The Grieving Tree

CHAPTER 7

The sun was setting as the river boat rounded a final bend and Vennet saw the mound rising up against the orange sky. After days of following the river through marshes flatter than a calm ocean, its rounded height seemed nearly mountainous.

Seated at the center of the boat, Dah’mir pointed to shallows beneath a path cut in the rising riverbank. “Put in there.”

The men Vennet had picked from his crew dipped their oars and made for the shallows, giving the boat just enough speed that she came gliding gently to a stop and kissed the bank like a lover. Two men hopped overboard and tied the boat to a worn post driven into the ground. Others began unloading their gear and supplies. Dah’mir gave a short whistle to the two herons that stood beside him in the boat and the birds flapped into the sky, joining the dozen or so other herons that had followed them from Zarash’ak. All of the birds whirled down to settle in along the riverbank.

Vennet scanned the bank above. It was empty. “Where’s the Bonetree clan? I would have thought they’d come to investigate a boat tying up in their territory.”

“The herons have seen them, captain,” said Dah’mir, “and they’ve seen the herons. They know I’ve returned.”

Vennet looked at the priest. “But they haven’t come to greet you?”

Dah’mir didn’t answer him. Vennet clenched his teeth. The journey up river had gone quickly, but more than ever the half-elf was certain that the green-eyed man was keeping something from him. They were so close to the mound and to his promised reward, though, that there was little he could do but trust him.

He rose, then helped Dah’mir to stand and disembark. The priest had grown steadily weaker over the days of the journey. Vennet had somehow come to expect that he would become stronger as they approached the Bonetree mound, but there had been no miraculous recovery so far. Only the day before, Dah’mir had been forced to call for aid in rising in the morning. His strong frame had become gaunt, his pale skin dry and drawn. The wound in his chest remained open. Vennet had seen it once or twice. He wasn’t quite sure how any man could live with an injury like it.

Maybe the power of the Dragon Below sustained Dah’mir. Certainly his will and intelligence had never dimmed. Vennet had seen his eyes shining fever bright through the days and nights on the river. As he helped Dah’mir off the boat and up the steep path to the top of the riverbank, Vennet had the feeling that even if Dah’mir’s body failed entirely, the priest would carry on. The image came to him of a withered corpse with burning acid-green eyes ruling the Bonetree clan like a lich-king. He shivered.

On his arm, Dah’mir stiffened. Vennet glanced at him.

“What is it?”

“Something has burned here.”

Vennet sniffed. Now that the priest had pointed it out, he could smell something on the cool evening air: a faint stench of old ashes. Dah’mir was right. Something had burned. As they came over the top of the bank, he saw what it was.

What must once have been the Bonetree camp or settlement had been put to the torch. The ribs of tent poles stood broken and black. The walls of huts were charred and crumbled. Here and there, new green shoots of grass poked out of the scorched earth, but otherwise all plant life had been seared away.

There were bodies scattered through the ruins, too. Vennet counted half a dozen at a glance. They’d been burned as thoroughly as the huts of the camp, hard black flesh clinging to dark sticks of bone. A couple had died fighting but others, including the small corpses of children, looked like they had fallen while fleeing. Strangely, there seemed to be no signs of injury on the bodies-no bones sliced by blades or smashed by clubs.

Dah’mir was staring as well, though with curiosity rather than shock or horror. “What happened here?” Vennet asked him.

The priest shook his head, then nodded toward the mound that rose-still covered in waves of green grass-beyond the burned camp. “Continue on,” he said.

They passed through the camp. Their feet and the feet of the sailors following listlessly behind made no noise on the soft carpet of ash that covered the ground.

Closer to the mound lay the battlefield that Vennet had expected to find. The ground had been churned and scarred by fighting. More bodies lay scattered across it, ravaged by decay and scavengers, the stink of their rotting already dissipated. Vennet recognized humans and orcs, the four-armed skeletons of dolgrims, stranger skeletons that might have been dolgaunts, empty carapaces that must have been chuuls. The battle at the Bonetree mound had been fierce.

But over top of the battlefield lay burned patches-not so extensive as in the Bonetree camp, but more distinct because of it. Two burned corpses lay in one blackened patch, three in another closer to the camp. A pattern of charring lay across the whole battlefield, as if lamp oil had been drizzled at random then set alight. Dah’mir studied the marks as though reading some meaning in them. He nodded again, but this time not toward the mound. “That way,” he said. “I need to speak with the Bonetree hunters.”

Through the gloom of twilight, Vennet could see a handful of armed figures. They stood well beyond the last of the burned patches, keeping their distance. They didn’t move as Vennet and Dah’mir approached, however. If they were keeping their distance from anything, Vennet realized, it was the burned land. Once he and Dah’mir were beyond the blackened grass as well, Vennet glanced at the priest and murmured, “Should I have the crew make camp, lord?”

