su Drumas!"
she called.
"Su Darasvhir!"
the hunters shouted back. They spun away from Ashi to raise their weapons to Dah'mir--and to Medala.
"Su Darasvhir!"
Singe saw Ashi stiffen. He leaned closer toward her. "What is it?" he asked her.
"They've changed since I've been gone," Ashi said. She stared at the hunters as Dah'mir dismissed them. The young men and women moved swiftly, hauling up the bodies of the cultists and dragging them away from the campsite.
"You said Dah'mir has shaped the Bonetree clan," Singe pointed out. "What do you think he's shaping it into?"
"Close your mouth!" the big hunter snapped. She squatted down, her face troubled. Singe hesitated, then shifted a little closer.
"Maybe they're not the ones who've changed," he murmured. Ashi tensed and Singe flinched back in anticipation of a blow, but Ashi didn't move. He slid back again. "While you tracked us to Yrlag and while we were on Vennet's ship--was that the first time you'd been away from the clan?"
"I said close your mouth." Ashi stood. She glared down at
him. "You should start to learn the ways of the Bonetree," she said. "You'll need to."
"What are you talking about?" Singe demanded--but a vile suspicion was already growing in him. "Twelve moons," he cursed in disbelief. "Dah'mir's plans for me ... he wants to bring me
into
the clan?"
"How did you think he shapes the Bonetree?" growled Ashi. She stalked away, leaving Singe to turn and stare at the savage youths of the clan.
Geth's eyes twitched open to a hot white light that stabbed all the way through into his brain. He whined and squeezed them shut again, but the light pierced his eyelids. He tried to fling up an arm to cover his face, but he couldn't move. Something held his arms at his side. Every muscle and joint in his body ached; every inch of his skin burned. Under the metal of his gauntlet, his right arm felt like it was itching and crawling. His whine rose into an uncontrollable howl. He twisted desperately--and the twisting seemed to shake his entire world.
A gruff voice cursed in words he didn't understand. His world shook a little more, but a shadow cut off the excruciating torment of the light. Geth forced his eyes open.
An orc stood over him, a shroud in one hand and a club in the other.
Geth shouted and tried to writhe away from him, but the orc cursed again, dropped the shroud and the club, and reached for him. "Rest, shifter! Rest or you'll tip the boat!"
Awareness forced itself on Geth. The house in Zarash'ak, Vennet, the cult, the monstrous chuul, the orc ... Dah'mir's spell. A vague memory of a plunge into foul water. An even more vague memory of something or someone nudging him to the surface. He focused on the orc.
"You saved me," he gasped. Another thought tugged at him. "Natrac!"
He twisted again, looking around. Natrac lay close beside him, pale but breathing slowly in sleep. Both of them lay in the bottom
of a flat-bottomed boat. Over the boat's sides, Geth could see the tops of trees and the nodding heads of reeds. The hot light that beat down on him was the sun, sailing across a blinding blue sky. The club the orc had been holding, he realized, was actually an oar of some kind. The shroud was a blanket.
"Where are we?" he croaked. "Where are Singe and Dandra?"
The orc's face tightened. "Your friends were taken upriver by the cult." Geth cried out and tired to sit up. The orc held him back. "Be still!" he commanded.
"My arms," Get moaned. "I can't move my arms!" He struggled to raise his head and look down his body.
"I've bound them," said the orc. "You've already come close to tipping us once before with your thrashing." He eased Geth back down. "Dah'mir's spell infected you with disease, and swallowing the waters of Zarash'ak didn't help you. You're too sick for my skill and knowledge to cure you. I'm taking you to someone who can."
He picked up the blanket and draped it across a kind of frame to make a rough sunshade. The scorching light of the sun vanished. Geth's vision seemed to swim with the plunge back into fevered darkness. "Who are you?" he asked thickly.
"My name is Orshok." The orc's rough hand reached out of sight for a moment, then reappeared cupping a number of knuckle-sized red-purple berries. He held the fingers of his other hand over them and murmured a prayer. Geth felt magic like a sweet breeze swirl around them. Nature's magic.
"A druid," he said. "You're a druid!"
"Rest," said Orshok. He picked a berry out of his hand and placed it in Geth's mouth. The tiny fruit burst on his tongue, filling his mouth with tart-sweet juice. A feeling of ease spread though him, pushing back his fever and aches a little bit. His eyelids drooped ...
He was tearing the wet meat off a half-cooked chicken carcass when he felt the presence of someone watching him. The hair on his neck and forearms bristling, he whirled around, one hand
still clutching the chicken, the other snatching up his sword from the grass beside him.
Both ended up pointed at a man of about his own age, a human with red-brown hair and a beard that was just filling in. The man leaned casually on a heavy spear decorated with a spray of fresh green oak leaves and contemplated the blade and the bird. "I hope you don't get those mixed up while you're eating," he said in a pleasant voice.
Geth didn't move. The other man shrugged. "Don't mind me," he added. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You're not," growled Geth. When the man still made no move, he settled back down to the ground, though he made sure to keep one hand free and his sword close. The sack that held his great-gauntlet was nearby as well--he wouldn't have time to don the armored sleeve, but its weight made a decent weapon on its own.
The bearded man moved slowly out from among the trees, deliberately giving the shifter plenty of time to react. Geth's eyes darted around the small clearing, trying to see if he had brought anyone else with him. The forest was thick with the new growth of spring and the shadows were growing deep as evening settled over the valley, but neither growth nor darkness were so dense that he couldn't see through them. The man was alone.
As the stranger settled down on the other side of the small fire, Geth became conscious of how he must look. Chicken juices shone on his face and hands, mingling with the grime of long travel. His thick hair was matted. His clothes were stiff with dirt and a foul stink rose from both them and his body. How long had it been since he washed? He choked off the thought and bit back into the chicken, sharp teeth ripping off a big chunk of flesh. He kept his eyes on the bearded man as he chewed.
"My name's Adolan," the man said after a time.
"Geth," the shifter answered around a mouthful of meat. He looked over the other man's well-worn leather clothing and the rough collar of polished, rune-etched stones that hung around his neck. He swallowed and, in between bites, grunted, "You're a druid?"
Adolan nodded. "I watch over this valley." He twitched his spear toward the forest. "There's a hamlet back that way. Bull Hollow. You might have noticed it?" Geth grunted and Adolan continued. "Some of the farmers on the edge of the Hollow have noticed someone suspicious skulking around the forest. One of them asked me to look into the theft of a couple of chickens."
"Might have been a fox," said Geth, licking his lips.
"Might have been," agreed Adolan. The druid looked at him. "Are you just passing through?"
The question sent a flash of heat through Geth. "Maybe," he rasped angrily, returning his gaze. "Maybe not."
Adolan's eyes seemed to sharpen with such intensity that, even in anger, Geth hesitated. "Yes," he said after a moment. "Just passing through."
"Mind if I ask where you're headed?"
Geth seized a bone in his teeth and pulled it loose from the chicken, then spat it away into the night. "West," he answered. "As deep into the Eldeen as I can."

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