The Binding Stone

CHAPTER 11

“Come on,” Singe said with frustrated patience. “Come on, eat.”

He held a little chunk of meat to Dandra’s lips. He wasn’t exactly sure what kind of meat it was-fowl, snake, or something else-but it was cold and weirdly greasy. At least it was soft and shredded easily under his fingernails. “Eat,” he urged Dandra again.

She paid no attention to him. Her eyes were on Dah’mir, watching the green-eyed man in rapt fascination as he laughed and spoke with Fause and the other cultists around the fire of the night’s campsite. Virtually all she had done for the last two days was stare at him. Singe pushed the food against her unresisting lips. Her mouth finally opened and she took the meat, chewing it absently.

“Good,” Singe told her. “Now swallow.” She did, and that was a minor triumph, too. The first time Singe had tried to feed her, Dandra had just kept chewing, the food still in her mouth. Singe had never had to feed a child himself, but he was certain it would be something like this. He plucked another morsel from the small heap that he cupped in his palm and held it to Dandra’s lips. The slow process of coaxing her to take another bit of food began again.

At least it gave him something to focus on besides their situation. Two days spent in the broad boats that Fause had scrounged at Dah’mir’s command, two days spent rowing slowly upstream at Dah’mir’s command, two days spent rowing slowly upstream along the sluggish river that lay beyond Zarash’ak. Only Dah’mir, Medalashana, and Dandra had been spared the labor of rowing; Singe had been forced to take an oar alongside Ashi and the cultists. His shoulders and back burned and he had big welts wherever marsh flies had landed to nip at the salt on his sweaty skin. On the first day, the wound that Ashi’s thrown knife had inflicted on his arm had open up and bled profusely. Singe had faltered like a lame horse, with so many flies buzzing around the wound that he’d begun to imagine the wriggling of maggots and the stench of infection.

Ashi took the charge of looking after Dah’mir’s captives seriously, though. When the boats had been drawn up on a patch of dry land along the marshy riverside for the first night’s camp, she had dragged Singe before Fause and forced the cult’s leader to use his prayers to heal the wound.

The touch of the Dragon Below’s power had made Singe long for his imagined maggots. Fause’s prayers brought no gentle healing-Singe’s flesh had flowed and knit together in a horrible, unclean rippling. All through that night, he had found himself touching his arm, half-expecting to find some vile cyst left behind where the wound had been. He’d stared up at the cold stars and shivered, feeling more alone than he ever had before.

The image of Geth plunging into the foul water under Zarash’ak-defiant to the last, Natrac and Dandra’s psicrystal lost with him-played itself out in his memory again and again. The anger he had carried for nine years seemed as empty as the revenge against Dah’mir that they had planned on the hillside above the Eldeen Reaches.

But they hadn’t seen Geth’s body, Singe told himself, or Natrac’s. And the orc who had come to their aid had leaped into the water like a child into a swimming hole. There was a chance, wasn’t there?

Wasn’t there?

Singe forced desperate hope out of his head. He couldn’t afford to dream. He had to keep his eyes and his mind clear. His chance would come. He bent his thoughts back to Dandra. “Come on,” he murmured. Dandra ignored him. He clenched his teeth. “Twelve moons, how did you eat the first time you made this journey?”

“We didn’t,” said a harsh voice over him.

Singe jerked and flinched back from Medalashana-Medala as Dah’mir insisted on calling her. The abbreviation suited her. Compared to the woman he had seen in Dandra’s memories, she was like someone cut short, half of her substance and half of her soul stripped away. The kalashtar crouched down, staring at Dandra as if Singe wasn’t even present.

“We starved. The Bonetree clan tolerates weakness in no one. Dah’mir forced them to give us water, but they didn’t feed us and we were too enraptured by Dah’mir’s presence to feed ourselves.”

Singe said nothing. He couldn’t bring himself to it. When Medala had forced herself on his mind, the experience had been nothing like Dandra’s gentle touch. Just having her close made his breath catch as little else ever had.