In his heart he was almost hoping Dah’mir would say no, but the green-eyed man nodded, his eyes fixed on the Bonetree hunters. Vennet clenched his teeth and paused long enough to look over his shoulder at the men who followed. “Make camp,” he called, then added, “Set a watch.”

“That was unnecessary,” Dah’mir said as the men shrugged off their equipment and began to pitch the same rude camp they had every night of the journey up river. “They have nothing to fear from the Bonetree.”

“It’s not the Bonetree I’m worried about,” said Vennet. “Something feels wrong.”

The waiting hunters-four of them, three men and a woman-still hadn’t moved, though as Vennet drew closer to them he could see that they weren’t standing like stoic statues either. Instead they twitched and fidgeted, their eyes darting back and forth across the twilight landscape. Their dark gazes lingered on Vennet and he knew they were studying him-the stranger who walked with their priest-just as he was studying them.

All of the hunters wore tattoos and strange piercings, but they also bore recent, serious burns. The man who stood at the fore of the group carried an angry red stripe across his chest that looked as if he had been struck with a flaming lash. “Revered!” he said. He dropped to his knees, the fingers of his free hand darting up to touch his forehead and his lips. Behind him, the other hunters repeated the gesture, though not smoothly. One of the men was trembling in fear, his eyes fixed on Dah’mir.

If the priest saw the man’s fear, he paid it no attention. “Breff,” he said to the hunter who had spoken. “Are you the master of my hunters now?”

Breff nodded tightly as if struggling to maintain his composure. “Master of few, Revered. We saw the herons, Revered. We knew you had returned. We-”

He bent his neck suddenly, turning his face away from Dah’mir. “Revered,” he moaned, his composure crumbling, “what did we do to anger the Dragon Below? We don’t understand. During the battle, the children of Khyber turned on us and now your fiery hand drives us from our homes and keeps us from the ancestor mound. Is it because we fled when you assumed the power of the Dragon Below? We saw Ashi leave after the battle with the outclanners-are we punished because of her betrayal? Tell us!”

Breff’s plea made no sense at all to Vennet, but Dah’mir pressed his lips together in thought, then pulled himself away from Vennet’s support to stand on his own before the kneeling hunters. “Breff, tell me what happened here.”

“After the battle, we waited like cowards for night to fall again, gathering the survivors in the grasslands beyond the mound,” said the hunter, “then we returned to our camp to pray for your return. Two of the hunters took a torch to survey the battlefield. I don’t know what they found, but suddenly there were flames in the night and a terrible howl.” The hunter looked up again. “We went to see what was happening and were met by your hand, his body in flames.”

“My hand?” Dah’mir’s eyes narrowed. “Hruucan?”

Breff nodded.

A memory stirred in Vennet-while they had been allies, Ashi had told him of the Bonetree’s hunt for Dandra. Dah’mir had named the dolgaunt Hruucan as his Hand and put him in charge of the band of Bonetree hunters. “I thought Hruucan was dead,” the half-elf said to Dah’mir uneasily. “You said Singe killed him.”

“He walks, outclanner,” said Breff. “After the camp burned, we fled from him. He didn’t pursue us. When the flames died down, he seemed to be gone. We tried to return and restore the camp, but the Hand came back again, stealing flame from our cooking fires to turn against us. We moved our camp further away, but he still reached for us.” He shivered. “The Bonetree is reduced, Revered. Many of our children and elders are gone. The survivors of the clan hide in the grasslands.”

“So where is Hruucan now?” asked Vennet. “We crossed the battlefield and didn’t see him.”

Breff shook his head. “He is a scourge on the Bonetree. Perhaps he cares nothing for outclanners. Perhaps he lies quiet before the Revered.”

“No,” said Dah’mir. “I don’t think so.” His eyes flashed in the dusk. “A torch on the battlefield, stolen flame-Hruucan died in fire but we carried no fire across the battlefield.”

Vennet stiffened and whirled. His crew’s camp was growing. Wood gathered the night before and carried along had been laid beside a makeshift fire pit piled with tinder. One of the crew crouched beside the tinder, flint and steel at the ready. The camp was beyond the burned zone, but unease filled Vennet. “No fire!” he bellowed.

His warning came too late. The hands of the sailor beside the fire pit were already in motion, striking flint against steel with practiced ease. Sparks leaped into the tinder and the man gave them a gentle puff of air. Flames crackled and blossomed-then seemed to leap into the air, leaving only scorched tinder behind as they stretched like a gossamer thread back to the blackened battlefield.

