The Binding Stone

CHAPTER 17

Everywhere around them, the fury of battle gave way to panicked chaos. Orc raiders and Bonetree hunters alike fell back in awe at the sight of the terrible and majestic monster climbing into the night. With shouts of gut-deep fear, they reeled apart, fighting to scatter.

The dolgrims didn’t flee. Wiry arms rose in triumph and gash-like mouths gibbered horrid glee as they surged forward to hack and thrust at raiders and one-time allies alike. There was an eager spark in their eyes that Geth would have sworn hadn’t been there before, as if they had been freed to unleash the darkest bloodlusts of their twisted souls.

The shifter spun. Across the battlefield, the mouth of the mound gaped like a shadow under Dah’mir’s magical light. Geth flung out his arm, pointing with the Dhakaani sword. “There!” he said. “We need to get in there! We need shelter!”

Natrac’s eyes were wide, his pupils so large that barely a sliver of color showed around the black. “In there? Are you insane? We need to-”

The half-orc’s words faltered as Dah’mir’s wings dipped and his massive, shining body turned in an arc. On the other side of the churning battle, a knot of orcs was still fighting, caught up in mindless rage. Dah’mir’s wedge-shaped head darted forward and his throat heaved.

Thin yellow bile burst from his jaws in a long, hot gout. It swept across the ground below like a line of foul rain. Where it fell, the ground smoked and trampled plants shriveled. Most of it, though, spattered against the fighting orcs and their dolgrim assailants, drenching them.

Flesh melted, eaten away by the dragon’s acid. Huge red sores opened and spread. Skin sloughed from muscles and muscles fell away from bones. The orcs died squealing and writhing in the steaming mud. The dolgrims died too, but with excited screams that might almost have been praise for their dragon-lord.

Singe grabbed Natrac and dragged him toward the mound. In shock, the half-orc stumbled at first, then charged for the shelter of the mound’s mouth. Orshok and Krepis needed no encouragement-they leaped forward like sprinters. Dolgrims closed in around them. Geth held the rear of their desperate flight, beating back the four-armed horrors with sword and gauntlet. He kept one eye on the sky. Dah’mir’s bulk hampered his agility, but he more than made up for it in sheer strength. It took only a few beats of his massive wings to put the dragon high in the sky. He wheeled around the far side of the mound and began a wide turn for another pass over the battlefield.

A memory of Breek washed over Geth, a vision of Adolan’s eagle soaring high into the air before plunging down in a devastating strike. His stomach clenched. He beat back a flurry of attacks from a dolgrim, then hammered his armored fist into the creature’s face. The dolgrim staggered back with the bloody imprint of his knuckles stamped over a shattered cheek. Geth leaped after the others. He peered ahead, trying to keep them all on a path through melee and toward the mouth of the mound.

There was a figure in the shadows, tall and powerful with long, dark gold hair. Ashi, watching the flow of battle. Her eyes met briefly with Geth’s, and he felt a twinge of astonishment as the hunter gave him a slight nod before glancing back as if speaking to someone hidden deeper in the tunnel. “She has her!” Geth said to Singe as the fighting pushed them together again. “Grandfather Rat, I think Ashi has Dandra! They’re just inside the mound!”

“If they’re smart, they’ll stay there!” Singe wheezed.

Blood flecked the wizard’s lips and his face had gone pale again. Orshok’s potion hadn’t healed all of his wounds. Geth didn’t think Singe could go on fighting much longer. Dah’mir’s return wasn’t the only thing they were racing. He swept his arm into the air, urging the others forward. “Hurry!” he shouted. “To the mound!”

“Wait!” said Krepis. He pointed with his hunda stick. “There’s Batul!”

Geth turned to follow the pointing stick. Surrounded by dolgrims, the old druid stood back to back with two Fat Tusk orcs. Geth bared his teeth, torn by a primal desire to seek shelter and the need to help an ally. He raised his sword and ordered, “Break them free!”