Medala’s lip curled. “Don’t try to hide your fear, Singe,” she said without looking at him, “I can feel it pouring off of you without even trying.” The kalashtar reached out to brush Dandra’s hair. Dandra gave no reaction and Medala hissed. “But I can’t read you, can I, Tetkashtai? Dah’mir’s hold presses your mind down into places even I can’t reach. We’ll be back at the mound soon enough, though, and when he releases you-”

Shadows stirred in the gathering twilight. “Medala!” snapped Ashi as she strode up to them. “What are you doing? Get away from her!”

The gray-haired woman stood slowly, her eyes flashing. “Are you challenging me, Ashi?”

The camp went quiet, even Dah’mir’s smooth voice fading away. Ashi leaned in close, face to face with Medala. “In this,” she said gruffly, “yes! Singe and Tetkashtai are in my charge. Dah’mir said so.”

“Dah’mir has placed me above the hunters,” Medala hissed back, “and thus above you. I’ll do as I please!”

A chime rang in Singe’s mind and pain lanced through him, just as it had in Zarash’ak. He fell back onto the ground, scattering Dandra’s food as he curled up into a ball and gasped for breath. He heard Ashi yelling angrily-and then Dah’mir’s voice rose sharply. “Ashi! Medala!”

The green-eyed man’s shout was like a slap in the face. The chime in Singe’s mind vanished-and with it the scourging pain of Medala’s power. He rolled over onto his side, panting and shaking. Medala was on the ground, prostrate before Dah’mir’s approach. Ashi kneeled as well, but through watering eyes, Singe could see that her back was rigid with fury. Dah’mir stopped in front of both women, his black robes whispering softly, the dragonshards set into them shimmering softly in the gloom. His presence was like a tangible force in the air and there was the trace of an edge in his voice when he spoke. “Medala, control yourself. I have plans for the wizard and I don’t want him damaged beyond use.”

The words sent a shiver down Singe’s back, but not quite so much as the sight of the powerful kalashtar groveling in the dirt before Dah’mir. “Forgive me!” she begged. “I wouldn’t have harmed him! I only wanted to make Ashi understand her proper place.”

The pale man frowned slightly and turned his gaze on the kneeling hunter. “Ashi, your obedience to my instructions is a credit to you, but you must show respect to Medala. She has my favor-and the favor of the powers of the Dragon Below as the first of a new line of servants.”

“Yes, Dah’mir,” said Ashi. Singe saw her big frame cringe. “I mean, yes, Revered!” Her fingers darted to her lips and her forehead in some sort of ritual sign. Dah’mir’s eyes flashed.

“Have a care, Ashi! Your service has been outstanding, but there are limits to my patience.” He reached down a hand and helped Medala to her feet. The green robes that the kalashtar wore were filthy. Dah’mir spoke a word of simple magic and passed his hand in front of her. The dirt fell away. He took Medala’s arm and led her back to the campfire. Medala’s face shone with adoration.

Through all of it, Dandra hadn’t moved except to follow Dah’mir’s movements.

Groaning, Singe forced himself off the ground and back to her side. There were a few fragments of meat still crushed in his palm. Woodenly, he held another up to Dandra’s lips.

I have plans for the wizard and I don’t want him damaged beyond use. Singe’s belly twisted with more than his hunger-and, he realized, with more than fear for just himself. If Medala was the first of a new line of servants to the Dragon Below, what were Dah’mir’s plans for Dandra?

“Leave off, outclanner,” Ashi growled. Singe flinched around to stare at the hunter. The big woman was rising, anger on her face-but anger that was, thankfully, not directed at him. She held out a flask. “Her body needs water more than it needs food. Leave off trying to feed her and see that she drinks.”