On the battlefield, a burned corpse stirred. Vennet froze. Behind him, he heard one of the Bonetree whimper in fear. He glanced over his shoulder to see the hunters on their feet, their hands tight on their weapons.

“Revered, it’s him!” said Breff.

The sailor at the firepit looked at the cold tinder in confusion and struck a new shower of sparks. More flames bloomed.

“Stop!” Vennet shouted. He started forward-but Dah’mir’s fingers dug into his shoulder.

“Don’t move!” the priest hissed.

The stirring corpse rose to its feet with a faint whisper like crumbling ashes. It shambled toward Vennet’s crew, black skin cracking to reveal glowing embers beneath. The movement and the glow caught the attention of some of the sailors. Two drew short swords and moved forward. Someone called out to Vennet. “Captain! Danger on deck-”

Before Vennet could even think to respond, the corpse lunged forward with astounding speed. Claw-like hands grasped the nearest sailor in a horrid embrace. The man screamed in agony as he burst into flame. The other sailors flinched back-one or two retreated a pace. The burned corpse flung the dying sailor aside. Bright flames clung to it, tendrils of fire writhing around its chest and hanging like clumps of hair from its head, long burning tentacles weaving above its shoulders.

The tentacles of a dolgaunt reborn in fire.

The creature exploded in a fiery whirlwind of motion, its movements fluid and supple as if the sailor’s death had given it new energy. Tentacles wove around another sailor. He burned. Fists and feet pummeled others, knocking them back with smoke rising from their clothes. More sailors fell, their bodies engulfed in devouring fire. More screams rose. Vennet wanted to order his men to fall back, but he felt paralyzed.

One of the Bonetree let out a wail and bolted. “Revered?” Breff asked.

Dah’mir made no reply. Vennet heard Breff hiss, then spit a desperate order in the language of the hunters. Footsteps darted away and he and Dah’mir stood alone.

The last of the sailors fell. Flames rose around the burning dolgaunt. The creature’s body was a horrible, shifting mass of flaking ash, raw new flesh, and smoldering embers. Only the empty black pits where eyes should have been remained constant. They turned on Vennet and the dolgaunt began to glide forward as smoothly as flame given life-or rather unlife. Heat and hatred seemed to flow from the dolgaunt in equal measure, and yet Vennet felt only a profound, unnatural chill in his spirit. He fumbled for his cutlass, though his gut told him it would be of little good against a creature that had already died once before.

“Hruucan!” called Dah’mir.

The fiery dolgaunt didn’t stop his advance.

“Hruucan!” Dah’mir said again. He pulled himself around in front of Vennet. “Hruucan, stop!” The priest drew a breath and stood tall. He seemed almost to swell. The strength of his presence was a dark cloak around him. His voice was sudden thunder in the dusk. “By the power of the Dragon Below, I command it!”

Hruucan rocked backward as if struck-and stopped where he stood, his blazing tentacles lashing the air.

Dah’mir took a step forward. “Hruucan,” he said, “do you know me?”

The thrashing of the dolgaunt’s tentacles, of the fiery tendrils on his chest and head, quickened for a moment, then fell still. Hruucan bent his head. “Dah’mir,” he said. His voice was deep and grating. “My master.”

“Good,” said Dah’mir with a nod. “Vennet, your arm-quickly.”

The aura of his presence collapsed like the passing of a cloudburst, leaving the priest looking more exhausted than before. Vennet reached forward and caught him before he could fall. Hruucan’s tentacles stirred.

“You’re injured,” he said.

Vennet’s belly, still clenched tight, seemed to squeeze into a knot with the fear that Hruucan might take advantage of Dah’mir’s weakness. The dolgaunt kept his distance though and Dah’mir only gave a weak, cold laugh. “And you’re dead, my Hand.”

“I died with hatred of Singe in my mind,” said Hruucan, “and rose the same way. Fire renews me. Life is my fuel. When I take my revenge on Singe, perhaps I will join him in death.”

“Did you kill my Bonetree hunters?” Dah’mir asked as if scolding a child.

Hruucan showed no sign of remorse. “Their lives sustained me,” he said. He turned and swept a hand across the smoldering bodies of Vennet’s crew. “These will sustain me for a time as well.”

To hear the priest and the undead dolgaunt speaking so casually sent a ripple of horror through Vennet. A sort of mad courage rose out of the fear that gripped him. “They were my crew!” he snapped at Hruucan. He looked to Dah’mir, leaning on his arm. “How are we supposed to get back to Zarash’ak and Lightning on Water without them?”

“Be at ease, captain,” Dah’mir said. “When I have my strength back, you won’t need a crew. I will see you back to your ship wherever she may be.”

