The Binding Stone

CHAPTER 12

He woke up shouting names he hadn’t spoken in years. Strong hands grabbed his shoulders, pushing him back down onto rough blankets, and a gruff voice muttered words he didn’t understand. Geth thrashed, trying to sit up, to climb out of whatever bed he lay in. The gruff voice rose sharply, grunting more gibberish. Geth picked out one word though: Natrac.

A hand grabbed one of his arms while the weight of a body pinned his other. “Geth! Easy!” called Natrac’s voice. “We’re safe. Relax!”

Geth squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. The weight across him was the half-orc, though it took Geth another heartbeat to be certain. Natrac’s face was drawn. The fine red coat and gray tunic he had worn on Vennet’s ship were gone, probably too fouled to be salvaged. He wore rough leather clothes like those Orshok had: patched pants and a pale shirt with sleeves that ended just below his shoulders.

His right arm ended at the wrist. The burned and angry flesh had been replaced by skin that was still soft and smooth from magical healing.

The sight of Natrac’s stump shocked him into relaxation. The pressure on his shoulders eased and the gruff voice grunted again-this time in approval. Geth twisted his head around to look up at the speaker. It was an old orc woman, her gray-green face deeply wrinkled and speckled with coarse white hairs, her tusks dull and yellow. In spite of her age, though, her limbs were thick with muscle. She patted his shoulders and said something else in what Geth guessed was Orc. Natrac answered her in the same language. The old woman patted Geth’s shoulders again, then stood and stepped away from him.

Geth looked around. He lay on a low blanket-covered platform in a hut built from rushes and hides. The old woman picked up a shallow bowl from a packed dirt floor strewn with more rushes and waddled to a doorway that had been hung with a hide. When she brushed it aside, the red light of sunset flashed through.

“She’ll fetch Orshok,” said Natrac. He rolled off Geth. “How do you feel?”

The shifter lay back, taking stock of his body. “Good,” he answered after a moment. He was slightly weak and ravenously hungry. There was an ache in his chest, but the pain was spiritual rather than physical, the aftermath of the fevered dreams that had ravaged him. He drew a long, shuddering breath against the images-some half-remembered delusions, some all too real-and sat up.

He was naked under the blankets except for Adolan’s collar of stones. Natrac reached out and grabbed his clothes from on top of a chest. They looked and smelled like they had been washed. There was the sour odor of illness in the air, though. Geth’s skin felt damp and he realized abruptly that the old orc had been washing him. He looked up Natrac.

“Where are we? How long have I been sick?”

“We’re in an orc village called Fat Tusk,” the half-orc told him. He sat back, his amputated arm cradled in his lap. “From what Orshok tells me, it’s been five nights since you tried to rescue me from Vennet and the cult-and he ended up rescuing both of us from someone he’ll only describe as the ‘Servant of Madness.’”

“Dah’mir,” Geth growled. “Five nights? Rat, Natrac! Do you remember what we told you about Dah’mir and the Bonetree clan?”

Natrac grimaced and thrust the stump of his arm forward. “Dagga, I remember,” he said.

Geth flushed and words stumbled on his tongue. “Natrac, you shouldn’t have gotten caught up in this. Vennet was using you as bait. He drugged you on the ship to keep you quiet, then when we discovered he followed the Dragon Below and escaped-” His fists knotted in his clothes. “I can’t make it up to you.”

The half-orc waved away his apology-or tried to. There was no hand for him gesture with. His face twisted in frustration and anger. “You came for me, Geth. What more could I have asked for?” His remaining hand curled tight. “But by Dol Dorn’s mighty fist, I swear that Vennet is going to wish he killed me outright! That bastard should have known better than to leave me alive!”

There was a hardness to Natrac that he hadn’t shown onboard Lightning on Water. The façade of the blustering merchant had been stripped away to reveal a raw fire underneath. It would have taken a lot more than just bluster, Geth realized, to deal with the thugs Natrac had brought onboard Vennet’s ship. He wondered what the half-orc had done in his younger days.

“I’ll stand with you, Natrac,” he promised. “There’s a lot that Vennet needs to answer for.”

He held out a fist. Natrac bashed his fist against it, knuckle to knuckle. “Kuv dagga!” he said in harsh agreement. He looked at Geth. “Singe only told us part of your story on the ship. I’ve told Orshok what I know, but there’s more to it. What did Singe leave out?”

