The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II (20 page)

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.