Shock and anger ran up Vennet’s spine. “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

Dah’mir’s voice was weary. “The dragonshards that led me to sanctuary on your ship are still onboard her, aren’t they, captain? I can still sense their beacon call. Perhaps your crew have stronger wills that I expected, but whatever the cause of it, your ship has been on the move for several days.” He lifted a hand and pointed into the darkness. “That way. I expect whoever controls her is making for Sharn.”

Vennet stared at him. “My ship has been stolen? My ship has been stolen and you didn’t tell me?” His voice rose. “If my crew reaches Sharn with Lightning on Water, I’ll be exposed! What good will the power and wealth you promised me be then? How could you not tell me this was happening?” He tried to thrust Dah’mir away from him.

The priest’s fingers sank into his flesh like talons. Acid-green eyes glared at Vennet, cold and furious. “The disposition of your ship is of no concern to me, Vennet.” Dah’mir spat his name rather than his title for the first time. “She is where she is and we are where we are-and where we are is what matters. The restoration of my strength is all that concerns me now. It should be the all that concerns you as well.” His fingers dug deep. “You will receive your reward-I have promised it-but do not assume that I owe you anything else.”

There was something in Dah’mir’s eyes beyond mere fury, something strange and alien that made Vennet’s guts quiver with fear, but the half-elf had anger between his teeth as well. “But you do, Dah’mir. My bounty hunter will have found Dandra, Geth, and Singe in Zarash’ak.”

“Singe is with your ship,” said Hruucan.

Both Vennet and Dah’mir turned to stare at the dolgaunt. “How do you know?” hissed Dah’mir.

“I feel him like a wound.” Hruucan’s tentacles lashed the air. “The river has prevented me from pursuing him, but I still feel his presence. When I was awake last, I felt him there-” He pointed almost directly south. Toward Zarash’ak, Vennet realized. “-but now I feel him there.” He swung around to point southeast.

The same direction Dah’mir had pointed.

Hruucan faced both priest and captain. “It takes little imagination to guess that the movements of Singe and your ship are connected.”

“Storm at dawn,” Vennet cursed.

A thin smile curled Dah’mir’s lips. “Your bounty hunter failed, Vennet.”

Vennet growled. “You’ll find Dandra where you find Singe, Dah’mir. I think we both have an interest in Lightning on Water now.”

Dah’mir’s smile faltered. His face hardened. “Take me into the mound,” he said.

Vennet’s rage carried him past the burning bodies of his crew, across the battlefield, and up to the looming bulk of the Bonetree mound. It carried him through the tunnel mouth that opened in the mound’s side, a dark scar under the light of the rising moons. It carried him down the first twenty paces of the tunnel that pushed into the earth beneath.

Then-as the tunnel turned twice in quick succession and all hint of moonlight, night air, and the outside world was cut off-it faltered.

Perhaps Dah’mir felt the tension in him. The priest chuckled softly. “Are you frightened, Vennet?”

The half-elf stiffened. “No.”

Hruucan just laughed.

The rippling flames of the dolgaunt’s tentacles and the ember-glow of his burned body were their only illumination in the tunnels. By their shifting light, Vennet could see that the tunnel floor had been worn smooth from use. They passed the mouths of chambers and other tunnels, but Dah’mir kept them moving along the most well-worn route-although at one chamber entrance he stopped. “In here,” he said. “I need to see something.”

Vennet guided him into the chamber. Hruucan followed and the light of his body splashed across a towering device of brass tubes, wires, and crystals. Vennet recognized it from Dandra’s tale of her capture and torture at Dah’mir’s hands-it was the device that the priest had used to separate his kalashtar subject’s minds from their bodies, exchanging them with the spirits of their psicrystals. He recognized the tables to which Dandra said the kalashtar had been bound. One of them still held the remains, somehow preserved by the stale atmosphere within the mound, of a kalashtar man. His skull looked like it had been ripped apart.

On the floor before the device of brass and crystal was a blue-black Khyber shard, the biggest dragonshard Vennet had ever seen. For a moment, he forgot his fear in a rush of greed. The shard was the size of small child. Sold at market it would be worth a considerable fortune.

Dandra had described just such a shard as the heart of Dah’mir’s device. Vennet looked up at the device again: there was a hole torn through the tubes and wires that matched the size of the shard. The great blue-black crystal rested atop a network of cracks in the flagstone of the chamber floor. It had, Vennet guessed, been hurled to the ground hard enough to shatter the stones. He looked more closely at the shard itself.

A deep crack ran through the shard’s center. It had been ruined.

Dah’mir’s grasp was tight on his arm. Vennet looked down at him and felt his fear come rushing back. The priest’s face was pale with controlled rage. Vennet wouldn’t want to be whoever had broken the shard.