The hide covering the door flipped back and Orshok stepped into the hut. “Wait, and tell us all,” the young druid said in his thick accent. He nodded at Geth’s clothes. “If you feel well enough to walk, get dressed and come with me.”

There was apprehension on Orshok’s face. Geth scrambled to his feet and pulled on his clothes quickly. “I feel fine, tak to you,” he said. “What happened? I remember Dah’mir casting a spell on me-and then waking up in your boat.”

“You stumbled into the water,” Orshok told him. “The Servant of Madness must have thought you were already dead. I was close enough to go back and pull you both to safety.”

“Then twice tak-that’s two times you saved me,” said Geth as he pulled his vest on over his shirt. “What were you doing in Zarash’ak anyway? When you saved me from the chuul, you said you were only supposed to be watching the house.”

“My teacher had a vision that the Servant would go to Zarash’ak and sent me to watch what he did there.” Orshok’s gray-green skin flushed dark. “When I saw that you were in danger, my hatred for the cults of the Dragon Below moved me more than my teacher’s instructions. I couldn’t stand by any longer.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Geth nodded to the door of the hut. “Tak to your teacher as well. You said curing me was beyond your skill. Was she the one who broke the disease?”

The young druid looked confused. Natrac said something briefly in Orc and Orshok’s eyes widened-then narrowed. “Meega was only tending to you, Geth,” he said. “She isn’t my teacher-and it wasn’t my teacher who cured you.”

Geth paused in the act of buckling on his belt. The scabbard was empty, his Karrnathi sword lost in the water below Zarash’ak, but the pouch on the belt’s other side was still intact. His great-gauntlet was sitting on the chest where the rest of his clothes had been. It would need some time to check the straps and plates-he had already decided to leave it for now.

“Who cured me then?” he asked Orshok.

A loud voice shouted from outside in Orc. Geth caught Orshok’s name, but didn’t understand the rest. The voice’s owner didn’t sound pleased, though. Orshok shouted back and glanced at both Geth and Natrac. He threw back the hide covering on the hut’s door.

The village of Fat Tusk stood on a low rise that pushed up from the reeds of the marsh, a flat hill that was large enough to hold a half dozen small huts and one large longhouse. In the twilight of the day, orcs were stirring-drawing water, preparing food, washing, even praying. In front of the longhouse, a handful of squat-bodied orc children tussled and screamed at each other. Closer to hand, however, three big adult orcs stood around a blazing firepit, all of them watching the hut. Orshok called to them as he ducked through the doorway. Their eyes narrowed slightly as Geth emerged.

But they grew even narrower a moment later, and the face of the biggest of the three screwed up into a glower. Geth glanced over his shoulder to see Natrac stepping out of the hut. Orshok’s voice took on a frustrated tone, but the biggest orc spat a few harsh words over top of him. Natrac flushed. Geth leaned close to him as they approached the fire. “What did he say?”

“Keep the half-breed back, I’m through speaking with it,” translated Natrac. His eyes flashed in the firelight. “Full-blooded orcs don’t always take kindly to half-orcs.”

The apprehension that had been in Orshok’s face was quickly turning into anger. “Geth,” he said, “meet Krepis. The druid who cured you.”

Geth stepped into the circle of firelight and studied Krepis-just as the orc was studying him. Krepis stood at least the width of a hand above everyone else around the fire. His shoulders were broader and his features heavier as well. The teeth of a crocodile were strung around his neck, six white points gleaming on either side of a larger disc of red-stained wood. He looked like he was about Geth’s own age, older than Orshok, but definitely younger than Natrac. Geth bit back anger at his dismissal of the half-orc and glanced at Orshok.

“How do I say tak to him in Orc?” he asked.

“I talk you language,” Krepis grunted before Orshok could answer. His accent was even thicker than the younger orc’s. His voice was arrogant. He slapped his chest. “You talk to me!”

Geth looked him straight in the eye. “Then tak, Krepis,” he said with all the respect he could muster. He bent his head. “Tak for curing me.”

Krepis stood tall, puffing out his chest with pride-at least until Geth’s shirt collar fell open as the shifter straightened. Krepis’s eyes seemed to bulge and the orcs who stood with him stiffened. Krepis snapped at Orshok in Orc once again. The younger druid’s face turned dark. Geth glanced at Natrac.