Singe hesitated, then took the flask. Dandra took the water more easily than she took the food. As she drank, Singe glanced back at Ashi. The hunter was glaring at Medala and Dah’mir as they sat by the fire. An idea slid into his mind. He let it brew for a few minutes, turning it back and forth in his mind. After a moment, he said, “Ashi?”

She looked back at him and her mouth curled, the pale rings in her lip catching the light of the fire. “You have nothing to thank me for, outclanner. Dah’mir placed me in charge of you and I do my duty to the Bonetree.”

“I wasn’t going to thank you,” he told her. “You’re holding us prisoner, you’ve kicked me in the stomach, and I think there was a promise to tear out my guts with your hands.”

Her teeth clenched. “Dah’mir has forbidden that.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Singe drew a deep breath and said, “In Zarash’ak, the things you said about Geth …”

“I meant them. He was a good enemy-rond e reis, fierce and tough. He didn’t deserve to die as he did. Take comfort that he probably drowned quickly.”

Singe closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “You’re a woman of strange honor, Ashi.”

“You don’t understand the Bonetree, outclanner,” Ashi said harshly. “Our ways are simple. If an enemy deserves my respect, I will give it to him. Death in combat is honest. Murder, torture-those are the weapons of the weak.”

“You cut off Natrac’s hand.”

Her eyes flashed and she lunged forward, slapping him sharply. “Don’t make me forget my duty,” she seethed, then sat back. “Vennet cut off the half-orc’s hand. It was a shame to me.”

“You didn’t like Vennet,” said Singe. Ashi shook her head. Singe paused, then added carefully, “And you don’t like Medala either.”

She stiffened for a moment before grunting, “The falling man finds the ground. What of it? My duty to the Bonetree comes before anything you can say, outclanner.”

“But not a duty to the powers of Khyber? You’re hiding something from both Dah’mir and Medala, Ashi.”

The hunter froze.

“For all that you insist on calling me ‘outclanner,’ you know my name,” Singe murmured. “You know Geth’s and Natrac’s. I think you know her name, too.” He pointed at Dandra. “But I’ve noticed that you do the same thing Dah’mir and Medala do-you call her Tetkashtai.”

“Medala gave us Tetkashtai’s name before we began the hunt,” Ashi said stiffly.

“Still, you haven’t told Dah’mir or Medala that you also know her by another name. And you didn’t exactly jump to tell Dah’mir about that orc.”

It had been Fause who’d let mention of their mysterious ally slip to the green-eyed man. Singe had glimpsed anger in Dah’mir’s face at mention of the orc’s interference, though he’d acted as if it was nothing. The wizard looked up at Ashi. “Why are you holding back?”

Ashi glared at him. “Perhaps it makes me happy to know something that they do not,” she said. “We are taught that Dah’mir is all-knowing and infallible, one of the favored servants of the great powers of the Dragon Below-even speaking his name out loud is forbidden among the clan. But when he set Medala, an outclanner, above his people, I doubted. As I doubted when he set Hruucan to lead the hunters after I was sent to follow you.”

“So you know that Dah’mir isn’t infallible,” said Singe. He leaned forward. “And if he wrong about one thing, it might be that he was wrong about something else.”

Ashi’s eyes narrowed. “I may not like Medala, outclanner,” she said, “but if you’re trying to turn me against my clan, you will fail. And Dah’mir is the heart of the Bonetree clan. I may doubt, but from the day we’re born, we’re taught to revere him!”

“From the day you’re born?” Singe blinked and twisted to look at Dah’mir. The man had a strangely ageless quality about him, but he was no more than decade older than Singe was himself. “Ashi,” he said in mocking disbelief, “maybe you were taught that way, but think-your parents wouldn’t have known Dah’mir as anything but a young man!”

Ashi snorted. “Now you’re the one who’s wrong about something. Did you think Dah’mir was some trickster-priest taking advantage of our beliefs?” She rose. “He created the Bonetree. He has shaped and guided the clan for more than ten generations.”

For a moment, Singe gaped at her. “What-? How?”

