Hruucan’s tentacles lashed the air angrily and he threw himself forward.
Ashi clenched her teeth and hissed as Hruucan unleashed another flurry of blows against Singe. Unlike his first furious attack, though, it was clear that the dolgaunt was no longer playing with his opponent. His strikes were real and hard. A hand, fingers curled like claws, slipped past Singe’s guard to tear at him.
Whatever magic the wizard had cast on himself seemed to offer him some scant protection though: Hruucan’s blow skittered across Singe’s torso without even tearing his shirt. Singe slapped away his arm and thrust hard with his rapier into the dolgaunt’s side.
But not hard enough. Hruucan lurched away and stood upright easily without a mark on him. A tentacle darted at Singe, slamming at his side in return. Singe lurched as well, but he didn’t stand upright so easily.
He was going to lose, Ashi knew. It was inevitable. Hruucan was too fast for the wizard’s magic and too powerful for his blade.
Ashi glanced beyond the crowd toward the dark mouth of the ancestor mound. No one was watching it. Nothing moved within. The fire of the Bonetree hunter who should have been standing honor guard guttered low, abandoned.
She hadn’t told Singe all the tales about the mound that were spoken around the fires of the Bonetree. Stories of passages into the sacred depths and shrines built from dragonshards, yes-but also whispers of halls home to ghosts, of dark vaults where Dah’mir “prayed” with the outclanners who were sometimes led into the mound, of the lairs of Khyber’s children and monsters too horrible to bear the light of day.
The crowd let out another roar. Ashi twisted back to the ring. Singe knelt on the ground, clutching at his belly. His rapier lay on the ground several paces away. Hruucan walked over to it-and kicked the weapon back to him disdainfully. Singe grabbed it, but Ashi could see the pain on his face as he rose.
Her eyes darted to Dah’mir, watching the fight with the benevolent expression of a doting father. At his side, Medala wore the staring hunger of a hunting panther.
All around the ring, she could see a similar bloodlust on the faces of people she knew as friends and comrades in arms. Breff leaped and shouted, cheering for a monster who roused only disgust in Ashi, a monster who had-by Breff’s own account-driven the returning hunters almost to death. This is my clan, she told herself.
Would any of them have stood by her as Singe had stood by Dandra? Dah’mir hadn’t stood by her, that was certain. By her or by the Bonetree.
Her hand fell to the huntmaster’s sword. In spite of Singe’s explanations, she wasn’t sure she fully grasped the idea of Sentinel Marshals. “Honor blade,” though-that was something she could understand. Maybe she carried the blood of Deneith, maybe she didn’t. Either way, she knew that she carried the sword of a hero.
As Singe stumbled under another blow, Ashi slipped back from the crowd and darted for the mound. Scooping up a flaming brand from the absent guard’s fire, she drew the honor blade and walked cautiously into the darkness of the tunnel.
“Someone’s getting beaten bad out there,” said Natrac.
“How do you know?” Geth asked. He checked the byeshk sword on his hip again, making certain the weapon would slide easily from the makeshift scabbard. Behind them, Krepis and the half dozen orcs that Batul had judged to be the best fighters among the raiding party were doing much the same thing and giving their weapons one last check. Orshok was offering up a last prayer for guidance and protection. Somewhere above them, Batul and the other raiders would be reaching the top of the mound.
“Listen to the crowd,” said Natrac. “You can tell by the way they cheer. It’s always the same voices-they’re only cheering for one person. That means one person is giving all the good hits so the other must be taking them.”
“Maybe they’re all on one side.”
“No, when that happens they boo a lot more and groan when the favorite takes a hit,” Natrac explained-just as a collective gasp rose from the front of the mound.
“Like that?” Geth asked.
Natrac shook his head. “Crotch hit. A crowd will groan for that no matter who takes it.”
Geth glanced at the half-orc. “You know a lot about crowds,” he commented and Natrac gritted his teeth.
“Dagga,” he said. “You pick that up in an arena.”
The shifter’s eyebrows rose. “You were a gladiator?”
“I didn’t say that, did I?”
Orshok moved up beside them. The young druid looked nervous. “Are you all right?” asked Geth.
Orshok nodded.
Geth snorted. “Grandfather Rat’s naked tail. You’re terrified.”
The orc flushed. “This is a bigger fight than I’ve ever faced before,” he admitted.
Geth reached out and punched him in the shoulder. “You did good when you came to our rescue in Zarash’ak. You fought like a veteran.”
“I fought without thinking about it,” Orshok said. “I just acted. I wasn’t standing and waiting for a signal!”
“Then when Batul’s signal comes, just do that again. Waiting may be hard, but it’s the fighting that kills you.”
The unseen crowd exploded with another roar. Geth bared his teeth and growled-then twitched at the feeling of something climbing up his leg. He looked down to see a tiny blue lizard blinking at him. Batul’s signal. The old druid and the raiders had reached the top of the mound. Geth brushed the lizard away gently.
“We’re ready,” he rasped.
Natrac, Orshok, Krepis, and the rest of his band clustered close. Drawing a deep breath, Geth led the way around the mound.
The crowd came into view, a thick press of humans and dolgrims. Geth resisted the urge to try and see who was in the ring. The mouth of the mound was close and the way was clear. No one was watching them. A sentinel’s fire beside the mouth had burned low. He turned for the shadowed tunnel.
Krepis’s breath hissed at same moment that Orshok froze. “What is it?” snarled Geth sharply, glancing back. Even as the words left his mouth though, the stones of his collar turned cold. He choked on a gasp and spun around.
In front of the mouth of the mound, the shadows rippled and two figures seemed to step out of the air. One was a mind flayer, its probing mouth-tentacles glistening in the torchlight, a nightmare out of Dandra’s memories.
The other was his own nightmare: the hulking, clacking, chitin-armored horror of a chuul!
CHAPTER 16
Geth’s hand darted to his belt and snatched out his sword. The ancient weapon seemed even heavier than it had before, and the twilight sheen of the metal had taken on a dull glow, as if the sword somehow recognized that the creatures it had been made to destroy were near.
He heard shouts and screams from Batul’s party on top of the mound. It was a trap. Dah’mir had been ready for them.
“Ambush!” he yelled. He raised his sword high and lunged-
The mind flayer’s foul, tentacled head turned sharply. Its white eyes flashed and a wave of pure mental power blasted through Geth. He staggered under the assault, struggling to resist the illithid’s power. The orcs in his band cried in fear and pain, caught in the same unseen attack. Some of those cries ended abruptly.
Around Geth’s neck, though, Adolan’s collar was icy, like a shocking slap of winter. Geth clung to that clean cold and forced himself to stay on his feet. A fast glance over his shoulder showed him that most of his band hadn’t been so fortunate. Batul’s hand-picked orc raiders were down and twitching on the ground. Krepis was supporting Natrac. Orshok stumbled like a drunkard.
“They knew!” the young druid gasped. “How did they know?”
“Those herons!” Geth roared. “Those damn herons!”
He whirled back to the mind flayer. Its tentacles thrashing, it slapped a spindly hand against the chuul’s armored shell and the monstrous creature scuttled forward, pincers snapping.