The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland (10 page)

Thorn wasn’t the only one prepared for battle. Drego had lowered his hands, but his fingers were still spread wide, ready to weave a spell. The danger of magic was that it was unpredictable. Thorn had no idea what powers Drego could unleash. Though he wore no armor and carried no sword, he had the confident presence of a predator. If Thorn had struck to kill on her first attack, he’d be dead now … but he showed no hint of fear. A moment passed as they stared at each other, poised on the edge of violence.

A burst of laughter broke the silence. No, not laughter—the hooting voice of a gnoll, coming from the main campsite.

Thorn kept her eyes on Drego. He surprised her. He slowly raised his hands and brought them together, interlacing his fingers into a tight double fist. It was a terrible position for anyone who relied on magic. To cast a spell, he’d have to pull his hands apart, and in the heat of battle, every second mattered.

“This is foolish,” he said. “We should be allies.” Since she’d met him, he’d always had a condescending air, as if he knew a joke no one else could see. Now he was calm and serious, placing himself at her mercy. Was this the true Drego Sarhain, or just another mask?

“Why is that?” she said, still ready to strike. “I haven’t seen the Korranberg Chronicle recently. Has the Keeper of the Flame recognized King Boranel’s right to the throne and made reparations for the war?”

He didn’t rise to the jibe. “You’re not in Breland, Nyrielle.” She’d given him permission to use her name when they were leaving Graywall, but after the mocking “Lady Tam,” it was strange to hear it. “And I’m not in Thrane. You and I—we both know that the war isn’t over. But I don’t believe Galifar will ever be reborn. All I want now is to protect my people from harm.”

Thorn had been trained to read people. Either Drego was serious, or a remarkably skilled liar. Since he was a spy, it was an even bet. She said nothing.

The gnoll calls rose again, and Drego tipped his head toward the sound. “Another place, another time, we might be enemies,” he said quietly. “Your king, my queen, my Keeper; they might never be friends, and the best we can hope for is that this stalemate will last through our lifetime. But you were on that bridge. This is no place for humans. We are the outsiders here, and if we don’t stand together, we may all find ourselves falling.” The hint of a smile returned. “Without any souvenirs from Sharn.”

Thorn rubbed a thumb along the pommel of her dagger. “Quite a speech. But why should I trust you?”

“I can give you three reasons,” he said. “Were you actually sent here to kill a Thrane spy? My task is to gather information about what is going on in the heart of Droaam. I see no reason why Breland shouldn’t have this information—if there is danger here, it threatens us all.”

“That’s one.”

He gestured with his thumbs, pointing toward his chest. “I know you like my doublet. If we both survive this, I’m sure my mother would weave you a gown.”

Despite her best efforts, Thorn found herself smiling. “And the third?”

“Clearly, you don’t speak the language of the gnolls, or you’d know that last call was gathering the squad leaders. If you don’t get moving, you’ll miss the introductions … and unless I’m with you, you’re not going to understand them.”

“I see why your minister doesn’t feel the need to speak,” Thorn said. “You have a way with words. But I don’t know about working with a Thrane … let me consider it.”

She wanted a chance to hear from Steel, and he seized the opportunity.

I think you should let him live for now
, he whispered in her mind.
He’s attracted to you, and we can use that. Let him believe you are only here to gather intelligence. If he learns about Stormblade, he’ll have to die
.

“Yes. I believe you’re right.” Thorn inclined her head toward Drego. “Shall we see what our gnolls have planned?”

Though Drego was a spy, he proved the adage that magic was no substitute for skill. He conjured new invisibility, and although it probably served him well on the city streets, he had little experience in the wild. He scraped against trees and shrubs, trampled dry leaves, and left countless traces of his passage. Though she couldn’t see him, Thorn was aware of his location almost constantly.

Fortunately, the gnolls made plenty of noise of their own. Most of the healthy soldiers guarded the delegates. The gnoll camp was filled with those injured during the attack, and they whined and growled as the healer moved among them. The old gnoll was dressed in dark brown
robes, and his fur was patchy and gray. Lacking the magical powers of the minister of the Silver Flame, he relied on mundane methods to do his work—bandages, powders of questionable potency, foul-looking salves and tinctures. Thorn winced as she saw him setting broodworms against a particularly ugly wound. She’d heard that such creatures devoured infected tissue. As a child, though, she’d lost a dog when broodworms had entered a cut and ultimately burrowed into its brain. The memory still haunted her.

Beyond the tending of the wounded, considerable activity was underway. Two young gnolls sorted through the goods salvaged from the broken wagons. A soldier sharpened blades with a whetstone, while another carved new arrows. Amidst all this commotion, not even the patrolling sentry noticed Drego’s clumsy footsteps.

Thorn had seen similar activity a hundred times during the war. Aside from the fur and sharp teeth, it could have been any camp on the Cyran front in the days before the Mourning. She detected no explanation for the attack, no sign of betrayal; if anything, the wounds of the soldiers proved that they’d put themselves in harm’s way to protect the foreigners.

But one thing was missing. She didn’t see Ghyrryn, or the gnoll with the horned helmet. These were the common troops … where were the officers?

Thorn began to circle the edge of the camp, moving cautiously along the tree line. The sound of Drego’s footsteps followed her closely. Thorn silently cursed the noisy Thrane; if he drew the attention of a sentry,
she
was the one the gnoll would see. But despite their large ears, the gnolls seemed to lack the keen senses of other beasts.