“He’s favored by the Dragon Below,” said Ashi. “Do you need to know more?”

She turned away as Singe sat back, stunned, his nascent plan of exploiting her dislike for Medala shaken. Ten generations, he thought in wonder. Elves lived that long, and dwarves sometimes too, but even they carried their years in their face and eyes. Dah’mir was neither elf nor dwarf, and his acid-green eyes were as bright as a youth’s. One of the undead might exist unchanging for so long, but the undead didn’t bask in the light of day as Dah’mir did.

“Twelve bloody moons,” he breathed. In all that Dandra had described, he had never thought that they might be facing someone so ancient! Was that the secret of his unnatural presence and his power over the kalashtar? What other secrets, he wondered, lay behind those acid-green eyes? He looked around Ashi.

She was standing less than a pace away, her eyes raised to the sky and the rising moons. Singe followed her gaze-and drew a sharp breath.

Silhouetted against the silver glow of the night sky, circling down to land near the campsite, was a heron, its legs dangling and its long neck folded back on itself. The bird landed beyond the firelight, but he could see that its feathers were black and greasy, When it cocked its head, its eyes flashed green. Singe saw Dah’mir glance toward the bird and give an almost imperceptible nod.

Ashi took a fast step back to Singe and Dandra. “Don’t move, outclanner. As you value your life, don’t move!”

Bonetree hunters burst out of the night all around the campsite, screaming and howling their battle cries. Knives, spears, and clubs flashed. The cultists who had come from Zarash’ak leaped to their feet instantly, stumbling over each other in frightened surprise. They weren’t unarmed, though, and they snatched up weapons quickly. Confusion surged across the campsite as they met the hunters’ unexpected attack.

Singe looked up at Ashi, standing in front of them, her arms spread wide to let the attackers know that he and Dandra were her prisoners. His rapier and Dandra’s spear were strapped across her back. For two days the weapons had been tantalizingly close, but Ashi had never been so distracted as this before! For a moment, Singe gauged his chances of seizing his rapier and making a break for the boats the cultists had drawn up at the river’s marshy edge beyond the camp.

Then he looked at the attacking hunters again and let the idea fall away. Five of the eight cultists were already down, skulls smashed in, throats slit, or chests run through. Seeing Dah’mir and Medala still seated calmly by the fireside, one of the cultists attempted to surrender, dropping her weapon and throwing up her hands.

A long knife opened a gash from her chest to her belly. Another cultist went down to the combined attack of two hunters, their clubs rising and falling in horrible rhythm. Fause and the final cultist spun around, back to back, facing the closing ring of hunters.

“Dah’mir!” Fause called desperately as recognition seemed to finally sink into him. “These are your followers! Call them off!”

The green-eyed man shrugged. “I only need one escort, Fause-and unfortunately, the Bonetree tend to be jealous folk.”

The cult-leader cursed and raised his hands, trying to cast a prayer to the foul powers he followed. A club spun out of the ring and hit his head with a hard, hollow sound. He staggered-then straightened as another hunter thrust a spear into his body. The last cultist screamed, but the hunters closed in and dragged him to the ground. His screams ended in an ugly, bloody bubbling noise.

Dah’mir rose at last, holding out his hands in blessing. The hunters broke away from their victims to kneel before him. Singe stared.

They were all children, gangling and awkward adolescents-though there was nothing awkward in the way they had wielded their weapons. All displayed tattoos and piercings, just as the adult hunters had. All looked lean and tough. Ashi glanced down at Singe and gave him a thin grin. “The elder hunters were sent in pursuit of Tetkashtai,” she said. “The next generation takes their place while they are gone.”

Some of the young hunters turned toward him and Singe shivered at the intensity in their blood-spattered faces. Ashi drew her sword and raised it before them. “Su Drumas!” she called.

“Su Darasvhir!” the hunters shouted back. They spun away from Ashi to raise their weapons to Dah’mir-and to Medala. “Su Darasvhir!”