He led the charge across the battlefield-now nearly empty of everything but dolgrims, the dead, and the wounded. He whirled and darted, slashing at the dolgrims with the heavy sword, sweeping their attacks aside with his magewrought gauntlet. A spear reached under his arm and creased shifting-toughened skin. Geth roared and lashed out with a kick that sank into the dolgrim’s gut and doubled it over, both mouths screeching in pain. An overhand blow cut deep into the deformed skull of another dolgrim-and they were through, standing beside Batul and his guardians and fighting back the rest of the dolgrims.

Geth threw a glance at the elderly orc. “Tell me you didn’t expect this!”

“I didn’t expect it!” Batul’s hunda stick was smeared with gore and he was bleeding from a gash under his good eye. “A true dragon leading a cult of the Dragon Below … not even the wildest tales of Gatekeeper lore hint at something like this!” A dolgrim tried to break through the circle of Batul’s protectors. The druid swung his hunda in a sharp blow that sent it hopping back, then fixed his eye on Geth. “There may be a way to escape Dah’mir-if you have the strength for it.”

Something in Batul’s voice lifted the hair on Geth’s neck and arms. “What?”

“Gatekeeper magic and Dhakaani weapons together ended the Daelkyr War. Dah’mir isn’t a creature of Xoriat or a creation of the daelkyr, but he carries their taint. I have Gatekeeper magic. You have a Dhakaani weapon.”

The flow of battle surged and shifted, leaving them in the clear for a moment. Geth stared at Batul. “You want me to kill a dragon?”

“No.” Batul’s hands tightened on his hunda. “Nothing either of us can do could kill him. But we can wound him and give the others a chance to escape.”

The shifter caught the omission in his words. “The others,” he said, “but not us.”

Batul nodded. For a moment, Geth’s heart thundered in his chest, then he nodded in return-

— just as Singe shouted out “Twelve moons! He’s back!” Geth’s gaze snapped up to the sky.

Dah’mir’s descent from the night came like a storm. He swooped in from the east, a dark and speeding mass in the cloud-shrouded moonlight. As he swept into the magical light that illuminated the battlefield, color seemed to explode across his scales-a lightning flash of dulled copper tinged with corroded black. Thunder clapped with the spread of his wings and rolled through the ground as he settled at the other end of the battlefield. His green eyes shone with rage and his blunt muzzle was open to expose huge teeth. Even the dolgrims scurried away from him, their cheers fading in fright.

An enormous, sharp-pointed tongue slipped out of Dah’mir’s mouth and licked blood off the scales of his face. More blood stained his talons. Geth guessed that some of those orc raiders, maybe even some of the Bonetree hunters, who had fled the battlefield weren’t fleeing any longer. The shifter dropped slowly into a defensive stance, sword and gauntlet raised together, as if an attempt at defense would do any good at all.

Alongside him, Singe, Natrac, Krepis, and Orshok raised their weapons as well. Geth glanced at Batul. The Gatekeeper had closed his eyes. Geth adjusted his grip on the Dhakaani sword, trying to settle his sweating palm around the hilt.

Singe’s eyes were on Dah’mir. “What’s he waiting for?” he asked.

“He’s waiting,” said Medala’s harsh voice, “for me.”

Battle-trained reflexes and nerves already on edge brought Geth snapping around. Medala stood like an iron pillar in the midst of the carnage of the battleground. Her body was rigid with rage, the veins and muscles of her thin neck standing out like cables. Her arms were stiff at her side, her eyes wide with an insane hatred.

As fast as his reflexes might have been, thought was faster. The crystalline tone of a chime seemingly so loud that it could have roused the dead shimmered through him-and all at once his chest squeezed tight, forcing the breath out of his lungs. Darkness swept around the edges of his vision and it was all Geth could do to gasp for air. The chime echoed in his mind, rolling on and on. Geth could see the others reeling around him as well. Krepis was clutching his throat. Batul sagged against his staff. Singe was on his knees, sucking in breath after wracking breath.

