The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II (36 page)

At the gates of Tzaryan Keep, a call from Robrand brought ogres racing down the broad stairs to take charge of Chain. The ogres were far less gentle than Natrac and Ashi. They put an end to Chain’s struggles with a quick slap to the back of his head and a couple of brutal twists on his arms. The big man looked small and maybe even forlorn in their grasp. Geth felt a twinge of pity for him. He wouldn’t have wanted to be in his place.

They all followed up the canyon of the stairs to the upper levels of the keep, then through halls Geth didn’t recognize until they came to the head of another flight of stairs plunging back down into the keep’s innards. Unlike the broad stairs that led up from the gate, these were steep, plunging sharply down. The oversize steps—built for the feet of ogres—made navigating them difficult. Geth noticed that Dandra gave up trying to walk and let herself skim above the steps, sliding down them like a child on a smooth hill, supported by her psionic power.

There was no natural light at all in the depths of the keep. Orc slaves summoned by Robrand carried torches ahead and behind. The flickering light made the stairs especially treacherous, but without them, Geth knew, he would have been as night-blind as a human. Only Orshok and Natrac, with their orc-blood ability to see even in absolute darkness, seemed comfortable, though Natrac once again reacted with ill-concealed disgust to the presence of Tzaryan’s slaves.

When the first flight of stairs ended, they passed along a hallway that was thick with the stench of ogre bodies and echoed with the sounds of rough leisure.

“The troops’ barracks are that way,” Robrand explained, gesturing off into the darkness. He turned in another direction, and
they descended another steep flight of stairs before stopping in a second hallway that smelled even worse than the first. Geth’s nose wrinkled at a mixture of hot coals, damp stone, and stale waste.

Robrand stopped at a thick wooden door and pulled it open. “This will do,” he said. “Put him in here until Tzaryan decides his punishment.”

The ogres brought Chain forward and muscled him through the door. The best bounty hunter in Zarash’ak looked substantially more frightened than he had chained in the hold of
Lightning on Water
. He ran at the door as the ogres forced it closed.

“Help me!” he shouted. “Don’t let them—”

The door closed in his face and the ogres dropped a heavy bar into place across it. Singe looked to Robrand. “I don’t like him, but do you think you can get Tzaryan to release him without doing anything too permanent?”

In the light of the torches, Robrand looked older than he was and even more harsh. “I’ll try.” He gestured and the two ogres retreated up the stairs.

Nearly a dozen paces farther along the corridor, a brazier full of hot coals stood beside another door. An older ogre with stringy gray hair tended it, stirring the coals with a heavy poker. The hilts of several knives protruded from the brazier, their blades buried inside it. A hobgoblin sword and other gear—Ekhaas’s presumably—lay in the shadows nearby. The ogre looked up as Robrand and the others approached. His nose was missing, lending a strangely flat quality to his voice when he spoke. “As you orders, General. Waits for you.”

“Well done, Lor. Leave us for now.”

The ogre looked disappointed. “Leaves?”

“Tzaryan’s guests will speak with the prisoner first. I’ll summon you back when they’re finished.”

The old ogre’s scarred face fell, but he pushed past Geth and the others and headed for the stairs. Geth choked and held his breath as the ogre passed—the smell of smoke and burned flesh clung to him. Dandra closed her eyes for a moment and looked away.

Robrand strode past the brazier and up to the door. “Singe,” he said. “Help me.” Between the two of them, they lifted the bar that lay across the door and dropped it to one side. Robrand stepped
back. “She’s all yours for as long as you need,” he said. “She’s gagged right now—you’ll want to take that off, but be careful of her spells.” He turned to go.

“You’re not staying?” asked Dandra.

“You don’t need me and I have to tell Tzaryan about Chain,” he said. “Come find me in the upper levels when you’re finished. You remember how to find your way back?”

Dandra and Singe both nodded. Robrand gestured for two of the orc slaves to leave their torches behind in brackets on the walls, then left with the other slaves lighting his way.

Singe drew a deep breath and turned to the door. “Let’s see what Ekhaas can tell us about Taruuzh Kraat.” He tugged the door open.

The cell beyond was possibly the first cramped space that Geth could remember seeing in Tzaryan Keep. A single ogre would have been squeezed tight in the cell; two creatures of human size could have stood close within it. Ekhaas crouched against one wall, chained to it by a collar around her neck. Her hands were bound and her mouth, as Robrand had said, gagged. She still wore her studded armor, though her hair was no longer so severely drawn back. Singe glanced at Dandra, then stepped into the cell alone while the rest of them watched from the doorway.