Singe saw Ashi stiffen. He leaned closer toward her. “What is it?” he asked her.

“They’ve changed since I’ve been gone,” Ashi said. She stared at the hunters as Dah’mir dismissed them. The young men and women moved swiftly, hauling up the bodies of the cultists and dragging them away from the campsite.

“You said Dah’mir has shaped the Bonetree clan,” Singe pointed out. “What do you think he’s shaping it into?”

“Close your mouth!” the big hunter snapped. She squatted down, her face troubled. Singe hesitated, then shifted a little closer.

“Maybe they’re not the ones who’ve changed,” he murmured. Ashi tensed and Singe flinched back in anticipation of a blow, but Ashi didn’t move. He slid back again. “While you tracked us to Yrlag and while we were on Vennet’s ship-was that the first time you’d been away from the clan?”

“I said close your mouth.” Ashi stood. She glared down at him. “You should start to learn the ways of the Bonetree,” she said. “You’ll need to.”

“What are you talking about?” Singe demanded-but a vile suspicion was already growing in him. “Twelve moons,” he cursed in disbelief. “Dah’mir’s plans for me … he wants to bring me into the clan?”

“How did you think he shapes the Bonetree?” growled Ashi. She stalked away, leaving Singe to turn and stare at the savage youths of the clan.

Geth’s eyes twitched open to a hot white light that stabbed all the way through into his brain. He whined and squeezed them shut again, but the light pierced his eyelids. He tried to fling up an arm to cover his face, but he couldn’t move. Something held his arms at his side. Every muscle and joint in his body ached; every inch of his skin burned. Under the metal of his gauntlet, his right arm felt like it was itching and crawling. His whine rose into an uncontrollable howl. He twisted desperately-and the twisting seemed to shake his entire world.

A gruff voice cursed in words he didn’t understand. His world shook a little more, but a shadow cut off the excruciating torment of the light. Geth forced his eyes open.

An orc stood over him, a shroud in one hand and a club in the other.

Geth shouted and tried to writhe away from him, but the orc cursed again, dropped the shroud and the club, and reached for him. “Rest, shifter! Rest or you’ll tip the boat!”

Awareness forced itself on Geth. The house in Zarash’ak, Vennet, the cult, the monstrous chuul, the orc … Dah’mir’s spell. A vague memory of a plunge into foul water. An even more vague memory of something or someone nudging him to the surface. He focused on the orc.

“You saved me,” he gasped. Another thought tugged at him. “Natrac!”

He twisted again, looking around. Natrac lay close beside him, pale but breathing slowly in sleep. Both of them lay in the bottom of a flat-bottomed boat. Over the boat’s sides, Geth could see the tops of trees and the nodding heads of reeds. The hot light that beat down on him was the sun, sailing across a blinding blue sky. The club the orc had been holding, he realized, was actually an oar of some kind. The shroud was a blanket.

“Where are we?” he croaked. “Where are Singe and Dandra?”

The orc’s face tightened. “Your friends were taken upriver by the cult.” Geth cried out and tired to sit up. The orc held him back. “Be still!” he commanded.

“My arms,” Get moaned. “I can’t move my arms!” He struggled to raise his head and look down his body.

“I’ve bound them,” said the orc. “You’ve already come close to tipping us once before with your thrashing.” He eased Geth back down. “Dah’mir’s spell infected you with disease, and swallowing the waters of Zarash’ak didn’t help you. You’re too sick for my skill and knowledge to cure you. I’m taking you to someone who can.”

He picked up the blanket and draped it across a kind of frame to make a rough sunshade. The scorching light of the sun vanished. Geth’s vision seemed to swim with the plunge back into fevered darkness. “Who are you?” he asked thickly.

“My name is Orshok.” The orc’s rough hand reached out of sight for a moment, then reappeared cupping a number of knuckle-sized red-purple berries. He held the fingers of his other hand over them and murmured a prayer. Geth felt magic like a sweet breeze swirl around them. Nature’s magic.