“You think you can escape?” spat Medala, her voice rising into a shriek. “You think you can find shelter from my master’s wrath? There is none! Khyber waits below all things and the lords of Khyber count Dah’mir among their greatest servants! There will be no more defiance from you!”

Every word seemed to grate across the lingering echoes in Geth’s mind. He could feel Adolan’s collar cold around his neck, but unlike the protection the Gatekeeper stones had offered from the mental attack of the mind flayer or Dah’mir’s commanding presence, the ancient magic seemed to falter before Medala’s psionic power. Geth tried to heave himself up straight, to swing his sword at Medala, but all he could manage was a feeble stagger.

Medala’s eyes flashed and agony crashed through him in another ringing chime. He fell against the ground and his next breath sucked in gritty soil.

In the darkness of the mound, Dandra pressed her back against the packed earth of the tunnel wall and listened to the noises of the battle outside. Cheers of triumph from dolgrims, terrible cries from people dying a horrible death.

“He spits acid!” said Ashi in shock. The big hunter stood closer to the tunnel mouth, motionless in the thin shadows, describing what was taking place outside. “Dandra, he spits acid!”

Dandra could hear the rage and fear that trembled in Ashi’s voice. She squeezed her eyes shut, half-glad that she couldn’t see what the hunter did, half-sick that she didn’t even dare to look. Dah’mir’s transformation hadn’t diminished his fascinating, captivating presence at all-it might have even increased it. As the dragon had taken to the air, Dandra had felt his power tug on her. She’d hurled herself back into the shadows but she didn’t dare look out on the battlefield again. “Singe?” she asked Ashi. “Geth? Are they still-?”

“They’re alive and fighting,” Ashi said. “They’re coming this way-maybe trying to rescue you, maybe just looking for shelter!”

Dandra’s eyes snapped open as new hope kindled in her heart. “Where’s Dah’mir?”

Ashi leaned out of the mound mouth slightly. “I don’t see him.” She glanced back. “Dandra, Dah’mir’s age, his power-the Bonetree thought they were gifts of the Dragon Below. We didn’t know …”

“It doesn’t matter now!” Dandra sprang away from the wall and up to the gaping mouth. The air outside was heavy with the smell of blood and battle, but compared to the air within the mound, it was sweet. She peered out cautiously. There was no sign of Dah’mir, but that could change at any moment. Across the battlefield, Geth, Singe, and their band of orcs had turned aside, going to the aid of an old orc who fought with surprising vitality in spite of his age.

Caught in the heat of battle, they didn’t see Medala rise from the ground of the battlefield, fury gathered around her like a cloak.

“Il-Yannah!” Dandra gasped. She drew a sharp breath to call a warning-only to be whirled back into the tunnel before she could even form the words. Ashi hit the tunnel wall beside her.

“Dah’mir is back! He’s landing!”

Helpless, Dandra swallowed her warning and pressed her head back as enormous wings rattled the air and the weight of a dragon shook the ground. For a moment, silence settled over the battlefield and the mound.

Silence that was broken by the crystal chime of Medala’s psionic power, as clear and loud to Dandra as if the other kalashtar had been standing right next to her. She clenched her spear so tight that the pale wood hurt her fingers. Outside, she could hear Medala threatening and cursing her friends. “Ashi, what’s happening out there?”

“They can’t breathe!” Ashi said. “They looked ready to defend themselves, but now they can’t breathe!”

“It’s Medala.” Dandra bit her tongue in horror. Your friends are dying, she screamed at herself silently. Your friends are dying and you’re hiding!

What choice did she have? Without Tetkashtai, she was no match for Medala. Even with Tetkashtai, Dah’mir’s power could overwhelm her in moments, but if she could deal with the mad kalashtar, her friends might be able to escape the dragon. If only she had Tetkashtai’s crystal, she would at least be able to use powers other than simple tricks of vayhatana …

Her eyes narrowed then sprang wide and she swallowed hard. “Ashi, I have an idea, but I need you to create a diversion.”

