The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland (36 page)

Thorn said nothing. She held out her hand, and for a moment, Sheshka pressed a palm to hers. Then she turned and made her way toward the moonlit city and disappeared within the ruins.

Stormblade gazed at the mire. “There it was, just waiting for the moons to rise. To think that I was so close … so long ago.”

“We’re not inside yet,” Thorn said. “This could be a clever illusion designed to trick people into wandering into the Crag’s only swamp.”

“No. I can feel the truth of it. I held the Orb of Olarune in my hand … it seems like only hours ago. The lunar orbs are close. This is where we are supposed to be.”

Lunar orbs … the final piece she’d been missing. Suddenly it all fell into place. She knew who the Moonlord was. “Drul Kantar,” she whispered.

“Look to the sky,” the knight said. “Look to the moons that have passed above the tower. They are already stained with blood.”

Thorn followed his gaze. A ruddy mist was drifting across the sky; the moons that lay above it were distorted by the crimson cloud. Thorn knew nothing about the weather of Droaam—possibly, this was a natural phenomenon, but it was certainly an ill omen. “You say you can feel the lunar orbs. Can you find the gate to this tower?”

“We shall soon see.” Sword in hand, Stormblade strode through the shadow cast by the tower. Curious, Thorn grabbed a chunk of stone from the ground, and as they drew closer, she hurled it toward the muck. She was disappointed to see it drop into the mire, scattering mud around the point of impact. At the same time, it made sense; if the tower was merely invisible, surely thousands of people would have noticed it.

They stood on the very edge of the barren land. Harryn studied it, eyes half-closed as if listening for distant music.

“Take my hand.” He set his sword against one shoulder and held out his right hand.

Thorn didn’t bother asking why.

“Close your eyes and follow me.”

He pulled her forward, and as he did, everything changed. Thanks to her ring, Thorn was perfectly comfortable with her eyes closed. Scent, sound, and vibration all combined to paint a picture. And with one single step, the picture changed. Smooth stone replaced cold mud, high walls took the place of open air. Something was awful about it, like the fading memory of a nightmare—then understanding bloomed just beyond her conscious mind. The walls are built from terror, she thought, but she didn’t know how or why. But the tower was the least of her concerns.

They were no longer alone.

A great cat was waiting when she opened her eyes, as if it wanted the intruders to see it before it attacked. It was a nightclaw tiger, larger than the stone griffin in the Ossuary. Thorn had seen a nightclaw only once before, when a beast had emerged from the King’s Forest of Breland. By the time King Boranel and his huntsmen had brought it down, fifty-three people lay dead.

Thorn had no idea what hidden powers this beast might possess, but the chill at the base of her spine told her it was no normal animal. Beyond the nightclaw, a pack of wolves blocked the lone hallway leading deeper into the tower. Thorn couldn’t even see how she and Harryn had entered; no gate stood behind them.

She had no time to ponder that question—the cat was already in motion. The nightclaw was a blur of muscle and fur as it darted toward them, claws scraping against the strange, rough stone of the floor. Fierce as it was, a more fearsome creature stood in the chamber. Harryn Stormblade’s life had been stolen from him, and returned centuries later. He had awoken in the dark, among thousands of lost souls, and had been forced to fight war trolls and sorcerers. It had taken time for the hero of old to rise to his senses.

That hero had returned. A crack of thunder and a blaze of light erupted as Stormblade slashed at the beast. He moved with remarkable speed despite his heavy armor, and when the werewolves joined the fray, he slipped among them, spinning and slashing. A living whirlwind, he filled the creatures with fear and despair. Thorn joined the fight, lashing out with her silver spear, but she might as well have watched the battle. Nothing could stand in the Stormblade’s way. His guard was all but impenetrable, his stamina without limit. Bear, wolf, rat, troll—all fell before his shining blade.

Until they reached the heart of the tower.

The chamber was huge. Thorn could barely see the far
side of the hall. The walls were formed of rough red crystal that pulsed with a bloody light, a disturbingly unsteady beat. The roof was a vast chimney, a hollow tube that opened to the sky. The golden face of the moon Nymm lay directly above them, and the crimson mist was beginning to overtake it.

A bizarre contraption lay below the moon-tunnel, a blending of crystal, iron, and what appeared to be molten brass, flowing and twisting through the air with no apparent support. Thirteen stone slabs were spread around the strange crystal flower—prison beds built for giants. But today, delegates and diplomats lay stretched out on the platforms, held in place by unseen manacles, or magic that froze the mind. There was Beren of Breland, Tharsul of Karrnath, Munta the Gray of the Gantii Vuus. And there was Jolira Jan Dorian of Zilargo, her throat cut and her blood flowing down her slab, seemingly absorbed by the pulsing crystal. Three of the delegates were already dead—one for each of the moons that had already passed over the shadowed hall.

A lone figure stood at the strange machine, adjusting the crystals and the flow of blood. He wore a long blue robe studded with golden stars, and around his neck the lunar orbs glowed with the power of the moons above. Drul Kantar, the Moonlord, glanced at the intruders and spoke. His voice was deep and gentle, the kindly teacher admonishing a tardy student.

“Leave me, children, and I will elevate you in the world to come. Soon hunter and prey will be divided. Leave me to my work and I will welcome you into my pride. Proceed with this impudence and you will brand yourselves my prey.”

“I know you by the orbs you wear, Drukan.” Harryn raised his sword above his head, and the blade flashed and rumbled. “I swore to stand against you and your master, and tonight I will see that oath completed.”