“He wants to know why you’re still wearing the stones,” the half-orc said.

Geth reached up to his open collar. His hand encountered the stones of Adolan’s collar.

“Rat!” he hissed. He tugged his shirt closed again and stepped closer to Orshok. “What about the stones?” he asked. “How does Krepis know about them?”

“He saw them when he was breaking your fever,” said Orshok. He had to try and squeeze his answer around Krepis’s continued tirade. “They’re sacred, a holy sign of our tradition. He wanted to take them away, but I wouldn’t let him.”

On all sides of them, the village had gone quiet as orcs watched and listened to the big druid. The more Krepis ranted, the darker Orshok flushed.

“Ignore him,” he said, his voice strained. “Just tell us all what’s going on.”

Geth’s eyes had narrowed, however. “Wait,” he said. “Your tradition?” He reached up and put his fingers under the stones, holding the collar out boldly. “You’re Gatekeepers?”

As Orshok nodded and Krepis sneered, it seemed to Geth that he could almost hear Adolan proudly recounting the history of his sect-telling how the Gatekeepers were first druids and how the first Gatekeepers had been orcs. Geth’s hand fell away.

“The collar was given to me by a Gatekeeper,” he said, “after a hunter of the Bonetree clan struck him down. His name was Adolan. He was the guardian of the Bull Hole in the Eldeen Reaches.”

“Bull Hole?” Krepis spat. He jerked his head at Natrac. “Old half-breed told this story. I not hear of Bull Hole. Druids of Eldeen Reach fallen from old ways. Not Gatekeepers anymore.”

Geth drew a harsh breath. “Adolan died because he was Gatekeeper!”

“Stones belong to true Gatekeepers!” Krepis grabbed for the wooden disk strung around his neck together with the crocodile teeth and held it up so Geth could see it. There was a symbol on this disk, a symbol identical to one of the symbols on Adolan’s collar. “Belong to orcs. If druid of Eldeen had stones, must be stealing. Must be thief!”

Blood burned in Geth’s cheeks. With a roar that echoed across marshes, he dove over the fire, hands grabbing for Krepis. His ancient heritage flooded him as he leaped-a feeling of invincibility surged in him. He slammed into Krepis, knocking the big orc flat to the ground.

“By Tiger’s blood, you take that back!” he howled. Crouched on top of the orc, he twisted and drove a knee into Krepis’s belly. “Adolan was as true to his faith as-”

Krepis got an arm free and hammered a punch straight up into Geth’s jaw. The shifter shrugged it off, bared his teeth, and grabbed Krepis’s thick arm with both hands, wrenching it hard. Krepis bellowed in pain.

Then the druid’s cronies darted in and hauled Geth off him. Shifting might have made Geth tougher, but it didn’t make him any stronger. He thrashed and fought as they tried to get a grip on him, lashing out with fist and foot against their grabbing hands. There was a rip as his shirt tore and for a moment Geth spun free-until Krepis rose up behind him and grabbed for him with both hands. Geth tried to twist away but Krepis’s meaty fingers closed on the pouch at his side, yanking the shifter off balance. Geth fell heavily. The pouch tore open.

Dandra’s psicrystal tumbled out and skittered across the ground, glittering yellow-green in the firelight. The eyes of one of the other orcs lit up with greed. He snatched at the shining crystal.

The instant that his hand clenched around it, his red eyes opened wide and his body stiffened. Geth gasped as a droning sound like a hundred, disembodied voices speaking at once pulsed on the air and the firepit exploded upward into a seething white pillar of flame. Krepis-all of the orcs in Fat Tusk-froze in terrified awe.

“Il-Yannah’s light!” sobbed the orc clutching the psicrystal. His voice soared up into a crazed shriek. “A body! I have a body again!”

“Grandmother Wolf,” breathed Geth. “Tetkashtai?”

The orc spun around. “You!” Tetkashtai raged through his tusked mouth. “Where’s Dandra? What’s happened to Dandra?” The disembodied chorus of her power throbbed. A shower of sparks burst out of the towering fire.

One of the memories that Dandra had shared with him and Singe flashed in Geth’s mind: a vision of her hand closing on the yellow-green crystal in the darkness of Dah’mir’s terrible laboratory, a rush of power as Tetkashtai exploded in her mind and the connection between kalashtar and crystal was restored.

