The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland (33 page)

Thorn slipped around a wall of stone, avoiding an outstretched hand frozen in granite. She saw them—an ogre carrying the torch, and a gray wolf padding along at his side. They moved cautiously, the wolf leading the way. It hadn’t howled yet, but that could come at any moment. Thorn leaped up onto the mass of goblins, moving soundlessly along the wall of stone corpses. The wolf and its companion crept along the wall. Thorn drew ever closer.

And then Harryn Stormblade stepped into view, blue sparks crackling around his silver blade.

The pair had been sent to hunt Sheshka. At the least, they were surprised to see the knight with the gleaming sword, and Thorn seized the distraction. She dropped down from above, the silver tip of her spear flashing in the torchlight.

The wolf never had a chance to howl. Pulling the spear free from the creature’s spine, Thorn swung the axe blade in a low arc, hoping to slash the muscles in the ogre’s leg. The axe was plain steel, but this was just an ogre …

Except that it wasn’t.

Thorn had only seen the beast from behind. He walked on two legs, and he wore the armor of a guardsman of the
Crag. But up close, she saw the bristly black hair along his arms. His posture was hunched, more than most ogres. And his head had a strange shape, long and blunt, with great tusks rising from his mouth. It looked as if a sculptor had taken a clay figure of a fierce boar and forced it into the form of an ogre, retaining as much of the beast as possible.

Her axe cut into the creature’s flesh, but it didn’t have the impact she’d hoped for. Her enemy was still on his feet. He turned to face her, and she felt flecks of spittle on her face as he snorted and raised his cleaver. But the blow never fell. A flash of light blazed as Harryn’s sword cut through the blade of the weapon and into the arm of the beast. The ogre flailed wildly at his foes, but it was no use. Thorn danced away from the clumsy blow, while Harryn swatted it aside with his blade.

The ogre was still a fearsome foe. Thorn remembered how much trouble it had been to bring down his cousin in the Crag, and this creature had the added muscle of the boar. Thorn took a deep breath, ready for a long, hard fight.

Harryn stepped to the side, slashing at the beast, handling the greatsword with the speed and dexterity of a rapier. No single cut caused much damage, but he forced the beast to turn, building its rage. The ogre was snorting and spitting, and Thorn was completely forgotten, until she sank her silvered spear into its back, piercing lung and heart. Blood flowed down the haft, and the creature roared in pain and anger.

Thorn felt the pulse of the heart, and she knew the wound was mortal. But the ogre-boar wasn’t willing to fall. He spun around with such force that it tore the spear from her hands, and he charged at her, bloody foam flecking his lowered tusks. Harryn’s blade was gleaming in the darkness, but there was no time for the Stormblade to reach her. Thorn rolled to the side, drawing Steel and flinging
the dagger with all her might. It caught the ogre in the right eye, and the creature staggered sideways. He caught himself with one massive hand splayed against the floor, then collapsed, his tusk snapping as it struck the stone.

The beast was transforming as Thorn retrieved Steel. She pulled the myrnaxe from the ogre’s side, the bone twisting as the features of the boar faded away.

“How can you still be fighting these creatures and not know of Drukan Moonlord?” Harryn whispered. “Just tell me … tell me that Galifar has survived, that these things have not destroyed our glorious land.”

“Well,
these
things haven’t destroyed Galifar,” Thorn said. She pushed forward before Harryn could respond to her hesitant tone. “I told you, I’ve never heard of this Moonlord, and I’ve never seen a werewolf until today. According to the stories, they were wiped out over a century ago.”

“How?”

Thorn wanted to move. The other hunters had surely heard the ogre’s death cry. But Harryn had locked his hand around her wrist, and his grip was a vise.

“I know this is strange for you, Stormblade, but I wasn’t even alive then. From what I’ve heard, it was a bloody mess that spread across the west. Soldiers from the Church of the Silver Flame organized the defense, standing against these shapeshifters until the tide turned.”

“At what cost?”