Above the gag, Ekhaas’s eyes were bright and hard. Her wolflike ears stood straight. “I’m going to take the gag off,” Singe told her. “Bite me or try to cast a spell and it goes back on.” He reached behind the hobgoblin’s head. The gag fell.

Ekhaas didn’t move except to lick her lips, working saliva around her mouth. There was a bucket of water close to the brazier Lor had left behind. Geth grabbed it and cautiously scooped some liquid into his mouth. It was stale, but clean. “Singe,” he said, passing the bucket into the cell. The wizard took it and offered it to Ekhaas. She only regarded it with disdain.

“I won’t take water from someone who intends to defile Taruuzh Kraat,” she said, the cedar-smoke voice that Geth remembered rough and cracking.

“You might as well,” said Singe. “We’ve already been inside. We found your hole—that’s how we got in.”

Ekhaas’s ears twitched back. Her lips drew away from sharp teeth. Singe held the bucket closer, tipping it so that she could
drink.

“Drink,” he said. Ekhaas stared at the water, then stretched out her neck and sipped, her eyes rolled up to watch Singe. The sip turned into a gulp, the gulp into a greedy guzzle. Singe let her drink her fill, then took the bucket away as she sat back.

“Now,” he said, “let’s make sure we all understand the situation. Tzaryan Rrac is going to have you tortured. We may be able to persuade him to set you free. All you need to do is answer some questions for us and we’ll talk to Tzaryan.” He waited but Ekhaas made no response. He set the bucket aside and crossed his arms, looking down at the hobgoblin. “The General said you were a member of the Kech Volaar and that you knew something about the ruins.”

“I am a
duur’kala
, a dirge-singer, of the Kech Volaar,” Ekhaas said haughtily. “I know tales of glory from times before your ignorant kind set foot on this land, human.”

Geth saw Singe stiffen, but the wizard kept his voice neutral. “Share some of them with us then. We’ve come a long way to learn about Taruuzh Kraat. We’ve been inside. We’ve seen the writing. We’ve seen the great hall and the grieving tree.” Ekhaas’s eyes narrowed and her ears sank low. “We didn’t touch anything,” Singe told her. “We’re not treasure hunters. We just need to know about something. It’s important.”

He crouched down before her, putting himself at eye level with her. “Tell us about Marg and the stones,” he said. “Tell us about the father of the grieving tree. Who was he?”

Ekhaas’s ears flicked sharply. Her lips twisted and she gave a bitter laugh.
“Khaavolaar!
You ask the things that lull a child to sleep. You know nothing, human.” She sat back against the wall. “Go away. Leave me to my fate.”

Singe stood up again. “I know where there’s another device like Marg’s,” he said. “I know what became of the stone that he made.”

Ekhaas sat forward sharply. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” He glared at her. “I’d wager that you’ve found signs that someone—or something—lived in Taruuzh Kraat for a long time about two centuries ago. His name is Dah’mir and he’s a dragon. We believe that he came to Taruuzh Kraat to study the writing on the walls and to learn how to create his own version of
Marg’s device for trapping mind flayers. We know that his servants took Marg’s stone.” He bent low to stare into her face. “Dah’mir follows the Dragon Below and we think that he was trying to use the stone to create servants with the power of mind flayers and a resistance to Gatekeeper magic. And if it takes a child’s tale for us to understand more, then you’re going to tuck us in and sing us a lullaby.”

He stood straight once more and turned away from Ekhaas. His face was flushed. Behind him, Ekhaas was still, her ears standing straight, her dark eyes intent. Geth held his breath—just as Dandra did on one side of him and Orshok on the other—waiting to see what would happen.

Ekhaas drew a breath. “Mothers of the dirge, forgive me,” she said softly, then sat as straight as her bonds would allow. “You’ve seen Taruuzh Kraat backward, human. Marg was nothing but a jealous madman. The device he built, the stone he created, were flawed reflections—poor attempts to emulate the genius of his master.”

Singe turned back to face her. “We know. We saw the statue. Who was Marg’s master?”

“Taruuzh.” Ekhaas’s voice swelled with pride. “What did you think ‘Taruuzh Kraat’ meant,
chaat’oor?
It is the smithy of Taruuzh, a stronghold of genius against the armies of the daelkyr. Taruuzh was the greatest
daashor
of his time—the crafter of marvels, the inventor of wondrous weapons.”