“A druid,” he said. “You’re a druid!”

“Rest,” said Orshok. He picked a berry out of his hand and placed it in Geth’s mouth. The tiny fruit burst on his tongue, filling his mouth with tart-sweet juice. A feeling of ease spread though him, pushing back his fever and aches a little bit. His eyelids drooped …

He was tearing the wet meat off a half-cooked chicken carcass when he felt the presence of someone watching him. The hair on his neck and forearms bristling, he whirled around, one hand still clutching the chicken, the other snatching up his sword from the grass beside him.

Both ended up pointed at a man of about his own age, a human with red-brown hair and a beard that was just filling in. The man leaned casually on a heavy spear decorated with a spray of fresh green oak leaves and contemplated the blade and the bird. “I hope you don’t get those mixed up while you’re eating,” he said in a pleasant voice.

Geth didn’t move. The other man shrugged. “Don’t mind me,” he added. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You’re not,” growled Geth. When the man still made no move, he settled back down to the ground, though he made sure to keep one hand free and his sword close. The sack that held his great-gauntlet was nearby as well-he wouldn’t have time to don the armored sleeve, but its weight made a decent weapon on its own.

The bearded man moved slowly out from among the trees, deliberately giving the shifter plenty of time to react. Geth’s eyes darted around the small clearing, trying to see if he had brought anyone else with him. The forest was thick with the new growth of spring and the shadows were growing deep as evening settled over the valley, but neither growth nor darkness were so dense that he couldn’t see through them. The man was alone.

As the stranger settled down on the other side of the small fire, Geth became conscious of how he must look. Chicken juices shone on his face and hands, mingling with the grime of long travel. His thick hair was matted. His clothes were stiff with dirt and a foul stink rose from both them and his body. How long had it been since he washed? He choked off the thought and bit back into the chicken, sharp teeth ripping off a big chunk of flesh. He kept his eyes on the bearded man as he chewed.

“My name’s Adolan,” the man said after a time.

“Geth,” the shifter answered around a mouthful of meat. He looked over the other man’s well-worn leather clothing and the rough collar of polished, rune-etched stones that hung around his neck. He swallowed and, in between bites, grunted, “You’re a druid?”

Adolan nodded. “I watch over this valley.” He twitched his spear toward the forest. “There’s a hamlet back that way. Bull Hollow. You might have noticed it?” Geth grunted and Adolan continued. “Some of the farmers on the edge of the Hollow have noticed someone suspicious skulking around the forest. One of them asked me to look into the theft of a couple of chickens.”

“Might have been a fox,” said Geth, licking his lips.

“Might have been,” agreed Adolan. The druid looked at him. “Are you just passing through?”

The question sent a flash of heat through Geth. “Maybe,” he rasped angrily, returning his gaze. “Maybe not.”

Adolan’s eyes seemed to sharpen with such intensity that, even in anger, Geth hesitated. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Just passing through.”

“Mind if I ask where you’re headed?”

Geth seized a bone in his teeth and pulled it loose from the chicken, then spat it away into the night. “West,” he answered. “As deep into the Eldeen as I can.”

The druid actually chuckled. “You can’t get much deeper into the Eldeen than Bull Hollow-unless you want to turn south and live with the fey in the Twilight Demesne.” He fell silent for a moment, then said, “I know you’re not from around here. Your voice has the sound of the northern Eldeen in it, though. Is that where you’re from?”

Geth’s lips twisted. “A long time ago,” he said.

To his surprise, Adolan let the matter drop entirely. Geth waited for the inevitable questions-where have you been? what did you do? — but they didn’t come. The druid said nothing. After a long silence, Geth looked back at him, then nodded at the fire and the other chicken that was roasting unevenly above it. “Want some?”