“How?”

Dandra’s jaw tightened. “Fight Medala. Resist her powers for as long as you can.”

A savage grin twisted across Ashi’s face. “That I can do. What will you do?”

Dandra reached to her belt and opened a pouch. Spinning a fine web of vayhatana, she reached inside and lifted out Virikhad’s violet psicrystal with her thoughts alone. Even through that nebulous contact, it seemed that she could feel the spirit of the kalashtar trapped inside.

“I’m going to reunite old friends.” She looked up. “Are you ready?”

Ashi raised her sword. “More than ready!” Fury flushed her face as she lunged out of the tunnel mouth. “For Ner, Medala! For Ner!”

Dandra drew a breath and followed her, tugging the violet crystal after her. Focus, she told herself. Send the crystal to Medala. Ignore everything else …

The instant she stepped into open air, that focus vanished.

Perhaps thirty paces away, Singe crouched on the ground, his entire body heaving as he fought for breath. Beside him, Geth writhed in the dirt, wracked by pain. Medala was whirling to face Ashi’s unexpected attack, alarm written on her face. Ashi herself was leaping past dolgrims, sword held low and ready to strike.

Dah’mir’s scaled, dark copper form towered over everything, green eyes staring down with a mad, hungry intensity-and those eyes darted to her. Dandra felt the dragon’s smothering presence, but the only emotion that was reflected in his eyes was pure rage. Great jaws opened in a roar that shook the night, almost drowning out the chime of Medala’s power.

Ashi-along with more than half a dozen dolgrims-staggered and froze as Medala turned her will against them.

The web of vayhatana that held Virikhad’s crystal suspended disappeared along with Dandra’s concentration. The crystal fell to the ground and for a moment all Dandra could do was stare at it.

“You!” shrieked Medala. She thrust out a hand, the chime of her power building. Dah’mir, a coppery juggernaut almost half as tall as the mound itself, lunged toward her. His horrible presence washed over her. Fear stabbed into Dandra’s gut and nearly drove conscious thought from her mind.

Instinct and resolve took its place.

She had stood here nearly two months before with only one thought in mind: escape. And she had escaped. She had taken the long step, barely thinking as she had leaped hundreds of paces in a single stride.

She didn’t need to go so far this time.

Dandra stepped forward, bending down as she moved. Her fingers snatched up the violet crystal-

— and Virikhad exploded in her mind like a howling gale, tearing across the landscape of her psyche. Tetkashtai? Tetkashtai?

Time froze, like a moment in a dream. The assault of Virikhad’s mind on hers wrenched up memories of Sharn, of the passion that he and Tetkashtai had shared, of the passion that he had carried into his studies of dragonshards as well. Dandra felt his anguish at being trapped in the crystal. His violet light formed distorted images of the unchanging fastness of Dah’mir’s strange laboratory, visions of his own body wasting away, his skull being opened and his brain devoured by the illithids.

Worse, Virikhad had loved freedom and movement as much as, if not even more, than Tetkashtai. He had been an intensely social being. So long in the crystal without power or true sensation had left him with only raw pain and loneliness.

But Dandra couldn’t afford to give him what he needed. She let him wash over her, but gave him nothing to hold onto. She was a reed bending before his wind, offering no resistance. Her body continued to move, one leg following the other on a long step already put in motion. Her moving arm swung up again-

— to meet the fingers of Medala’s outstretched hand. For one brief moment, both women touched the crystal. Somewhere beyond Virikhad’s pain, Dandra could feel Medala’s twisted mind and her surprise at the sudden contact, at thirty paces crossed in an instant.

Dandra cast the barest thread of a link into Virikhad’s tortured light. I’m sorry, she said.

Before Medala could react, she let go of the crystal. Virikhad vanished from her mind. Dandra wrapped her hand around Medala’s, forcing the gray-haired kalashtar’s grasp tight around the violet crystal.