“I’ve seen enough,” said Dah’mir after a long while. “Go back to the tunnel. Our destination lies deeper.”

As they penetrated further, the frequency with which other tunnels and chambers appeared increased. The floor became not just worn, but slippery-smooth. The silence of the upper tunnels that Vennet had taken for granted was broken. There were harsh whispers in the depths and scrapes of furtive movement in the darkness. Some of the whispers sound threatening.

“Dolgrims,” murmured Dah’mir. “Act calm. They’ll attack if they sense fear.”

The tunnel opened into a chamber wider than the reach of Hruucan’s light, but both he and Dah’mir moved across it with confidence. Vennet might have been supporting Dah’mir but he would have been lost without the priest’s guidance. The darkness of the chamber seemed unending. At some point, the whispers of the dolgrims faded away as well. Vennet felt unease rising up his throat like vomit. Just when it seemed that he would be sick, though, Hruucan’s flickering light fell on a wall of rock pierced by a narrow passage.

“Here,” said Dah’mir. “Go carefully.”

Vennet didn’t need the warning. The floors and walls of the passage were rough, not worn smooth. The tunnel was seldom traveled. He edged forward, leading Dah’mir. Hruucan stayed back-the passage was so restricted that it trapped the heat given off by his body. Vennet could feel hot air circulating around him, like standing too close to a roaring fire.

The passage ended in a dark crack. Vennet stepped out of the glow of Hruucan’s tentacles and into a seeming void. His foot struck a loose rock-it clattered away into the darkness, raising a cacophony of distant echoes.

“I told you to be careful,” Dah’mir said. He raised his voice and called out an arcane word. Arcs of dim blue radiance streaked through the chamber, veins of crystal embedded in the walls woken to light by the magic. Vennet caught his breath.

A cavern soared around them, opening above and below. They stood on a broad ledge about halfway up from the cavern floor. More ledges stepped down like gigantic benches on the cavern’s other walls. The floor of the cavern was broken and uneven, but about twenty-five paces across. At floor level in the opposite wall was another broad tunnel. Stones ringed the tunnel mouth in a rough arch-stones etched with symbols and interspersed with the shining blue-black of Khyber shards.

“Storm at dawn,” breathed Vennet.

“So close,” wheezed Dah’mir. “So close.” He gestured sharply. “Help me down!”

Vennet glanced over the side of the ledge. The rock face looked as though it had been worked like clay to form a series of irregular steps down to the cavern floor. He went first, choosing his footing carefully and helping Dah’mir down each step. The priest moved with the care of a frail man. “The shifter will pay for this,” he murmured with each cautious movement. “He will pay.”

Hruucan leaped down with a careless grace to join them as they crossed the floor. Vennet stared up at the stone ring built around the tunnel. The stones clearly didn’t come from within the cavern-they were a mix of colors, sizes, and textures. Many had the smooth curves of river stones, others the broken sharpness of quarried rock. Up close, he could see that they were held in place with a dark but glittering mortar.

“What is it?” Vennet asked.

“A seal,” said the priest. “A seal devised by Gatekeepers to restrain forces they feared.” He pulled away from Vennet and eased himself to the ground, kneeling before the tunnel.

“A Gatekeeper seal?” Vennet’s tortured gut felt ready to rise once more. His heart was pounding in his chest. When he’d been tutored in the classrooms of House Lyrandar, the ancient myths of the Gatekeepers had been curiosities. When he’d been taught the lies of the Sovereign Host, the Gatekeepers hadn’t been mentioned at all. Only when he’d found faith in the Dragon Below had he learned more of them-enemies of the powers of Khyber, creators of the seals that had for millennia restrained the great lords of the dark, the alien daelkyr. He swallowed. “You’re going to break it?”

“No,” Dah’mir said. “But I don’t need to.”

He sat back on his heels, his leather robes pooling around him, the red Eberron shards set in his sleeves flashing in the dim light as he raised his arms above his head. A chant began to ripple from his lips. Vennet didn’t recognize the words. They were like nothing he had ever heard before, neither a true language nor the syllables of magic. They hurt his ears and sent horror stabbing through him. They soaked into his head like wine into a white cloth. When a second voice took up the chant, he cringed and looked to Hruucan.

The dolgaunt, however, stood silent. It took a moment for Vennet to realize that the second voice was his own, that his lips and tongue were moving in time to Dah’mir’s. That he had settled down to kneel on the rocky floor as well.

He thrust himself to his feet and stumbled backward, but the words of the priest’s chant stayed with him, forcing themselves out of his mouth. He tried clamping his hands over his mouth. It only muffled the words. The chant rose to a peak.