Drul laughed, a calm and gentle chuckle. “But I have no interest in fighting you, Harryn. Though I suppose I can spare these dogs.” He raised his hand and six of the envoys rose from their biers. They groaned as their bones twisted and muscles warped. To Thorn’s horror, she saw Beren pulled into the shape of a lean gray wolf as he approached her, while old Munta the hobgoblin became a mighty boar. The newly transformed lycanthropes growled and grunted, until a gesture from the oni sent them loping across the floor.

“Don’t kill them!” Thorn cried out to Harryn. It was no simple task. As a man, Beren was old, kind, and generous. As a wolf, he was driven by hatred and hunger, a mad desire to kill. Thorn smashed the beast in the side of the head with the flat of the axe. As long as they weren’t striking with silver, the supernatural stamina of the creatures helped them shrug off the blows.

Stormblade resorted to crippling blows against the four who attacked him, breaking legs so the enemy could be left alive but helpless. Thorn focused on Munta and Beren. She refused to get blood on her spear; instead, she struck with the flat of her blade, using the long reach of the myrnaxe to hold the wolves at bay, and striking at crippling nerves whenever an opportunity arose. It was slow and dangerous, and time and again she caught tooth or tusk on the haft of her axe or against the mithral of her bracers. But she believed in her victory. She knew she could not lose. And while her unnatural strength didn’t return, in time both boar and wolf collapsed and remained still.

“Drukan Moonlord!” Harryn called again. “Your doom approaches. Two centuries I have waited. No more!” The blue-white light flared as the knight raised his sword above his head and charged at his enemy.

The oni chuckled. “Harryn Stormblade. The storm is a thing of the wild—learn that lesson now.” He casually
waved his hand and a mighty gust of wind swept across the hall. The gale knocked Thorn off her feet, smashing her against the far wall. Stormblade held his footing, but he couldn’t move against the terrible force of the wind.

Drul raised his left hand, and thunder rumbled in the chamber. Blue-white light flashed again, but this time the lightning was the weapon of Drul Kantar. Bolts of energy rained down from the distant sky, ricocheting off the walls of the high tower before striking the battered knight. There was no escape.
Crack!
and Harryn staggered.
Crack!
and he dropped to his knees.
Crack!
one final bolt and he fell heavily to the floor.

Drul clenched his fist again, and
Crack!
Another bolt of lightning flared around Harryn. The knight was still. The pale blue giant seemed almost disappointed. “Who knew destiny could be so easily thwarted?” he murmured.

“Not I,” Thorn said, thrusting her spear into his spine.

The wind had died when Drul had begun his fierce assault on Harryn. Thorn had neither the strength nor stamina of the knight, but stealth was her gift, and the oni never saw her approach. He howled with rage and pain, and Thorn pulled the spear free as he turned to face her. His howls changed from rage to mirth.

“A silver spear?” He roared with laughter. “A
silver spear?
You might as well move the ocean with a spoon, child. You know not what you face. But I shall grace you with a vision of glory before you die.”

Another burst of wind threw Thorn backward. For a moment, she thought the ogre had exploded; he was surrounded by a cloud of blood and smoke. Then she realized that his wings had knocked her back, wings that seemed like flames—vast, leathery wings stained in red and black. He has the soul of a tiger, Harryn had told her, and so he did; he also had the head of a tiger, with bloody crimson stripes separated by bands of bottomless darkness. The only things that resembled the ogre
lord were his size and mighty physique, and the collar of glowing orbs bound around his neck.

“Gaze upon true wonder,” he roared. “Drulkalatar Atesh, the Feral Hand, speaker of the Wild Heart. Immortal and perfect, soldier of the first age and the age to come.” Lightning danced around his outstretched arms, wreathing the hooked talons that tipped each finger.

Thorn was stunned by the spectacle before her, torn by conflicting emotions. The most powerful of all was fear. She had seen many horrors in her life—she had faced a demon and survived. But she had never encountered anything with the sheer
presence
of Drulkalatar. He wielded the primal power of the predator—the feeling of the newly-shorn sheep staring into the eyes of the dire wolf. Yet there was something else.

Familiarity.

Thorn had never seen this creature before. She knew that, just as she knew she wouldn’t be alive if she had. And yet, its shape, its voice, the light in its eyes, even the sense of fear … she’d seen it before. And there were voices, words in the back of her mind, whispers she couldn’t quite hear.

She had no time to search her memory. As she’d stood frozen in fear and confusion, Drulkalatar had finished posturing.

“Had I the appetite, I would feast on your flesh, little half-elf.” The chamber shook with the sound of his voice. “Instead, I will give you to the storm.”

As he raised his hands, time slowed to a crawl. Thorn could
see
the lightning flashing down toward her, brighter and stronger than anything he’d flung at Harryn. She
knew
the bolt would incinerate her, leaving burnt flesh and charred bones. She wanted to flee, but she was moving even more slowly than the lightning. She had no escape, just the delayed horror of watching …

Waiting …

When the bolt finally struck, it was almost a relief.
Almost
. The pain was beyond anything she’d ever felt. It tore through her, and she could feel her muscles snapping, her joints coming apart.

Then her mind exploded.

It lasted less than a second, but to Thorn it seemed a lifetime. When the smoke cleared, nothing remained of the Brelish spy.

In her place stood a dragon.

“Storm?” she said, and her breath was sulfur and heat. “I prefer fire.”