A hand closed on her shoulder. Her immediate instinct was to lash out, thrusting Steel beneath her arm and burying her blade in her enemy’s chest. But she knew it was Drego, and she checked her aggressive impulses. His fingers traced a slow path down her arm, finally tugging
at her hand. If he doesn’t have a good reason for this, I’m going to take one of his fingers as a keepsake, she thought. But she let him lift her hand. A finger tapped her glove. He pointed.

Four gnolls were gathered a few hundred feet from their camp. They were spread across a moonlit grove, weapons drawn but not ready. Thorn saw a familiar silhouette among them, and a smile spread across her face.

She reached out and placed her hand against the chest of the invisible man, gently pushing him away. She raised a single finger to her lips, then pointed at the ground, hoping he’d get the message.
You’re too noisy. Stay here
.

No such luck. As Thorn crept closer to the four officers, she heard him moving behind her. She stopped, looking over her shoulder to glare at him.

“You need me.” The whisper was quieter than his footsteps, which was worth something. “You can’t understand them.”

In such a situation, Thorn always sought to avoid all unnecessary sound and motion. She didn’t shrug, didn’t sigh in resignation, didn’t nod her head. But all of those thoughts passed through her mind as she started forward again. It’s just four gnolls, she told herself. Probably the most skilled soldiers in the camp, but just four gnolls. Surely, if it comes to a fight, the two of us can handle four gnolls.

The officers muttered to one another, and none of them seemed to hear Drego as he and Thorn drew closer. A thicket of ghoulbriar grew on the edge of the grove, and Thorn dropped to one knee behind it. The brambles weren’t too dense and allowed a good view of the gnolls. If they were discovered, Thorn hoped any pursuers would charge into the briar without recognizing their danger.

A minute later, the others arrived.

A dark shape emerged on the far side of the grove, a shadow the size of a pony with eyes that glowed in the moonlight. It was a wolf, the largest Thorn had ever seen.
Its fur was dark as Khyber, and its teeth gleamed. For a moment Thorn thought the gnolls would fight the beast, but they fell silent and turned to face it. The gnoll leader, the armored officer who’d addressed them on the Roar, raised his weapon to salute the beast. Thorn could feel a faint breeze against her skin, and she gave thanks that she was downwind from this creature.

Other newcomers followed the massive wolf. A young and handsome elf with silver hair and pale skin. A large man whose muscles and gray skin spoke of orcish heritage, with a heavy bundle thrown over a shoulder. Both wore loose clothing dappled in patterns of black and gray, along with harnesses bearing a wide assortment of weapons and tools.

Something wasn’t quite right. When Thorn first laid eyes upon them, a chill passed through the crystal shard at the base of her spine, and that faint sensation lingered as the strangers approached the gnolls.

Two more wolves arrived. While fierce in demeanor, these were the sort Thorn was accustomed to—strong and better fed than those she’d seen in the King’s Forest, but no match for the beast that led this pack into the grove. Despite their mundane appearance, Thorn felt the chill again as one of the wolves passed her hiding place.

“My mother sends her greetings, brother Gharn.” The elf spoke. His voice was soft and clear, and Thorn heard a hint of menace in his tone. It was clear that he held himself above the gnolls.

The armored gnoll inclined his head. “The children of Zaeurl are welcome in this place. Reveal our enemy.” Like Ghyrryn, Gharn spoke in statements, never asking a question. He was almost three feet taller than the elf. Yet instead of barking out orders as he had on the plaza in Graywall, he was almost polite.

The half-orc threw his burden to the ground, and the wrappings fell away. It was a harpy—or the remains
of one. Her wings were fractured in multiple places, her feathers were soaked with blood, and Thorn could see pale bone protruding from flesh. Her broken wings were wrapped around her body like a cloak and bound with heavy rope. Her face was bruised, her chin stained crimson, and Thorn thought she was dead. Then her eyes opened. The harpy stared right at Thorn. Yet even if the harpy had seen Thorn, her eyes were empty. She was broken, little better than dead.

“Wind Howlers,” the elf said, placing his heel on one of the broken wings and grinding his foot against it. “As expected. Callain couldn’t resist such choice prey, not with the storm approaching.”

“Callain lives.” Again, a statement, not a question.

“Such were my orders.” The elf prodded the harpy again, but received no reaction. “The old bird’s working with one of the others—the Ashlord, Tzaryan Rrac, Sheshka—and our ladies wish to draw out the game. You’re to take this one with you to the Crag for questioning.” He reached into a pouch, producing a piece of glistening pink flesh. “I made sure to find one that knew how to write.”

He tossed the tongue to Gharn, who closed his fist around it. “Go, then. Guard our path on the journey ahead.”

Perhaps Gharn had grown too bold, too dismissive. The half-orc scowled, his hand falling to the haft of a hatchet. The massive wolf drew its lips back from vicious teeth … and spoke.

“Mind your tongue, two-legs,” it snarled, its voice deep and rough. “Or we may take yours next. Watch how you speak to the blessed.”

The gnolls raised their weapons and shields, and Ghyrryn barked out a phrase in their strange tongue. Wolf and gnoll faced each other, teeth bared.

And then Thorn’s knee slipped against the soft ground and damp grass. Perhaps she’d leaned too far forward,
trying to see the wounded harpy. Maybe it was a cruel trick of a malevolent god. She caught herself with her left hand and saved herself from tumbling into the ghoulbriar. But it was too late. When she looked up, all eyes had turned toward her.