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.
“Madness was a tide that rolled before the legion of the Master,” said Ekhaas, “but Aryd and the Gatekeepers raised their voices in prayer. Nature answered them and from the night, white moths poured forth in unending numbers. At the same time, Taruuzh spread forth the weapon on which he had labored for two seasons: a thousand blue-black stones, each no large than a finger, each wrapped in a filigree of gold. Like snow falling on mountain tops, Aryd’s moths settled on Taruuzh’s stones, a dozen or more to each, and bore them toward the Master’s legion. Because they were small creatures without minds, the dread powers of the legion could find no hold on them, but as the moths passed among the legion, the stones of Taruuzh inflicted a deadly toll. Whenever a stone touched the flesh of an illithid or a lunanae or a psarett or a kagge, that creature’s mind-the seat of its powers-was drawn into the crystal and bound there. With mind and body separated, they were helpless.”
Geth felt Dandra stiffen at his side. One of her hands was wrapped tight around her psicrystal. “Light of il-Yannah,” she breathed. “Binding stones. A thousand binding stones that worked by contact alone.”
Ekhaas continued as if she hadn’t heard. “The legion was broken. The scattered survivors were run down by the army of Taruuzh and Aryd. When the sun rose, the legion was gone-dead or fled into the court of the Master of Silence-and the battlefield glittered with Taruuzh’s stones. The Gatekeepers gathered them, each and every one, and ground them into dust. With that dust, they made a mortar, and with that mortar built a seal, weaving their magics to bind the Master of Silence and all his court into the depths of Khyber. In the place where the land rose above the swamps, they raised a circle of stones to mark the site of the battle. And Taruuzh looked at his stones as they were ground into dust and said, ‘Of all my works, this was second only to the Grieving Tree.’”
She looked up at them, her face calm and almost shining. “Raat shan gath’kal dor,” she said. “The story stops but never ends.” Her ears twitched. “Does that answer your questions, human?”
Singe swallowed. “Yes,” he said. “I think it does.” His voice was strained. Geth dragged his gaze away from Ekhaas to look at him-and growled in surprise. The wizard’s face was pale and dotted with a light sheen of sweat.
“Singe!” said Dandra. She started forward, but Singe raised a hand and stopped her. He looked at Ashi. “The first time I saw the Bonetree mound, you told me that a Gatekeeper circle stood there before Dah’mir shattered it to build the mound.”
Ashi nodded slowly and a look of fear passed over her eyes. Geth felt it, too. “Tiger, Wolf, and Rat,” he said softly. “The Bonetree clan’s territory is dry, a place where the land rises above the swamp. Do you think that when Dah’mir talked about his master he meant …?”
He left the thought unfinished.
“Land can change in nine thousand years,” Natrac said into the silence. “And the ancient Gatekeepers built circles all over the Shadow Marches.” He sounded like he was trying to reassure himself.
Orshok shook his head. “But they never built them without a reason.”
“Twelve bloody moons.” Singe took a deep breath. “We wondered why Dah’mir would leave Taruuzh Kraat for the Shadow Marches, didn’t we? I think maybe we know now.”
Ekhaas’s eyes were darting between them. “What is this?” she demanded. “What are you talking about?”
“A story to repay yours when we have the time,” said Singe. He stepped backward out of the cell and bowed to the chained hobgoblin. “Thank you. You kept your end of the bargain. We’ll keep ours and talk to Tzaryan.” He straightened up and glanced at the rest of them. “Someone should stay here to make sure Lor doesn’t come down and start before we get back.”
Geth’s hand dropped to his sword. There was another story he wanted to hear from Ekhaas, and if Singe convinced Tzaryan to free her, he might never have another chance. “I’ll stay,” he said.