Thorn slipped her free hand down to Steel’s hilt; history wasn’t one of her strengths, but the dagger whispered details into her mind.

“Tens of thousands. Aundair suffered the worst of it. Farmers, mostly. The shapechangers spread out from the woods and across the east. Thousands more were lost to the persecution of innocents after the fact. Can we save the history lesson for when we don’t have wolves at our heels?”

“No,” Harryn said, his voice low but steady. “I must know now. I need to know what lies beyond that gate. You say that you haven’t seen these wolves before, that you thought they were wiped from history. And yet it seems that there are many of them. You are certain that you haven’t heard of the Moonlord?”

“No.” Thorn tried to keep watch for approaching torches. “Who was he?”

“A mage in the dark lands of the west. Some said he was a wizard, a student of Mordain the Fleshweaver. But as I pursued him, I learned a different truth. He was not a man at all, but a shapeshifter, a tiger in human flesh. He served an ancient power, a darkness from the very dawn of time, a force that embodies all our fears of the wild.

“I have known shifters. And I have even met werewolves who were not creatures of evil, who were simply drawn to the woods. But all who carry that mark can be brought under the sway of Drukan’s ancient master. Six moons—that was what he sought. Under the light of six moons, he could shake the bonds of the slumbering fiend, empower the skinchangers, and bring them under his sway. They would spread the curse across the land, and as their power grew, so would that of the chained demon, until he could finally burst his shackles and usher in an age of savagery.”

Harryn paused, his eyes clouded.

“I fought monsters and minions. I seized the Orb of Olarune. I made my way to the ancient mountain fortress, but I could not find his tower of shadows. And that is the last thing I remember … standing in a field of statues, knowing the moons would soon rise.”

He shook his head.

“At least the horror was contained. Even at the cost of thousands of lives. At least Galifar survives.”

Thorn had been drawn in by the story, and she found herself at a loss for words. She could sense Harryn’s pain.
But this was not the time to try to explain the Last War. And there was something else …

“Wait,” she said. “Did you say
six
moons?”

Harryn’s answer was cut short by snarls.

Thorn and Harryn were in a wide alleyway, bordered on either side by piles of shattered statues. Now dark shapes emerged on either side of them, light flooding the area as the Aundairian sorceress threw a glowing sphere into the air. A massive gray wolf stood alongside the woman, and four wererats stared at Thorn with hungry eyes. On the other side, three wolves were spread around a truly terrifying figure. Once, it had been a giant troll—fearsome enough, possessing tremendous strength. But its features were blended with the worst aspects of the bear. Ursine eyes glared out of sunken sockets. Its snout bristled with yellowed fangs, and its long and twisted fingers were tipped with vicious claws. He roared, and his breath was thick with the scent of blood and flesh.

“I don’t know who you are,” the woman said. The dragonhawk crest gleamed on her breast, and energy crackled around her fingers. “But your answer to my next question will determine just how long it takes for you to die. Where is the Queen of Stone?”

Y
ou will have no answer from me,” Harryn said. “I know you for what you are, and I pity you.”

So much for talking our way out of it, Thorn thought.

The woman laughed. “Bold,” she said. “I like you. If there were more time, I should like to keep you. I think you’d sing a different tune after I’d had a taste of you. But the moons grow closer with each moment, and there is much to do. Kurlun, take them. The rest of you, keep them bound in this place.”

The wolves and rats spread apart, forming living walls to seal off the alleyway. Any doubts as to Kurlun’s identity were dispelled as the trollbear lunged toward them. It moved with terrifying speed, and sparks flew from the stone as Thorn leaped over its blow. She brought the myrnaxe spear down on the troll’s hand, hoping to pin the beast to the ground. But to her surprise and dismay, the flesh beneath the trollbear’s ragged fur was as hard as iron, and her strike slipped aside. Surprised, she was unprepared when the beast lashed out with the back of its hand. Its strength was astonishing, and even this glancing blow sent Thorn staggering into the heaped statues.