Within the ring of the Gatekeeper seal, the air shimmered and grew bright. The tunnel beyond seemed to contract, rushing toward him-

And Vennet peered through an enormous lens into a great chamber, the throne room of a wealthy lord. Of a prince!

Except that the courtiers who turned to look back through the window were tall and spindly beneath their fine robes. They had broad, hairless heads with slick, pulsing skin and dead white eyes-and dangling, writhing tentacles where there should have been a nose and jaw. Mind flayers.

There were other strange creatures as well. Dolgaunts stood as guards and dolgrims crawled on the floor like dogs. A mind flayer carried a small creature like an eyeless monkey on its shoulder. A beautiful elf-like woman turned to reveal thick fleshy tendrils growing among her hair and down her back.

At the center of the grand chamber, on a throne carved from glittering black stone, sat a human man of astounding beauty. The robes that spilled off him exposed pale, muscular arms and a broad chest. His hair was black as night and fine as silk; his skin was as pale and smooth as marble. His eyes were solid acid-green, the same color as Dah’mir’s but without pupil or iris. His ears, his nose, his brow, the line of his jaw-all were so perfect that it took Vennet a long moment to realize that he had no mouth, only smooth skin between nose and chin.

“Storm at dawn,” whispered Vennet. A fragment from the rites of the Cult of the Dragon Below came back to him. They are perfect in their power. They are without flaw save those flaws they choose. Their triumph is delayed but not denied-they will hold Eberron as they held Xoriat. They are the great lords of the dark and nothing is beyond their will.

Dah’mir touched his fingers to his forehead and his lips, then bent low, prostrating himself. “Master,” he said, his voice thick with adoration.

The voice that answered the priest crashed through the cavern like thunder. It slammed into Vennet and sent him staggering. The half-elf screamed at the sound of it. He clapped his hands over his ears, but it did no good. The only sound he blocked was his own scream. The voice of the great lord of the dark, of the daelkyr, was in his mind.

Vennet had stood at the helm of Lightning on Water to guide the ship through storms, the rain lashing him, the roar of the gale and the howl of the ship’s great elemental ring blending together until he could hear nothing else. The daelkyr’s voice was like that except that the thunder was broken by the rise and fall of words. Words that Vennet could recognize but not grasp-words far larger and older than him. Words that seemed older than Eberron itself. They ate into him like bitterly cold acid, numbing and searing at the same time. He stumbled and fell, cracking his knees against the rough stone of the cavern floor.

Dah’mir seemed to understand the daelkyr’s voice, though. As the thunder stopped and Vennet reeled at a moment of respite, the priest shook his head and turned his eyes downward. “No, master,” he said. “Your new servants aren’t ready. There have been complications. Medala is dead-”

The daelkyr spoke again. Vennet reeled. Across the cavern, he saw Hruucan, standing as motionless as a soldier on parade, shift his weight and brace himself. Even Dah’mir went pale.

“The kalashtar who escaped, master. She found allies. I captured her and returned her to the mound, but her allies recruited Gatekeepers. There was a battle-”

In the great throne room beyond the lens, there was a soundless stir as mind flayers looked at each other. The daelkyr sat forward, his voice a whip crack on the air.

“Dead, master,” Dah’mir said. “All of them-killed by the kalashtar’s allies.” His hands fumbled with his leather robes. “I was wounded, too. It was a chance blow, a desperate strike, but the blade was Dhakaani and powerful.”

He parted his robes. Vennet was behind him and couldn’t see the wound he exposed, but he heard the sucking sound of leather peeled away from raw, bloody flesh.

Contempt emanated from the daelkyr. Vennet fell over and wept as the silent words of disgust that rolled from the great lord peeled back the layers of his mind. Hruucan staggered and went to his knees.

Dah’mir fell prostrate one more. “Master, I know! I am weak! Without the shard, my strength is gone, your gifts fade.” A shudder shook him. “There is more, master,” he added with the despair of someone forced to deliver ill tidings. “The great stone has been broken.”

The daelkyr said nothing. The only sound in the cavern was Vennet’s own weeping. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the daelkyr and his priest, however. He saw Dah’mir hesitate, then look up. “It’s not the end, master. I believe I can create another stone, one suited to our needs and not a flawed cast-off. One closer to the true stones. My studies, my experiments-I can draw on them.” Dah’mir took a ragged breath. “It will take time.”

The thunder of the daelkyr’s voice rolled again. This time, though, it seemed to Vennet that he could actually understand something of the green-eyed lord’s silent speech. As his thoughts fell apart, the ancient words became distinct. They burned in his tortured mind, melting sanity like wax. We have time.