“A
daashor
is an artificer?”

Ekhaas bared her teeth. “A
daashor
would make one of your artificers look like a wandering tinker.”

“The inscription on the statue in Taruuzh Kraat called him the father of the Grieving Tree,” said Dandra.

“The true Grieving Tree was his greatest creation. The one that stands in Taruuzh Kraat was said to be the first, but before Taruuzh died, a grieving tree stood in every city of the empire. The secret of their making was lost in the Desperate Times, but even today, hobgoblins of all clans emulate their use.”

“What was so great about them?” Geth growled. “What did they do?”

Ekhaas’s eyes darted to him. They burned with a zealous intensity that left him wishing he hadn’t said anything. “The
Grieving Trees kill people, shifter. A criminal to be executed is hung upon a Grieving Tree. Today, the criminal must be broken and left to die, but in the time of the Empire, the tree drew his life out of him.”

A chill ran up Geth’s spine. Singe blinked, the color draining from his face. “Taruuzh’s greatest creation was a way to execute people?” the wizard asked.

“What have your greatest artificers done recently, human?” Ekhaas demanded. “Built machines of slaughter for the battlefields of the Last War? Will they stand and take pride in their work?”

None of them said anything. None of them could meet her gaze. After a moment, Geth swallowed. “What about the stones? Why would Marg try to re-create them instead of the Grieving Tree?”

“Because
daashor
across the empire knew how to create grieving trees. Taruuzh shared the secret freely. But the secret of his second greatest creation he kept to himself.” Ekhaas eased herself back. “When the daelkyr and their armies poured forth from Xoriat into Eberron, the
daashor
and master smiths of Dhakaan rose to the defense of the empire. They mastered the twilight metal byeshk. They forged armor to defend against the strange powers of the aberrations and weapons to kill them.”

For an instant, Geth thought the hobgoblin stared directly at him and his sword, but her gaze drifted to his side to rest on Orshok. “They allied themselves with the Gatekeepers and between orcs and Dhakaani drove back the daelkyr. But their triumph didn’t come easily or all at once.” Her ears flicked. “Gatekeeper! Have you heard of the Battle of Moths?”

Orshok started and stammered. “I don’t—I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “No.” Ekhaas frowned.

“No,” she repeated tightly and sighed. “Once again, it is only the Dhakaani who remember.” Her voice rose in the measured cadence of a storyteller. “Of all the servants and the living weapons of the daelkyr lords, the illithids were the most terrible, killing with their minds alone and weaving horrors with their thoughts. They were the generals of the hordes of Xoriat, and it was a blessing that their ranks were few. But upon the Marches, in a place where the land rose above the swamps, the illithids came together
in numbers with other creatures of like abilities—lunanaes, psaretti, and kagges—to pay homage to the daelkyr known only as the Master of Silence. And from them, the Master formed a legion of generals.”

“When the elders of the Gatekeepers learned of the danger, they knew that it was greater than their magic alone could contain. They dispatched one of their number, a seeress named Aryd who had foreseen the devastation that the legion would cause if left unchallenged, to appeal to Taruuzh for aid. At his forge in the shade of the Grieving Tree, Taruuzh listened to Aryd’s appeal and agreed to help the Gatekeepers. He banished all of his apprentices from the forge while he worked with Aryd at his side through two seasons.”

“When the seasons turned again, they were ready. Taruuzh and Aryd set forth from Taruuzh Kraat, gathering an army as they traveled—and just in time, for the legion of the Master of Silence had grown into its strength. On a night of eight moons, in the place where the land rose above the swamps, the legion of the Master of Silence and the army of Taruuzh and Aryd faced each other.”

Ekhaas’s words seemed to weave images in Geth’s mind. In his imagination, he saw a dark plain lit by moonlight. On one side of the plain massed the ordered ranks of Dhakaani hobgoblins in heavy armor with swords and spears of purple byeshk, with milling crowds of orcs on either flank wielding only axes and armored only in their faith. At the head of the army, a hobgoblin man in a smith’s apron and heavy gauntlets and an orc woman in rough leather robes. On the other side of the plain, waited a shadowy horde, all writhing tentacles and dead white eyes. There were dolgrims among them, and dolgaunts. Dark silhouettes took the place of lunanaes and psaretti and kagges—creatures he had never heard of, but whose names struck a strange primal fear into his soul.