Stormblade fared better. “For Galifar!” he cried, and lightning flared around his blade. Thorn didn’t see the stroke, but she heard the impact and the troll’s hiss of pain. She knew the legends of that sword, the blade that struck with the force of a thunderbolt and shattered all lesser weapons. Hope soared as the tales flashed through her mind, and she pushed herself back to her feet, searching to land the perfect blow. Then the troll turned, slashing at Harryn, and Thorn saw that the wound he had inflicted was almost completely healed.

For a moment she considered fleeing. Using her magic, she could easily vault over the piled statues and disappear into the darkness. The thought struggled to take hold, and then it was gone. Thorn had been sent to claim the Stormblade. She was too close to victory to surrender, and if something had happened to Beren, she intended to salvage her mission. She leaped at the troll, landing a solid blow where its kidneys should be, but once again she was unable to pierce its hide. The best she could do was scratch it, and scratches healed instantly.

Stormblade was holding his own, but it couldn’t last. The sorceress laughed as the troll’s claws tore Harryn’s tabard from his chest and left deep gouges in his armor. The blows that missed sent scattered fragments of stone goblin flying across the hall and seemed to shake the floor. The trollbear dug its claws into Harryn’s armor, grabbing the knight and pulling him close. Stormblade had no room to bring his sword to bear, and the troll set its jaws against either side of Harryn’s skull.

Thorn didn’t try to fight the troll any more—she couldn’t hurt it. Instead, she studied the sorceress and listened to the vibrations in the rock and the sounds in the hall. The Aundairian smiled at her.

“You’ve seen reason,” she said. “You have a choice. Tell me where to find Queen Sheshka, or watch Kurlun crack your friend’s head between his teeth.”

“It’s not Sheshka you need to worry about,” Thorn said. She smiled, and it was all she could do to keep from laughing.

“Then what should I be concerned about?” The sorceress flexed her fingers again, tracing patterns of fire in the air. “You can’t beat Kurlun.”

“That’s what the hydra is for.” Sheshka’s voice rang out from behind the sorceress. She stood on the back of the great beast, which was stone no longer. Eight heads snapped forward, and gouts of steaming acid burst from the hydra’s many mouths, engulfing the trollbear. The creature howled in agony, releasing Harryn from its jaws, and the knight slammed both feet into the troll’s chest, rolling free from its grip.

The sorceress was stunned. The hydra was huge, and it had left a trail of shattered stone in its wake, but distracted by the battle with the troll, no one had seen or heard the black-scaled hydra approaching in the shadows. As she watched the troll collapsing, whimpering in agony as its flesh melted away, the Aundairian was even more surprised when Thorn’s spear passed through her throat. Thorn hadn’t been idle—she had turned her attention to the wizard, recognizing the tell-tale signs of shielding magic and anticipating the sorceress’s next move. The Aundairian never had a chance to release a spell; she crumpled to the ground as Thorn pulled the spear free.

The rest was chaos. The healing powers of the troll were no match for the acidic bile of the hydra, and soon bones were all that remained of Kurlun. Rat and wolf howled and snarled, and Thorn carved a path through the storm of claw and tooth. A clap of thunder echoed as Harryn’s blade struck the dire wolf. Then the hydra was upon the unfortunate creature, two separate heads tearing it apart and swallowing the pieces.

It was over within moments. The corpses were still shifting as the hungry hydra devoured them. Sheshka slid
down from the creature’s back, keeping her eyes closed. She ran a hand along the hydra’s nearest neck, murmuring in a language Thorn didn’t speak.

“Now I’m embarrassed,” Thorn said. “I leave you alone for a few minutes and you come back with a hydra. The best we could do was a wretched troll.”

“There was nothing wretched about that troll,” Sheshka said. Her serpents seemed limp, her movements sluggish. “That was a war troll of the Great Crag, one of the personal host of Sora Maenya. I’m certain you noticed the skin of steel, and the speed at which it healed.”