Dah’mir lifted himself from the floor and wrenched his robes wide once more. “Then heal me, master! Heal me, I beg you!”

The daelkyr sat back, his eyes narrowed-then held out a hand. A mind flayer, taller than its fellows and with long tentacles that made Vennet think of an old man’s trailing beard, stepped forward and placed a blue-black dragonshard in the daelkyr’s hand. The great lord stroked the shard for a moment, then casually pitched it forward toward the shimmering lens.

For a moment, the bright air within the ring of the Gatekeeper seal rippled and churned like water as the shard plunged through it. The dark crystal fell free. Dah’mir, rose to his feet, stretched out a hand, and snatched it from the air. His eyes were wide and shining.

“Vennet!” he called. His voice cracked. “Come here! If you want your reward, help me now!”

Vennet would gladly have given up the wildest of his dreams for power and glory just to have fled the cavern. His limbs and his will, however, seemed to belong to someone else. Trembling, he rose and moved forward. The eyes of the daelkyr and all of his strange and horrible courtiers were on him as he stepped around to stand in front of Dah’mir. The wound in the priest’s chest lay bare, a jagged rip in his flesh. Broken ribs showed in its red depths. It oozed dark blood and thin clear liquid like the seepage from a blister. There was no sign of festering or rot. It could have been inflicted only moments rather than weeks before.

Dah’mir held out the dragonshard. Still staring at the wound, Vennet took it without looking-then gasped as his hand closed around its cool surface. Power thrummed beneath his fingertips, like grasping a rope under too much strain and ready to snap. He looked down at the shard. It was the size and shape of a thick spike, longer than a finger, tapering from a narrow point to a flat-topped bulb three fingers wide. The swirls that patterned its heart seemed almost to shift as he watched.

Before him, Dah’mir tugged his robes wide and pushed out his chest. “Close the wound, Vennet!” he commanded. “Close the wound with my master’s shard and restore my strength!”

Blood pounded in Vennet’s ears. He flipped the shard around in his hand and drove the narrow end deep in Dah’mir’s wounded chest. Warm, ragged flesh licked his fingers. He snatched them away. Dah’mir staggered back a pace and stared down at the blue-black stone in his chest.

Then he flung back his head and roared.

The flesh of his chest writhed and knit together around the shard, leaving its flat top glittering against his pale skin. The writhing of the priest’s flesh didn’t stop there, however. His skin thickened, the metallic luster of copper spreading across his chest, up to his throat, and down to his belly. The black leather of his robes became scaly and thick, merging with his body-which grew and kept growing. Arms and legs twisted. Hands grew massive talons. Dah’mir stretched and immense copper-sheened wings burst from his sides, a tail from the length of his back. His chin became sharp and pointed, his face a muzzle. Horns thrust back against his head. His wild eyes opened into great shining orbs of acid green.

The dragon reared back and a second roar shook the cavern. “I am restored! Thank you, my master! Glory to Khyber, the fallen and shunned!”

Vennet curled back, thrusting himself away from the awesome majesty of the wyrm. The presence that Dah’mir had worn as a man seemed magnified. Conflicting urges tore at Vennet: flee from the monster or fall down and bow before Dah’mir’s power. He screamed, vomiting his fear, and cowered. His saber was in his hand, held like a shield. His dragonmark burned across his back. On the other side of the cavern, Hruucan laughed at him, his fiery tentacles lashing.

The echoes of roar and laughter spoke to him. He’s a dragon! You’ve pledged yourself to a dragon!

“I know,” Vennet croaked.

Not many people live to see both a dragon and a daelkyr.

“Then I’m dead.”

Not yet.

Dah’mir settled back to crouch on four legs, his wings folded against his scaly sides. “I will not fail you, master. A new line of servants will bow before you.” He dipped his body, lowering his horned head to the ground, then sat back. His wings fluttered around him and his body writhed once more, this time folding in on itself, becoming smaller, becoming human-sized once more-

— then, strangely, even smaller. Scales becomes greasy black feathers and Dah’mir stood in the center of the cavern as a heron, just as he had in Vennet’s cabin. Except this time, he was the one who looked startled. He swelled back into a dragon, then shrank into a heron once more.

“My human form!” he screeched. He twisted and spread his feathered wings. “Master, what happened to my human form?”

The laughter of the unnatural creatures of the daelkyr’s court reached through the eerie lens as a faint hissing, but Vennet could read the mocking expression on their faces. The daelkyr sat forward on his throne. His voice throbbed in Vennet’s mind. It didn’t seem so terrible now, as if the ancient words had burned away his pain and fear. He still cringed though at the cold anger of the daelkyr’s tone. Failure is punished.

Dah’mir flinched. “Master?”

Bring me my servants and your human shape will be restored.