Adolan glanced at the plump carcass and Geth could tell he was appraising the way its skin, tufts of singed feathers still clinging to it, was turning black on one side while remaining pale and raw on the other. “Was that the red one or the white one?” he asked.

“Red,” said Geth. Adolan nodded.

“That was a fine-looking bird.” With nimble fingers, he flipped the chicken on its spit, then produced a knife and sliced a leg free. He settled back and bit into the steaming meat. “Would be better with salt,” he said after chewing thoughtfully.

“My chef took it all when he ran off with the chambermaid,” Geth said.

Adolan laughed and stripped another mouthful of meat from the leg. Geth found himself laughing as well-and he hadn’t laughed since well before the last time he’d bathed. A feeling of peace settled over him and the faint warmth of tentative friendship stirred in his belly as he looked into the fire-

— that rose all around him. He spun and blocked the blow of an Aundairian soldier’s sword with his gauntlet, then punched the man in the gut. The blood-smeared mail shirt that the soldier wore soaked up the worst of the blow, though, and he laughed.

He stopped laughing when Geth’s sword sliced through his neck. Geth didn’t wait for his body to fall, but leaped away, sprinting through the madness that Narath had become, searching for the next Aundairian. He didn’t look at the carnage around him. The atrocities. The massacre. Rage gripped him, crushing his heart and snuffing the light in his spirit.

Rage-and shame. He howled as he ran, screaming out names. “Nilda! Coron! Singe! Dew! Treykin! Frostbrand, answer!”

More Aundairians fell to his blade and his black gauntlet. He took three at once, stabbing one from behind, gutting another, and crushing the throat of the last with a single punch. Their victim was already beyond his help. Geth left her and ran on.

His head throbbed from the blow that had laid him low, his chest and face were still cold and wet from having lain unconscious in the winter snows of Karrnath. Blood and water had frozen his hair into thick clumps that slowly melted in the heat of the burning town. The flames around him scorched his skin, making him feel like he was burning as well. He was sweating heavily and he ached right down to his bones. He kept going, though, shouting for his friends, for any member of the Frostbrand. Narath seemed to have turned into a maze. Every corner he turned opened onto the same scene of fire and blood. Geth sobbed as he raced through horrors that in only a few short weeks would become infamous throughout the Five Nations …

Some part of him knew that the tale of Narath couldn’t possibly have reached so far when it was still unfolding around him; another part wondered why he was back in Narath when he had just been in Bull Hollow with Adolan. The rest of him didn’t care. He shouted again. “Frostbrand, answer!”

He was running through corpses. Faceless. Broken. Bloody. The mass of them dragged at him, pulling him back. He had to force his way forward, as if he was walking against a powerful wind. The dead of Narath just kept piling higher. He started to recognize faces among the corpses, too. Treykin. Dew. Coron. Other mercenaries of the Frostbrand whose names had vanished from his head. Sweating and aching and burning from the inside out, Geth climbed a hill of death. His voice had fallen away to a constant moan.

The faster he tried to climb, the slower his progress. All around him, the corpses began to slide, slipping and running like a slope of loose earth. Geth struggled to stay on his feet, to stay on top of them, but more bodies came at him. Singe slid by to one side. Dandra to the other. Sandar. Natrac.

Red-brown hair flashed. “Adolan!” Geth screamed. He lunged, trying to get to the druid, but Adolan’s body just sank down among all the others. Geth dug down through death, desperate to reach him.

Living figures rose above him. Geth looked up as Medalashana, her face drawn tight with madness, swooped close. “Let me take him, Dah’mir!” she shrieked. “I’ll shred his mind and lay his thoughts out before you!”

But Dah’mir stood aloof, untouched by the death and fire all around. “Hush, Medala,” he said. “We have the one we came for. He’s nothing.”

The green-eyed man reached out toward Geth. His hand was a scaly claw. As it plunged into Geth’s chest, all of the fires of Narath seemed to come together in the shifter’s body. Geth howled in agony and toppled into darkness.