The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland (37 page)

W
hen the lightning struck her, Thorn gave in to madness. For a moment, everything fell away from her, and when it returned, every sensation was wrong. Her blood was on fire, searing heat spread throughout her veins, but there was no pain. The blaze within her was a comfort, warming her soul. She rose up and spread her wings, and only then did she realized that she had them. Her wings … her neck … her
tail
… what had become of her?

Two constants stood amidst the chaos. A needle of pain—the sharp agony of the stone set into the base of her skull. And the warm glow from the crystal at the base of her spine. Together they served as spiritual poles, as anchors for her thoughts. Clinging to these points made it easier to let go of the rest. It was akin to her sharpened senses; part of her already understood it, and Thorn only needed to surrender conscious thought to these instincts. This didn’t feel new. It was as if she’d always had wings … and she’d somehow forgotten.

Storm? I prefer fire
.

She only realized that she was speaking as the thought passed through her head; she wasn’t sure where it came from.
But it snapped her back into the moment. Drulkalatar. The fiend still stood before her, but now he was looking up at her; mighty he might be, but she towered over him. She could feel his emotions, fear and surprise pouring from him. And he was speaking again.

“Sarmondelaryx!”
he shouted. “Begone from this place!”

Anger flowed through her. Confused as she was, her memories were quickly returning. This beast was threatening her nation and possibly the entire world. He had taken pleasure in striking down her friend, and he dared to threaten her. She opened her mouth, intending to hurl an angry word at him—

—and the room filled with fire. It was more than ordinary flame; it was Thorn’s fury given elemental force. She heard Drulkalatar scream. When the fire faded, she saw why. The fiend had folded his wings across his body, creating a shield to protect himself … and Thorn’s flames had seared through skin and flesh, leaving charred gaps in his wings.

“Not so perfect anymore,” she said.

Drulkalatar howled, and the winds took up his cry. The gale struck Thorn with the force of a hurricane, knocking her from her feet and slamming her to the floor. She felt a stone bier shatter beneath her, shards grinding against her armored skin. Thorn the woman would have tried to rise to her feet, struggling against the winds. But she was Thorn the dragon, and instinct drove her down a different path. She lashed out with her tail, and the blow flung Drulkalatar across the room. She heard the crack of snapping bone as he struck the crystal wall.

Silence reigned as both combatants rose to their feet. The fiend spat a broken tooth from his mouth, and his blood steamed as it struck the floor. “Why are you doing this?” he said. “You know what I want. Leave me be, and together we will revel in the savage time that lies ahead.”

Thorn realized that he wasn’t speaking the common tongue of the Five Nations any more. She didn’t even know what his language was. But she knew what he was saying, and if she spoke without thinking, the words came to her.

“What are you talking about?” she said, and the words were like thunder echoing through the room. “Who do you think I am?”

It was only a moment of confusion, but it was enough for the fiend. He howled again, and a blinding flash of lightning seared the air. Thorn had no time to brace for the blast—but the blow never fell. Thorn’s blood burned in her veins, and she could
feel
the power of the fiend shatter against her. He raised a hand, and thick, thorny vines burst up from the floor, seeking to surround her and crush her. But they shriveled before they could touch her. It wasn’t merely fire that flowed through her blood; it was unbridled magic. And the spells of this demon were no match for this pure power.

“You cannot hurt me,” Thorn roared. She hoped he would accept her word; the lightning hadn’t touched her, but she ached from the impact with the floor. “Surrender, Drul Kantar. Or I will end this, and you with it.”

The beast hissed at her, and crackling blades of lightning rose from his fists. He leaped forward, blades flashing toward Thorn’s eyes. She couldn’t avoid the blow—he was too fast, and her body was huge and unfamiliar. She tried to raise her hand, but her wing rose up. The shock was excruciating, but she rode the pain, lashing back with her wing and flinging Drulkalatar to the floor.

“Fool!” Drulkalatar snarled. “At least I know what I am.” He rose to his feet, spitting hot blood. “I am the Voice of the Wild Heart. I am rising terror and lingering fear.”

He howled again, and a horde of beasts took shape around him, creatures seemingly called by his rage alone. Lupine trolls. Giants with the features of nightclaws, and nightclaws with the simian traits of the giants.

“I have prepared for this for two hundred years, and I will not wait again!” Drulkalatar cried. He raised his hands, lightning crackling around his claws as his troops rushed forward.

But Thorn was ready. She didn’t pause to think; words and actions came to her as one. “I know what I am,” she said, “I am the Angel of Flame. And your plans end here.” Fire flowed from her mouth, engulfing the oncoming horde. When the flames settled, Drulkalatar’s minions were ash, and the fiend himself was scorched, the flesh nearly flayed from his bones. Before he could cast another spell, Thorn pounced, her massive forepaws pinning him to the floor as a cat might trap a mouse.

“Why?” he said, staring up at her. “Why would you do this?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said. It was the truth. “But I will.”

“I cannot die,” he said. “You, of all creatures, should know that. I will return, Sarmondelaryx. And you will pay for this.”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “And my name’s Thorn.”

