Ekhaas was hauled up out of the mudhole. She dropped down next to Geth, sputtering and wiping mud from her face, but her ears stood high and her eyes were bright. “But with Dah’mir coming, she couldn’t have fought a battle on two fronts,” she said. “She had to decide who she would fight. Khaavolaar.”
Batul nodded. “Your mind is quick, duur’kala.”
Geth looked away from both of them to a figure waiting nearby-waiting and visibly trembling. Orshok took a step toward him, then hesitated. “I tried to kill you, Geth,” he said. His voice broke.
“Twice,” Geth said. “But it wasn’t you, Orshok. It was Medala.” He climbed to his feet and held his fist out. “She’ll pay.”
Orshok thrust out his tusks and stepped forward to punch his fist against Geth’s. “Kuv dagga,” he said. “For Kobus, Pog, and the others.” He looked up at Geth and grabbed him in an embrace that sent mud squirting out from Geth’s clothes. “Word of Vvaraak, if I’d killed you, Geth, I would have killed myself when I realized what I’d done.”
“Tak, Orshok.” Geth slapped his arm against the young druid’s back. “I’m glad you didn’t have to.”
A hunda stick rapped against his shoulders. “Don’t get too used to living,” Batul said. “This isn’t over. Orshok, find Patchaka. I want you to stand with her and her warband during the battle.”
Orshok pulled away from Geth and started to protest, but Batul growled at him. “Obey your teacher! This is an honor, Orshok!”
The young druid didn’t look happy, but he snatched up his hunda stick and went jogging off. Geth looked around. The carefully set lines of the horde were in disarray, though younger druids like Orshok were slowly beating the orc chieftains and warlords back into position. Closer at hand, the senior Gatekeepers were clustered together, praying and girding themselves for battle. Geth turned to look up at the speck of brightness moving out of the east. It was considerably closer now and he could make out a sleek dark shape surrounded by a ring of fire.
“Rat!” he said. “That’s not Dah’mir! It’s an airship!”
“If Medala thought it was Dah’mir, I’m inclined to believe her,” said Batul. “I suspect Dah’mir is on board.”
“But why would Dah’mir need …?” Geth clenched his teeth and answered his own question. “He went to Sharn to capture kalashtar. Medala said he would succeed there. He’s got his captives on the airship.” He looked down at Batul. “Is there anyway for you to get me up there? If we can free Dah’mir’s captives, we can put an end to this.”
Batul shook his head. “Freeing kalashtar won’t end this, Geth. Stopping Dah’mir won’t end it. There’s only one way to end it.” He held out his hunda stick and pointed.
At the dark entrance in the side of the Bonetree mound. Geth growled.
“The Master of Silence,” he said. “That’s why you sent Orshok away. You’re going to fight the Master of Silence.”
“The seals on his prison must be renewed or his influence will continue.” Batul lowered his stick and leaned on it, looking even older than he was. “The younger Gatekeepers and the horde will try to hold back Dah’mir. The elder Gatekeepers will face the Master.”
“And what do we do?” asked Ekhaas.
Batul looked up at her. “It’s your decision,” he said, “but Gatekeeper and Dhakaani worked together to defeat the daelkyr. I would welcome you both.”
Ekhaas’s ears flicked forward. “Try to keep me away.”
Geth lifted his face toward the airship. Something pulled him toward her. Anyone on board was almost certainly in dire danger. He felt like he should try to help them, but Batul was right. The greatest danger was the Master of Silence. He looked toward the Gatekeepers who had remained nearby. Praying and girding themselves for battle, yes, but possibly for their last battle. Geth squeezed his hand tight around Wrath’s hilt.
“I’m with you,” he said. “What about Medala?”
Batul shook his head again. “I don’t know. If any of what she said is true, she’ll go after Dah’mir. More than that, I couldn’t say-”
A shout interrupted him. A handful of orc warriors dragged forward four limp forms. The Bonetree hunters. “They live!” called the lead warrior. Batul glanced at Geth.
Geth looked at Breff’s unconscious face, then growled, “Get them off the battlefield. Leave them somewhere safe to recover.”
“Breff won’t thank you for that,” said Ekhaas. “His honor-”
Geth snapped his teeth at her. “I’ve had enough of honor!” He turned to Batul. “I’m ready for blood.”
CHAPTER 21
He’d passed through fever and delirium. At times he’d been surrounded by friends, and at other times by enemies. Occasionally, he’d been surrounded by family, which was almost as bad as being surrounded by enemies. He’d run through the vineyards of his youth in the sun, studied by lantern light in the libraries of Wynarn, trained for the Blademarks in the rain under Robrand d’Deneith’s gaze. He’d watched Narath burn, over and over again.
There had been fire. Always fire.
Sometimes he’d seen the deck of a ship with Vennet d’Lyrandar at the helm, singing lustily to a sky that curved above them with no end, while Dah’mir perched in his heron shape on a rail, utterly unmoving. Whenever he saw the ship, the dream had always seemed to end in the same way: a vague memory of Vennet grappling with a half-elf woman, then picking her up and throwing her over the side of the ship.
And Singe had plunged down with her, screaming his way into darkness.
The fever had broken at night. His first coherent memory had been of stars and moons and of the Ring of Siberys, shining in the southern sky as bright as he’d ever seen it. Except that he hadn’t been able to see all of the familiar dusty band at once. He’d had to turn his head to take it all in.
His mind had done him a mercy by slipping into deep sleep before he remembered why that was.
He’d remembered when he woke the next day, though. And he’d discovered that his fevered visions of the ship’s deck, of Vennet and Dah’mir, hadn’t been delirium after all. The elemental ring that encircled Mayret’s Envy burned in a constant, fiery arc above him. He’d been bound on the airship’s deck, his wrists tied behind him, the rope run through a ring driven deep into the wood.
At first Vennet had taunted him. The half-elf seemed animated by a manic energy, though his face was strained. He had stood at the wheel of the airship with his chest bare to the wind and threatened Singe with the power of his “Siberys mark.”
He had no Siberys mark. There could be no pretending that he did. In Tzaryan Keep, Singe had glimpsed Vennet’s naked skin and the dragonmark that spread across his shoulders had been red and inflamed as if Vennet had been scratching it. The inflammation had grown. From shoulder to wrist, across his chest, and along his side, Vennet’s skin was scratched and raw. Wounds oozed clear liquid and yellow-green pus.
No trace remained of the bright pattern that had once crossed Vennet’s shoulders. His back looked like it had been flayed. Vennet had apparently mistaken Singe’s twitch of disgust for awe-struck fear and had ranted that “the powers of the Dragon Below rewarded those who served them.” Singe, he’d promised, would witness the blossoming of his Siberys mark when the dark lords of Khyber were presented with their new servants.
Dah’mir-in heron shape and perched on a rail, just as he had seen in his delirium-had finally silenced him with an impatient hiss.
There was no food. A bucket of clear water had been left within the limited freedom allowed by Singe’s bonds, set out as if for a dog. Singe had crawled to it and stared at his reflection in the water.