He’d caught the crystal with his gauntlet and stuffed it straight into his pouch. He’d never touched the crystal, but Dandra had grasped it just as the orc had-with naked flesh. Tetkashtai didn’t need Dandra. She could forge a connection with whoever held the crystal.

But even with Dandra’s determined will to control her, Tetkashtai had been half-mad. Without that strength of mind …

Not even pausing to think, Geth lunged at the orc and grabbed his arm, twisting it hard enough to hear bones grind. The orc’s voice rose in a high-pitched scream-that dropped into a deep shout as his fingers opened and the crystal fell to the dirt.

The fire sank down to glowing coals.

Geth thrust the orc away quickly and whipped off his belt, hastily sliding the pouch free. With trembling fingers, he turned it inside out like a clumsy mitten around his hand, then grabbed the crystal and tugged the pouch back up around it.

He could almost imagine that he heard a thin wail of despair from Tetkashtai as he pulled the drawstrings of the pouch closed. The orc village was utterly silent around him. Orshok and Natrac were staring at him in astonishment, Krepis in rage. For a long moment, no one moved, not even the orc children.

Then an orc rose from in front of one of the huts. He was old-the oldest person, Geth was certain, he’d ever seen in his life. He moved painfully and leaned heavily on a staff with a crooked end, much like the staff Orshok had carried in Zarash’ak. His hair and beard were pure white; his gray-green skin looked as fine and brittle as parchment. Everyone in the village turned to him as he hobbled forward.

He paused beside the orc-now whimpering and clutching his wrist-who had picked up the crystal. The old man batted his hand away and examined his wrist, then stretched out his fingers and murmured a word of nature’s magic. The younger orc’s breath caught in his throat and he gasped with relief. The old orc turned to look at Geth.

His left eye was as white as his beard, but his right eye was bright and alert. “You have a strong grip, shifter!” he said without any trace of an accent.

As if his words had opened a floodgate, sound rushed back into Fat Tusk. The orcs of the village clustered together to babble in amazement while both Orshok and Krepis converged on the old orc, each trying to talk over the other. The old orc’s good eye, however, was fixed on Geth.

Natrac stepped up beside Geth. “What was that?” he gasped.

“That was what Singe didn’t tell you about on Vennet’s ship,” the shifter said grimly. He stood still as the old orc approached and planted his staff in front of him. Krepis and Orshok fell silent, taking up positions behind him, while he considered Geth. His gaze lingered on the collar of stones and Geth stood up a little straighter.

The old orc nodded. “My name is Batul,” he said finally. “I’m the teacher of these two arguing idiots.” His staff flicked back twice, faster than Geth would have expected, to crack against Krepis’s shins and Orshok’s toes. The younger druid hopped painfully, though Krepis only grimaced. Batul nodded at the pouch in Geth’s hand. “Open that,” he said. “Let me have a look at that crystal.”

Geth opened the pouch again and held it out so that Batul could peer inside. The elderly druid’s eye narrowed. He moved a hand through the air and spoke another prayer. For a moment, it seemed that the night around the pouch grew sharper. Geth could feel a tingling around his hand. Batul, however, drew his eyebrows together and shook his head. The tingling in Geth’s hand vanished.

“It’s not an aberration,” Batul said, half to himself, “though by the Ring of Siberys I’d swear it’s nothing natural either.” He looked up at Geth. “I’ve heard parts of your story,” he said. “I’d like to hear it all.”

Geth closed the pouch once more, knotted the drawstrings tight, and told him. Batul didn’t move at all through the long tale, but listened intently. Orshok, Natrac, and Krepis didn’t move either, though Krepis’s face ran through a range of angry glowers. When Geth had finished, the big druid reached out and smacked Orshok in the back of the head with a curse. “Stupid!” he snarled. “Bring Bonetree hunting for us now!”

Batul closed his eyes and sighed, then opened them again, his good eye fixing itself on Geth. “Has Orshok told you why he was in Zarash’ak?”

Geth nodded. Batul grunted and hobbled to a nearby log set as a seat around the firepit. He settled himself on it and looked up at Geth.