Reaching down, she caught the crippled fiend between her jaws. She raised him up in the air, slowly crushing him. And then, as she felt his resistance fading, she unleashed her anger. Fire flowed through her teeth, and Drulkalatar was at the heart of it. His bones melted away, his body vaporized in the intense heat. But she could still feel the last trace of his presence … the essence of his evil. His spirit. And before he could slip away, she swallowed him. She felt a flash of pure hatred, surprise, and fear. And then he was gone.

The walls of the castle began to shake and fade. Thorn’s world dissolved into chaos once more. Nothing seemed solid. The walls and floors around her, her very flesh—everything was in motion. One moment she was flying, then she was falling to the earth, and her only anchors
were the burning pain in her skull and the soothing warmth at the base of her spine.

Mud. Cold earth. The stink of fetid water. And the sounds of battle, now fading. Thorn was lying face-down in a puddle of muck. She was weak, barely able to push herself out of the mud. She was in the patch of swamp, and though the moons were still in the sky, the long shadow had disappeared. The moons themselves were free of the ruddy hue Stormblade had attributed to the Moonlord’s curse.

Harryn! Looking about, Thorn saw the knight on the ground nearby, his sword stuck in the mud. The swamp was littered with bodies, some still breathing, others merely the remains of bloody deeds done in the shadow. The delegates were strewn about, both the living and the dead. Thorn staggered to her feet and began dragging the bodies to solid ground. At last, she reached Harryn. His breastplate covered his chest, and she couldn’t see if he was still breathing. When she tried to move him, his body was cold.

“Harryn.” Her throat was raw, and though she tried to yell, what came out was little more than a whisper. “Harryn!” She slammed a hand against his chest, but his face remained as still as when it was stone.

“Listen to the water, child.”

Thorn hadn’t noticed the old woman standing behind her. Bent with the burden of years, she was dressed in stained gray rags. A weathered hood was pulled down to hide her eyes. Her skin was so wrinkled that it seemed it might crumble if she were to smile. Thorn couldn’t make any sense of what she’d just said, but she spoke with utter conviction.

“My friend needs help,” she said. “Many here need help. Is there a healer in the city—”

“Life and death are part of the same stream,” the woman said. “What is it like to swim the river twice?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Thorn said. “I need—”

The crone raised an admonishing finger. “Help comes, soon enough for those who will live. Until then, I have gifts for you and yours.”

“Gifts?”

The woman took Thorn’s hand, and there was surprising strength in her withered arms. She pressed a small object into Thorn’s hand. “Never a gift at all, you see. This was not the gift you were given, and what you were given was not a gift.”

“Yes … of course,” Thorn said. She was surprised a madwoman could survive in the Shadow of the Crag; the locals didn’t seem likely to be overflowing with charity.

The crone kept one hand on Thorn’s, holding her fist closed around the mysterious gift. But she knelt next to Harryn. “Not yet time for rest,” she said. “There are pages still unwritten. What I once took, I give once again.”

She placed her hand over Harryn’s heart. The faint gleam of mystical energy appeared, and Harryn stiffened, gasping for air, his fingers clutching at the mud.

“Harder this time, yes,” the woman murmured. “And harder still to come.”

Harryn’s eyes snapped open, and he was gazing into Thorn’s face.

“Thorn …” he choked, and tried again. “Thorn …” “Nyrielle,” she whispered. He nodded, and a faint smile touched his face.

“Harryn,” he said.

“Sister!” A new voice rang across the swamp, bold and powerful. “Didn’t mother teach you not to play with your food?”

Soldiers were approaching, a troop of ogres. Thorn tried to pull free, but the ragged crone had a grip of iron. “Listen
to the water,” she said. “This story is almost done.”

“She speaks the truth,” said the newcomer. “You are in no danger. The Warlord Sheshka sent us to find you, to bring the survivors back to the Crag.”

The stranger came closer, and when Thorn caught sight of her, she knew exactly who she was.
Tall and thin, hair as black as a crow’s wing and just as ragged, yet surrounding her like a shroud woven from the night itself. I could see that her skin was flawless beneath the dirt, and her eyes were as dark as her hair
. The dark-haired woman went straight to Beren and picked him up as if he were a child. She opened her mouth, and as Thorn had guessed, rows of razor sharp teeth hid behind her flawless smile.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Lord Beren and I will not finish our business this year. Now bring your wounded knight and come with us. We are grateful … at least for today.”

The old woman released Thorn’s hand and accompanied the younger woman as the ogres gathered up the delegates. Thorn helped Harryn to his feet.

“Can you walk?” she said. “It seems that Sheshka was successful. Unless they’re just bringing us back for a public execution.”

Harryn was weak and had to lean on her. “Were … we successful? Drulkan—is he dead?”

“Look at the moons,” Thorn said. “It seems that all is well. At least, as well as it will ever be in Droaam.”

Harryn nodded and focused on walking, leaving Thorn alone with her thoughts. Harryn didn’t see the defeat of Drulkalatar. And Thorn … could she trust her own memories? Could it have been a dream? If not, what did it mean?
What is it like to swim the river twice?

She still clenched her fist around her unknown gift. She glanced down and opened her hand.

It was her ring—the magic ring she’d been given just before her mission to Far Passage. The ring that allowed
her to see in the dark and sharpened her other senses. But she wasn’t wearing it, and she could still smell Harryn’s scent, feel the motion of air and the vibrations of every footfall.

Never a gift at all, you see. This was not the gift you were given, and what you were given was not a gift
.

What did it mean?