As Dah’mir’s presence fell over her once more, Dandra heard Medala’s wail like a distant echo.

The chime of Medala’s power fell abruptly silent. Air flowed easily into Geth’s lungs, the torturous pain passed like a memory, and for a moment all that the shifter wanted to do was lie on the cool dirt and breathe. The sound of woman’s scream of anguish, however, brought him to his feet. “Dandra!” he said-then froze, the name still on his lips.

Less than four paces away, Dandra stood calmly, her eyes placid and fixed on Dah’mir. The dragon was a metallic stream of motion, caught in the act of leaping toward the mouth of the mound but at the same time skidding and twisting to stare in surprise at Dandra, like a house cat chasing a cricket. Everywhere, dolgrims were scattering with squeals of alarm. Between Dandra and Dah’mir, Ashi was rising unsteadily to her feet, just as Singe, Natrac and the orcs were doing around Geth.

The anguished scream was coming from Medala. The kalashtar stood behind Dandra, one arm outstretched and her fist clenched as if she held something in her grasp. Her eyes were wild. In the scant moments that Geth stared, they seemed to grow even wider. Her head snapped sharply from side to side. Her scream rose and cracked.

Silver-white light blazed around her, flaring up then snuffing itself out in less than a heartbeat. When it vanished, it took Medala with it.

Something, some dark pebble, fell to the ground where she had stood.

Dah’mir’s huge, lithe form stiffened. “No!” he roared. “Medala!” Green eyes burned. Geth stumbled back from the sheer rage in the dragon’s gaze. He heard Orshok cry out in fear. Dah’mir’s scaly lips peeled back from his muzzle. “Khyber claim you all!” he snarled-and spat out a word that made Geth’s ears ache. A greasy, clinging foulness-less than smoke but more than shadow-burst out of the air.

Geth shouted as it groped and slithered across his skin, sliding into his mouth and down his throat, making him gag. From the corner of his eye, though, he saw Batul snap a gnarled hand into the air and shout an angry word in response.

Nature answered his prayer in a blast of wind that tore across the battlefield, scouring away the foulness of Dah’mir’s magic, and raising a cloud of stinging dust that brought renewed squeals out of the dolgrims. Geth’s clothes flapped around him. Dandra, eyes fixed on Dah’mir, was caught by the wind and shoved to her knees. Singe yelled something and leaped for her, staggering in the gale.

Dah’mir roared again and recoiled, his wings folded tight against his body, his eyes squeezed tight against the wind.

“Geth!” said Batul. “Now!”

Gatekeeper magic and Dhakaani sword. Geth clenched his jaw tight. He darted to Singe where the wizard knelt with his arms around Dandra. “Run!” he said over the wind. “Get everyone away!”

“What?”

“Do it! Do it like Robrand gave the order himself!” Geth reached to his belt, tore free the pouch that contained Tetkashtai’s crystal, and thrust it at him. “Give that to Dandra!”

He spun away and leaped for Dah’mir without looking back. He heard Singe call his name once, then the wizard began shouting commands at Natrac and the others. The shifter heard Batul shout something as well-another prayer, an invocation that throbbed with power.

The wind rose to a storm in answer. The grit it carried became painful, like a rain of needles. Geth reached deep and forced his tired body to shift once more. Renewed energy surged through him and the piercing pain of the wind eased as he plunged through it. Around him, though, the dolgrims that Dah’mir had commanded weren’t so lucky. They screeched and tried to flee from the druid’s magic, but it was as if nature held a special fury for the twisted aberrations. The creatures tried to flee, but the wind tore at their exposed skin, stripping it raw and bloody. They tumbled before nature’s wrath like autumn leaves.

In Geth’s hand, the Dhakaani sword began to glow with a dim twilight radiance, an ember fanned by the angry wind.

Geth pushed himself hard, racing with the storm. Dah’mir crouched back, hissing in frustration at the lancing wind that cut between his scales. Geth clenched his teeth. Batul was right, he thought-they had no hope of killing the dragon. If he was fast enough, though, maybe he could hold out against Dah’mir long enough to buy Singe, Dandra, and the others the time they need to escape.

