by Keith Baker
"Steel," she said. "We need to talk."
CHAPTER FOUR
The City of Graywall Droaam Eyre 11, 998 YK
When she was a girl, Nyrielle Tam wanted to be a soldier, to fight for Breland like her father. She'd been raised on tales of Brelish bravery and the noble values of her homeland and her king. Other nations were full of villains and madmen. The Thranes were blinded by zealotry. The Cyrans were arrogant cowards, and they would surrender the kingdom to elves and goblins. The Karrns desecrated the bodies of the dead to create zombie armies, and who could say what horrors would fill the world under a Karrnathi king. And the people of Aundair relied on dark magic to slaughter their enemies. By the time Nyrielle was a teenager, though, Aundair and Breland were allies, and people didn't tell those stories as often.
In childhood stories, Breland was a land of opportunity, a place where even the nobles respected the common man, where the lords were truly servants of the people. It was a land of industry and progress, the greatest hope for the future.
As she grew older, Nyrielle learned to recognize propaganda. She could even imagine what the children of Thrane or Karrnath might have been told about Breland. Its people placed gold above honor. Its industrial might spawned corruption and crime. The nobles had no control over their subjects, and the people had largely abandoned their faith in the gods. Slander and lies, but all with the same hint of truth as those childhood tales of other lands.
The people of Breland were more pragmatic than their cousins in other lands, less devoted to Sovereigns and Flame. And there were those who said that the noble families-even the great King Boranel, a hero who'd fought in the vanguard of many a battle-were no longer necessary. It was the royal succession to the throne of Galifar that had brought about a century of war; many believed that the proper response was to abandon the institution of the monarchy and start anew.
For all that, Nyrielle believed in Breland. Her homeland wasn't the paradise of her childhood. But she believed that the king was a good man, that he believed in justice and the rights of his people, and that when the war was over he would tend to the wounds of the nation.
Whenever her father returned home, those wonderful weeks or months before the battles began anew, she forced him to teach her the ways of sword and shield. When her father was away, Nyrielle would wrestle and race with her brother Nandon and the other Khoravar children, building her strength and speed and waiting for the day that she could serve alongside her father on the field of battle.
That day never came. On the 12th of Barrakas, 992 YK, a courier arrived. Her father was dead, killed in a skirmish with Cyran troops. She barely remembered her mother Jaelari, who had left when Nyrielle was just a child. Her father told her that Jaelari had returned to Aerenal, the distant land of the elves, but that she had left a great treasure behind-four beautiful emeralds in the green eyes of her twin children. But those emeralds wouldn't pay her father's debts. Their home was sold and the children put to the streets.
Nyrielle and Nandon were luckier than most orphans of the war. The Khoravar-those who carried the blood of human and elf-of Wroat looked after their own. Nyrielle's father had no relatives in the neighborhood, so others took turns providing shelter for the teenagers. But it was hard for Nyrielle to be grateful.
After the death of his father, Nandon turned against Breland, spitting on the war and all Five Nations. For Nyrielle, the dream of serving Breland was all she had left. Her father had died in the war, but he'd believed it a cause worth dying for. She devoted every moment to her dream, drilling with sticks, chasing rats to build her speed, and waiting for the day she would follow in the footsteps of her father.
She enlisted three years later, and in the training camp she met Zane. At the time, he appeared to be a handsome lieutenant; she learned that it was only one of his many faces. He was impressed by her talents and her lineage; he'd known her father. Zane said that if she truly wished to serve Breland, he knew better ways to do it-battlefields more dangerous than the Crying Fields or the Thrane front. Zane gave her an introduction to the King's Citadel, the hidden hand of the Brelish crown.
The Citadel had many branches. The King's Shields were charged to protect members of the royal family. The King's Wands were the magical experts of Breland, and they provided mystical tools and training to the other branches. The King's Swords were the fist of Breland, deadly soldiers called in when force was the only answer. Nyrielle had first hoped to be a Sword, but her greatest strength wasn't her skill with weaponry. That honor went to her cunning and her speed, her ability to observe and adapt. And so she was inducted into the King's Dark Lanterns.
As a child, Nyrielle Tam had dreamed of being a soldier. Instead, she became a spy, a saboteur, and when necessary, an assassin. She became Thorn, Dark Lantern of Breland.
Open the book to the final page, Steel said.
"Why?"
Are you questioning your orders, Lantern Thorn? Steel's voice was a chilly whisper in her mind.
"I don't take orders from a piece of metal," Thorn snapped. "And I don't like being kept in the dark about the nature of a mission. What aren't you telling me? Why is Zane keeping secrets?"
I have been part of the Dark Lanterns for one hundred and twelve years, Steel said. I remember when the Lanterns served the King of Galifar, not simply Breland. I have aided true heroes, and if you think shepherding a wounded agent is some sort of honor, you-
Thorn dropped the dagger and the voice ceased abruptly. She ran her fingers over the shard embedded at the base of her skull, feeling the pressure of crystal on bone and the fire in her nerves. Thorn hated herself for giving in to the pain. She took a deep swig from the open bottle and almost choked. It was iced tal, and if that wasn't bad enough, it was sweetened with honey. I didn't think they served children here, she thought bitterly.