“Visions and dreams have haunted me since I lost this,” he said, tapping his cheek under his milky right eye. “For more than a month, they’ve hinted at danger to Fat Tusk-danger that would come from Zarash’ak when the green-eyed Servant of Madness appeared at a certain place there. I tried to protect my tribe by sending Orshok to watch, hoping to learn what was coming and avert it. Instead, I’ve drawn us into your struggle.”

“I don’t understand,” said Geth. “Why would Dah’mir send the Bonetree here? He has Dandra!”

“It seems to me that maybe Dandra isn’t what the Servant of Madness wants.” Batul pointed his staff at the pouch in Geth’s hands. “If Dandra and Tetkashtai are incomplete without each other, Dah’mir has only one half of the whole.”

“Grandmother Wolf.” Geth stiffened, his grasp on the pouch tightening. “I’ll leave.”

“If Dandra had fled after visiting Bull Hollow, the Bonetree hunters would still have come on her trail,” Batul said flatly. “Even if you leave now, you’ve still been to Fat Tusk. We could abandon Fat Tusk and the hunters would still try to track down each member of the tribe to find you.” His face tightened. “There are many orc tribes and human clans living across the Shadow Marches, Geth. At least half of them follow the Dragon Below. Even among so many, the Bonetree clan is one of the worst. What you describe of Bull Hollow is not the worst they can do-or have done.”

“Why not stand up to the Bonetree then, teacher?” asked Orshok. Batul glanced at the young druid. Orshok stood tall and said fiercely, “We should join Geth. He’s come this far. He’s faced the Servant of Madness. He’s fought the Bonetree clan and dolgaunts. If we put our support behind him, we’ll be freeing Dandra and Singe, saving Fat Tusk, and striking a hard blow against both the Bonetree and the Dragon Below.”

The suggestion brought a sudden, daring hope to Geth’s heart. Krepis, however, groaned loudly and spat out a rant in Orc.

It ended in a taut silence between all three druids, with Krepis and Orshok glaring at each other, their tusks thrust out in challenge, as Batul stroked his beard thoughtfully. Geth turned to Natrac. The half-orc’s face was pale. “What did Krepis say?” Geth asked him.

“He asked if Orshok was deliberately trying to make sure Batul’s visions came true,” Natrac said softly. “First Orshok brought us to Fat Tusk, now he’s proposing to stage a raid that will certainly bring danger to the tribe. Attacking the Bonetree clan is suicide.” Natrac swallowed. “Krepis’s suggestion is that they appease Dah’mir by handing us over to him.”

Geth ground his teeth together and looked back to Batul. “If you’re thinking of taking Krepis’s suggestion, remember that Natrac was only bait. Whatever happens to me, I’d appreciate it if you saw him to safety.”

Natrac’s mouth dropped open, but Batul’s eyebrows rose. “That’s brave,” he said.

“I’m not brave,” growled Geth. “I like Orshok’s idea a whole lot better. It would be good if you picked that one.” He glared at Krepis. “Tak again,” he spat at him.

Krepis stepped forward, a snarl curling his lips.

Batul’s staff rose in-between the orc and the shifter. “No,” the old druid said. “No fighting between us. We’ll either help Geth or send him on to the Bonetree.”

“Which then, teacher?” asked Orshok.

Batul lowered his staff. “A test,” he said slowly. “Let Geth’s own actions decide.”

Geth crossed his arms. “That sounds good to me.”

“And to me,” said Natrac. He moved to stand behind Geth. The shifter twisted around to glare at him. Natrac glared back at him and shook his head. “You came for me, Geth. I’m going to stand by you.”

He held out his fist. Geth stared at it-then bashed his own fist against it, and turned back to Batul. “We’ll try your test together,” he said.

Batul nodded in approval. “Fetch boats,” he said to Orshok. “They’ll cross Jhegesh Dol.”

The color drained out of the young druid’s face and he gasped something in Orc that sounded like a curse. Batul cut him off sharply, dismissing him with a gesture. Krepis gave both Geth and Natrac a look of deep satisfaction before Batul dismissed him as well. The old orc turned to them with a stern face. “Prepare yourselves,” he said somberly, then hobbled away, leaving them alone by the dying fire.

Geth looked at Natrac. “What’s Jhegesh Dol?” he asked quickly. There was a sudden hollow in the pit of his stomach.

“I don’t know,” said Natrac. “But the words sound like Orc. A dol is just a place, a structure or even a stretch of marsh. Jhegesh …” He shook his head. “There’s a word like it, though: jegez.”