“But master, how? How can I do your work? I cannot walk among humans! I have no hands!”

Use the hands of others. Let them walk for you. The daelkyr’s expression dimmed. He sat back. Bring me my servants.

Vennet saw Dah’mir tremble. His heron-head dipped. “I understand.”

The lens within the great Gatekeeper seal shimmered and the vision of the daelkyr’s weird court snapped and collapsed. Dah’mir turned on spindly legs to look first at Hruucan, then at Vennet.

The half-elf slid his saber back into its scabbard and held out his hands. “Dah’mir,” he said. “My master.”

The long, dark walk up from the cavern and out of the mound seemed faster the second time. Maybe it was because the whispers of the dolgrims had fallen silent. Maybe it was because Vennet felt none of the fear he had before. He felt strangely giddy, in fact, and only Dah’mir’s rage kept him quiet.

Anger was an aura around the heron. He flew where he could, leaving Vennet and Hruucan to follow in his wake, and walking where he couldn’t, forcing them to match his waddling pace. He said nothing.

Dawn had broken when they emerged from the mound. Vennet blinked at the radiance. Hruucan bared his teeth at the light that fell on him, but without eyes, he didn’t flinch. Dah’mir leaped into the air as soon as he could, beating his wings to gain height-then transforming into his dragon form in mid-air. He settled back to the ground of the battlefield before the mound and his shining eyes looking down on Hruucan and Vennet.

“Your desires come to the fore, Vennet,” he said, his voice a rumble. “We’re going after your ship. I need Dandra and Tetkashtai. I will begin my research with them.” His talons gouged grooves in the ground. “You will be the first rider I’ve born willingly in my life. Feel honored.”

“I will,” Vennet said. “I do.”

“Wait!” hissed Hruucan. His tentacles whipped through the air. “You can’t leave me. If Singe is on that ship …”

“I wouldn’t leave you behind,” said Dah’mir. His eyes narrowed as he considered the fiery dolgaunt’s tentacles. “Fire revives you, but can you extinguish yourself?”

Hruucan’s tentacles stiffened. “No.”

“Then let me.” Without warning, the dragon reared and his tremendous leathery wings hammered on the air. Vennet twisted away and covered his face to protect himself against the sudden blast of wind and dust stirred up. Grit choked the air, worse than salt spray in a storm.

Look to Hruucan, the rushing wind whispered in his ears. Vennet turned.

The dolgaunt was staggering against the air and dust, his flames guttering like candles, simultaneously blown away and smothered. His tentacles streamed out and vanished. The red embers beneath his skin flared bright, then turned black.

Hruucan fell to the ground, a charred corpse.

Dah’mir folded his wings. The dust in the air began to settle. Without even being asked, Vennet went to Hruucan’s body. His skin was hot, crisp, and fragile, like burned paper. The half-elf stripped a tunic off the rotting body of an orc who had died with an axe in his skull. The fabric was stiff and stank of decay. There were maggots clinging to it but he shook them off and wrapped the tunic carefully around the bundle that was Hruucan. “To keep him from crumbling as you fly,” he told Dah’mir.

The dragon nodded and bent down so that Vennet could climb onto his back. “Sit at the base of my neck,” he said. “Hold tight.”

Vennet barely had time to settle himself and wedge his hands among the thick scales that ran down Dah’mir’s back before the dragon coiled and leaped into the air. His wings snapped out, beat down and caught the wind. They climbed. Dah’mir let out a strange whistle and the herons that had traveled with them from Zarash’ak burst from the riverbank below to soar up and meet them. They had to fly fast-even barely beating his wings, Dah’mir was still climbing. The Shadow Marches spread out below Vennet and he laughed.

Like flying in an airship, the passing wind howled.

“Better!” Vennet shouted back.

Far ahead, clouds piled up in a thick bank. Dah’mir soared toward them and after what seemed like only a few moments, they plunged into the thick mists. The sunlight vanished, leaving everything damp, cool, and dim.

“Prepare yourself!” Dah’mir roared. Peering past his neck, Vennet saw him stretch out a foreleg and heard him snarl a word of magic.

One of the red Eberron shards embedded in the scales of his leg flared suddenly and seemed to burn. Darkness flared around them, as if the world had been turned inside out and what had been bright was made black.

“I have flown through a plane of shadow to reach you,” Dah’mir had said when he first appeared on Lightning on Water.

Vennet could see nothing but dim forms as they whisked through the weird dark skies, but the shadow winds were as talkative as the winds of Eberron. What about the reward Dah’mir promised you? they asked. What about wealth and power?

Vennet laughed, the speed of their passage snatching his breath from between his teeth. “I have my reward!” he said.