He swept up the ancient sword and hurled himself forward.

“This is for Adolan, you bastard!”

Eyes still closed tight, Dah’mir roared back at him-and lunged, not at the shifter, but up, toward the sky. His body uncoiled. His wings cracked open. Muscular hind legs strained and thrust against the ground …

Geth didn’t hesitate for a moment. He threw himself into the air, leaping to meet the climbing dragon.

His body slammed into a foreleg as thick as a tree trunk and he grabbed onto the scaly limb as the ground whirled away beneath him. He was lifted out of the raging stream of Batul’s magic, and the air that rushed against him was cool, not stinging. Overhead, Dah’mir’s chest thrust and pushed. From his shoulders all the way along the length of his body and tail, his great wings swept the night. For a moment, Geth felt a rushing thrill at the experience-then Dah’mir shook his leg violently. Geth wrenched his head around, his hair whipping across his face, to look up. Dah’mir’s neck stretched out straight as he flew, but the dragon had managed to twist his head around enough to look down at his own massive chest. One angry green eye fixed on Geth and went wide.

“Get off me!” Dah’mir roared. He shook his leg again, but Geth clung tight, trying not to slash himself with his own sword. Dah’mir flexed, folding both legs to scrape them together. Geth clenched his teeth against the wind that tore at his breath and thrust himself higher, beyond the dragon’s awkward reach. Dah’mir roared again. His wings snapped out, his neck arched and his entire body rolled as he swept into a turn.

For a moment, the night sky, clouds breaking, swung below Geth. The Ring of Siberys flashed past in a shining arc, then Dah’mir righted himself and the Ring was replaced by moonlight reflected in water far below. The long loops of the river streaked by; the Bonetree mound, still lit by Dah’mir’s magic, grew like a swelling boil.

“Cling then!” said Dah’mir over the wind. His legs folded close and his wings beat even harder, speeding him forward. “Cling like a flea and watch your friends die before me!”

A blue-black flash caught Geth’s eye. One arm and both legs hugging the dragon’s thick foreleg tight, he twisted his head and looked up at Dah’mir’s massive chest, straining not much more than an arms length above him. Just as it had glittered against his leather robes as a man, a single Khyber dragonshard seemed set in Dah’mir’s chest as a dragon. The scales surrounding it were gnarled and misshapen. Geth clenched his sharp teeth tight.

“Fleas bite, dragon!” he snarled.

He leaned out and swung his sword as hard as he could at the dragonshard and the twisted scales around it.

The Dhakaani blade flashed with a dull glow, as if nature’s rage still clung to it, as if the Gatekeeper magic had breathed anger into the metal. Its jagged edge shattered the Khyber shard and bit deep into Dah’mir’s flesh-deeper than Geth would have hoped or expected.

Black blood burst out of the dragon’s chest, drenching Geth in a hot, steaming spray. Dah’mir twisted and crumpled in midair, the thunderous rhythm of his beating wings out of time. A grating howl louder than anything Geth had ever heard burst out of his jaws. The shifter caught a brief glimpse of a dark cloud bursting up from the banks of the river-the black herons of the Bonetree-before Dah’mir’s wings stopped beating altogether and he tumbled out of the sky, plunging toward the rising herons.

Geth’s guts pushed themselves up into his throat and he choked on a scream as he fell along with the dragon. He felt Dah’mir’s leg wrenched away from him. Talons slashed at him, but fell short. Geth caught a glimpse of acid-green eyes, the bright light of madness in them dimmed by agony but still sharp and now tinged with hate as well.

They flickered-then shifter and dragon were plunging past the darting wings of the black herons. Greasy feathers surrounded Geth, obscuring even Dah’mir’s writhing bulk.

A scant moment later he fell out of the whirling flock. He had only long enough to realize that he was falling alone before the water of the river slammed into him.