“What does that mean?”

“Cut.”

Singe was trying to feed Dandra again when she drew a sharp breath and froze, turning her head to fix her gaze in the distance. “Tetkashtai!” she croaked. Her hand rose to clutch at her chest, at the place where her crystal had hung.

The wizard’s heart skipped as he stared at her. He glanced around, checking to see that neither Dah’mir nor Medala was anywhere nearby, then leaned closed. “Dandra?” he whispered. His voice almost stuck in his throat. “Twelve moons, Dandra, can you hear me? Dah’mir has some sort of hold on you again. You’ve got to fight him!”

She didn’t react at all. Before Singe could even speak again, she relaxed and started breathing normally. Her head swung back around and once again she was staring with placid fascination at Dah’mir. Her hand fell back to her lap. Singe’s fingers curled tight and he held back a curse of frustration.

Was she trying to fight off Dah’mir’s control? He was certain that if she was capable of it, she was trying! Why had she called Tetkashtai’s name then, he wondered, and reached for her lost crystal? A reflex, maybe, an attempt to draw on the presence’s power-but she had peered off into the distance as if there had been something out there. Singe looked out into the night. There was nothing that he could see. That didn’t mean, though, that there wasn’t something that Dandra, even through Dah’mir’s hold on her, might be able to sense. Like the psicrystal.

The journey through the marshes had disoriented him, but there was one thing he knew: Zarash’ak lay to the south, under the shining haze of the Ring of Siberys. If Geth was dead, the crystal would be in or under the City of Stilts, either resting with his body or looted and sold off as nothing more than a pretty bauble.

Dandra had stared off to the west-and Singe couldn’t imagine that the crystal would find its way inland unless Geth was alive and carrying it.

“Twelve moons,” he breathed, hope flickering in his chest. “Twelve bloody moons!”

His elation was shattered by the screaming battle cry of the Bonetree hunters, and a sudden, brief clash of blades. Singe whirled around, but the fight was already over. Ashi was crouched over the quivering, wounded body of one of the young hunters. Her sword was drawn. So was his. There was blood only on Ashi’s blade, however. She reached down and wiped her sword on the young hunter’s shirt, then turned her back on him as the other hunters moved forward and surrounded their wounded comrade. To Singe’s surprise, Dah’mir and Medala, seated by the fire, did nothing more than glance up before returning to their conversation.

The young hunters’ glares and mutters followed Ashi as she stalked across the camp to fling herself down beside Singe and Dandra. She pulled a whetstone out of a pouch and began stroking it along the blade of her sword as if utterly unconcerned by what had taken place. Singe could see her hands trembling though.

“What was that?” he asked softly. He had discovered that unlike Ashi the young hunters spoke only their own language, though they seemed to understand Dah’mir’s commands well enough, reacting as much to the green-eyed man’s dominating presence as to his actual words. He had no fear that they would overhear him but Medala’s hearing sometimes seemed uncanny and he had no desire to attract her attention.

“Any hunter can make a challenge for the huntmaster’s blade,” said Ashi. “If they’re successful, they become the new huntmaster. That pup has been working himself up to challenging me for the last two days. He won’t be the last.” She growled as she worked at the sword’s edge. “Stupid children. I don’t know if they honestly think they can lead the hunters or if they just want the sword!”

“Why would they just want the sword?”

“Because they’re greedy. By tradition, the huntmaster carries the best weapon in the clan. No one else is allowed to even touch it.”

“I remember that,” said Singe. “You threatened to disembowel me when I unsheathed it.”

“Don’t let anyone hear that you did,” Ashi said, “or I don’t think even Dah’mir would be able to save you. You’ve touched the blade and that puts you above everyone else in the Bonetree except me.” She held up the sword, turning it so that firelight flashed on the polished metal. After a moment, she lowered it and looked at Singe. “On Vennet’s ship, you called this a sentinel’s honor blade.”

“An honor blade of the Sentinel Marshals of House Deneith,” Singe corrected her. “The patriarch of House Deneith would have given it to a Sentinel Marshal in recognition of some great deed. They’re rare, maybe one or two are awarded in a generation. This was the weapon of a hero.” He glanced up and saw a blank look in her eyes. “What is it?”

“I don’t know what a Sentinel Marshal is,” Ashi muttered.

