allowed to even touch it.'
'I remember that,' said Singe. 'You threatened to disembowel me when I unsheathed it.'
'Don't let anyone hear that you did,' Ashi said, 'or I don't think even Dah'mir would be able to save you. You've touched the blade and that puts you above everyone else in the Bonetree except me.' She held up the sword, turning it so that firelight flashed on the polished metal. After a moment, she lowered it and looked at Singe. 'On Vennet's ship, you called this a sentinel's honor blade.'
'An honor blade of the Sentinel Marshals of House Deneith,' Singe corrected her. 'The patriarch of House Deneith would have given it to a Sentinel Marshal in recognition of some great deed. They're rare, maybe one or two are awarded in a generation. This was the weapon of a hero.' He glanced up and saw a blank look in her eyes. 'What is it?'
'I don't know what a Sentinel Marshal is,' Ashi muttered.
Singe blinked in surprise. 'I guess maybe they don't get into the depths of the Shadow Marches too often,' he said. 'The Sentinel Marshals enforce justice across the borders of kingdoms. When a criminal tries to flee from a kingdom to escape the king's troops, a Sentinel Marshal will pursue him.' He pointed at the motto on the honor blade. 'Words teach and spirit guides is a Sentinel Marshal saying. The words of the law teach and direct them, but the spirit of the law guides them in their duties. Because they're members of House Deneith, ancient treaties put them outside of the laws of any one kingdom.' He gave Ashi a level look. 'You know what House Deneith is, don't you?'
'A clan from beyond the Marches,' said Ashi. 'A clan with magic in its blood.'
'That's one way of putting it,' Singe agreed with a nod. 'House Deneith carries the Mark of Sentinel-magic of protection-the way that Vennet's house, Lyrandar, carries the Mark of Storm.'
'Do all children of Deneith have this Mark?' Ashi asked curiously.
'Children never bear a Mark,' Singe told her. 'If someone carries a dragonmark, it appears as they enter adulthood. Sometimes they grow larger and become more powerful-the rarest and most powerful appear fully formed-but usually they're small. Most members of a dragonmarked house don't carry a mark at all.'
Ashi actually looked disappointed. Singe cocked his head and looked at her sideways. 'Ashi?'
The big hunter shrugged, then extended the honor blade. 'Two generations ago, an outclanner was taken captive in the marshes. I've heard that he was so badly wounded that the hunters wanted to kill him, but Dah'mir insisted that he be kept alive and brought into the Bonetree-as you will be. The outclanner's name was Kagan. If he had another name, it isn't remembered. Kagan couldn't fight anymore, but there was still enough man in him to bring many children into the clan.' She twisted the sword. 'His weapon was so fine that the huntmaster claimed it.'
Singe stared at the sword, then at her. 'You're saying that there's House Deneith blood in the Bonetree clan?'
Ashi grimaced and shook her head. 'If Kagan was a member of your House Deneith, his blood in the Bonetree is thin,' she said. 'The elders say that after a few years, Kagan went mad and managed to kill all of the children he had sired-except one.' She smiled softly. 'The elders claim it was the will of the Dragon Below that he grew up to become the longest-lived huntmaster to ever lead the Bonetree hunters.'
'Ner?' asked Singe.
She nodded.
'Did he have any children?'
Ashi looked up at him.
'Twelve moons!' Singe spat. 'You?'
Ashi nodded again.
Singe sat back, stunned. After a moment, he asked, 'Do you carry the Mark of Sentinel?'
'It would be the only way to know for certain if I had the blood of House Deneith, wouldn't it?'
'Yes,' admitted Singe.
'Then I have no clan but the Bonetree,' Ashi said. She slid the honor blade back into its sheath.
The orc-crafted boats skimmed through black water so still that it mirrored the night sky. Thick strands of reeds and grass made clouds; the trees that grew up through the water were like gnarled pillars pressed down by the weight of the sky above.
The boats carried no lights. Like shifters, orcs could see well in the dark. Geth sat in the bow of Orshok's flat-bottomed craft, Natrac in Krepis's. Batul squatted between the half-orc and the big druid to keep the peace. No one spoke. Batul had forbidden it.
The clouds of reed and grass grew broader, the stretches of open water narrower. Finally Batul spoke a word in Orc, and Krepis and Orshok guided the boats toward a grassy crest. Geth felt the wood underneath him crunch over solid ground.
'Out,' said Batul. 'We're here.'
Geth glanced at the sky. It was, he guessed, roughly the middle of the night: the thin crescents of three of the twelve moons had already dipped below the horizon and the full, pale orange disk of the moon Olarune was rising to its zenith. He picked up the long staff with the angled crook at the end, the same as Orshok's and Batul's own, which was all the old druid would permit him as a weapon. Natrac had one, too. 'It's a traditional orc marsh tool,' the half-orc had muttered before they'd climbed into the boats. 'A hunda stick. It's a probe, a support, a weapon…'
'What the hook on the end for?' Geth had grunted.
'Catching snakes,' Natrac had answered.
Geth missed his gauntlet and sword. He even missed the paired axes he had wielded in Bull Hollow after he had put the gauntlet away in rejection of his past, but the little hamlet seemed more distant than Narath now.
He leaped lightly onto land, then held the boat so Orshok could clamber out. Natrac tried to do the same, but ended up slipping halfway into the water, thrown off balance because he had only one hand to pull with. It earned him a sneer from Krepis. 'City-born half-breed.'
Natrac's remaining hand tightened on his hunda. Batul grunted at them both.
When they were all on solid ground, Batul led them forward. Geth looked around as they walked. Under the light of the moons and the Ring of Siberys, the marsh was still. It also stretched almost completely empty for nearly as far as he could see. The only feature that stood out was a lone tree, twisted and dead.
Batul stopped under the shadow of the tree and stared ahead across the desolate marsh. After a moment, he spoke. 'The Gatekeepers were created to defend the Shadow Marches against magical invasion from Xoriat, the realm of madness. For thousands of years, we waited and we trained. When the invasion finally came, though, even we weren't ready. Our tribes were devastated. The hobgoblin empire of Dhakaan was beaten back. The daelkyr, the foul leaders of the hordes of Xoriat, held the Marches in their fingers until orc and hobgoblin, Gatekeeper and Dhakaan, came together to drive them back and close the pathways to Xoriat.' He stretched out a hand, sweeping it across the landscape before them. 'Nine thousand years ago, before it was torn apart and its master put to the sword, this place was a daelkyr stronghold. Jhegesh Dol.'
Geth studied the marsh. The only sign that a stronghold of any kind might once have stood here were a few large, scattered dark rocks. The grass and reeds of the marsh looked the same as anywhere else. The wind that blew over them smelled no different. The shifter glanced at Batul. 'All we have to do is cross this?' he asked.
'Dagga.' The old druid pointed. Geth followed his gesture; in the distance, he could make out the shape of another dead tree. 'We will wait for you there. Cross Jhegesh Dol by dawn and Fat Tusk will fight with you.'
Geth noticed that the orc didn't bother to mention the alternative. He glanced at Natrac. 'Ready?'
The half-orc nodded. Geth took a breath and stepped out past the dead tree.
Nothing happened. He walked a few paces more. There was still nothing. He twisted around. Natrac was right behind him, looking as puzzled as he felt. Batul, Orshok, and Krepis had turned away from the dead tree and were pacing back toward the boats. 'Batul!' he shouted. 'Is this a trick? Nothing-'
Natrac sucked in a sudden, sharp breath and terror settled over his face as he stared beyond Geth. The shifter whirled back around.
The marsh was empty no longer. A misshapen fortress, cold and black, rose above them.