Singe blinked in surprise. “I guess maybe they don’t get into the depths of the Shadow Marches too often,” he said. “The Sentinel Marshals enforce justice across the borders of kingdoms. When a criminal tries to flee from a kingdom to escape the king’s troops, a Sentinel Marshal will pursue him.” He pointed at the motto on the honor blade. “Words teach and spirit guides is a Sentinel Marshal saying. The words of the law teach and direct them, but the spirit of the law guides them in their duties. Because they’re members of House Deneith, ancient treaties put them outside of the laws of any one kingdom.” He gave Ashi a level look. “You know what House Deneith is, don’t you?”

“A clan from beyond the Marches,” said Ashi. “A clan with magic in its blood.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Singe agreed with a nod. “House Deneith carries the Mark of Sentinel-magic of protection-the way that Vennet’s house, Lyrandar, carries the Mark of Storm.”

“Do all children of Deneith have this Mark?” Ashi asked curiously.

“Children never bear a Mark,” Singe told her. “If someone carries a dragonmark, it appears as they enter adulthood. Sometimes they grow larger and become more powerful-the rarest and most powerful appear fully formed-but usually they’re small. Most members of a dragonmarked house don’t carry a mark at all.”

Ashi actually looked disappointed. Singe cocked his head and looked at her sideways. “Ashi?”

The big hunter shrugged, then extended the honor blade. “Two generations ago, an outclanner was taken captive in the marshes. I’ve heard that he was so badly wounded that the hunters wanted to kill him, but Dah’mir insisted that he be kept alive and brought into the Bonetree-as you will be. The outclanner’s name was Kagan. If he had another name, it isn’t remembered. Kagan couldn’t fight anymore, but there was still enough man in him to bring many children into the clan.” She twisted the sword. “His weapon was so fine that the huntmaster claimed it.”

Singe stared at the sword, then at her. “You’re saying that there’s House Deneith blood in the Bonetree clan?”

Ashi grimaced and shook her head. “If Kagan was a member of your House Deneith, his blood in the Bonetree is thin,” she said. “The elders say that after a few years, Kagan went mad and managed to kill all of the children he had sired-except one.” She smiled softly. “The elders claim it was the will of the Dragon Below that he grew up to become the longest-lived huntmaster to ever lead the Bonetree hunters.”

“Ner?” asked Singe.

She nodded.

“Did he have any children?”

Ashi looked up at him.

“Twelve moons!” Singe spat. “You?”

Ashi nodded again.

Singe sat back, stunned. After a moment, he asked, “Do you carry the Mark of Sentinel?”

“It would be the only way to know for certain if I had the blood of House Deneith, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” admitted Singe.

“Then I have no clan but the Bonetree,” Ashi said. She slid the honor blade back into its sheath.

The orc-crafted boats skimmed through black water so still that it mirrored the night sky. Thick strands of reeds and grass made clouds; the trees that grew up through the water were like gnarled pillars pressed down by the weight of the sky above.

The boats carried no lights. Like shifters, orcs could see well in the dark. Geth sat in the bow of Orshok’s flat-bottomed craft, Natrac in Krepis’s. Batul squatted between the half-orc and the big druid to keep the peace. No one spoke. Batul had forbidden it.

The clouds of reed and grass grew broader, the stretches of open water narrower. Finally Batul spoke a word in Orc, and Krepis and Orshok guided the boats toward a grassy crest. Geth felt the wood underneath him crunch over solid ground.

“Out,” said Batul. “We’re here.”

Geth glanced at the sky. It was, he guessed, roughly the middle of the night: the thin crescents of three of the twelve moons had already dipped below the horizon and the full, pale orange disk of the moon Olarune was rising to its zenith. He picked up the long staff with the angled crook at the end, the same as Orshok’s and Batul’s own, which was all the old druid would permit him as a weapon. Natrac had one, too. “It’s a traditional orc marsh tool,” the half-orc had muttered before they’d climbed into the boats. “A hunda stick. It’s a probe, a support, a weapon …”

“What the hook on the end for?” Geth had grunted.

“Catching snakes,” Natrac had answered.

Geth missed his gauntlet and sword. He even missed the paired axes he had wielded in Bull Hollow after he had put the gauntlet away in rejection of his past, but the little hamlet seemed more distant than Narath now.

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.