The red circle on the dagger glowed with a faint light, but Thorn ignored it. She picked up the sack she'd taken from Kalakhesh and studied its contents. A small loop of leather cord, just large enough to fit around a finger. A much longer coil of lightweight silk rope. A few sets of rags, the clothes of a goblin servant; a clink of glass against glass revealed vials of dark liquid wrapped up in the filthy clothes. She found a raven's quill and a few folded pieces of parchment covered with writing in the goblin alphabet.
Thorn examined each item, opening a vial to sniff the potion within, considering the cipher used on the parchment notes, testing the quill on the blanket-as she expected, it was enchanted to write on any surface. Finally, she opened the leather-bound book, turning to the last page.
Light suffused the vellum. Golden ink flowed like quicksilver, settling into words. Half the page was taken up by a picture. It showed a statue of a handsome knight, his hands at his sides, his sword absent. A woman leaned close to him, a woman with golden skin and a mane of snakes for hair. Stone monsters flanked the knight and the medusa; a mighty griffin reared up behind the warrior, a fierce hydra stood across from him. Thorn looked at the words below the image.
Without his sword, the Knight of Storms was a man divided, bereft of his past and his glory. In this state he faced the Queen of Stone and met her pitiless gaze. Now, he who had been the most loyal servant of the King was made subject to the Queen of Stone and left among the ghosts of the Crag. Three keys are needed to free him from his eternal slumber-his sword, his past, and the forgiving kiss of the Queen of Stone.
Thorn picked up the dagger. "I'm listening."
Harryn Stormblade is alive. Steel's voice was cold, but he said nothing about her earlier outburst.
Every child heard the stories. The Knight of Storms, the child of Thronehold, one of the greatest champions of unified Galifar. "He disappeared over two hundred years ago," Thorn said.
In Droaam. And now he's been found.
"In a picture book?" Thorn shook her head. "I'm impressed with the glowing pages and the magic ink, but what makes you think this is anything but a goblin scam to lighten the Brelish treasury by
a few thousand galifars?"
Because we've found the statue. It's in the Great Crag. Kalakhesh confirmed it when he contacted us.
"Well, if Kalakhesh said it, it must be true." The crystal in her neck reacted to her frustration, and the pain increased with her anger. She struggled to calm her thoughts and quiet the stone.
The Silent Knives have nothing to gain from it, and you know that. Kalakhesh said that we wouldn't betray Darguun for such a sum-the same holds true for his masters. We have independent confirmation of the existence of this statue-a sketch made by one of our envoys, when the Daughters sought to be recognized at Thronehold. At the time, we assumed it was no more than a monument, a mockery of a fallen hero. Now we know it is the hero himself, most likely given to the Daughters as tribute. Your mission is to recover Harryn from the Great Crag.
Harryn Stormblade. It was easy to see why the Citadel wanted to recover the knight. Few people in Thorn's line of work believed that the current peace would hold, and the support of a true hero of legend would be a powerful tool for any leader who sought to claim the throne of Galifar. "And what of my original assignment?"
That is equally important. You must find a way to accomplish both goals.
"Lovely." But Thorn smiled as she considered the challenge, and the pain began to fade. "So what am I supposed to do? Steal the statue and bring it back to Breland? I don't think it's going to fit in my glove."
If that were the goal, I wouldn't have even mentioned the mission. You won't be stealing a statue. You'll free the man.
Thorn looked at the dagger. "That sounds more promising. How do we do that?"
'The kiss of the Queen of Stone.' Spells can reverse petrification, but they're useless in this case. Sheshka, the so-called Queen of Stone, is no ordinary medusa. We've recovered a few of her victims in the past, and we've never been able to restore them. But 'the medusa's kiss' is a ritual the creatures themselves use to negate the effects of their deadly gaze. There is great power in that book-magic of transformation and divination. I believe that what it says is the truth. We can't release Harryn Stormblade from his bondage, but Queen Sheshka can. And as one of the most powerful warlords in Droaam, she'll undoubtedly be in attendance at this diplomatic gathering, as will you.
"So I don't need to steal a statue," Thorn said. "I just need to find a statue, kidnap the queen of the medusas, force her to reverse a curse, and smuggle a legendary warrior out of Droaam, all without causing an international incident."
Yes. Sheshka's death is an acceptable loss, provided Breland can't be blamed for it.
"Oh, that was the only thing I was worried about." Thorn's mind raced as she considered the variables. This was what she'd been trained for, and after months of rehabilitation at the Citadel, it was good to have a challenge. "I don't suppose you've got some sort of trick hidden in your pommel for protecting me from a medusa's gaze?"
You' ll be protected.
"Is there a 'how' somewhere in this conversation?"
No. We both have our orders, Lantern Thorn. I am to give you the information you need, when I decide you are ready to receive it.
The angry spark was burning in the shards again. "And why is that? Why do I suddenly have a metal nursemaid?"
There were some at the Citadel who were concerned about you returning to the field so soon after the incident at Far Passage. Master Zane hoped that this book would be a false lead, and that you would not have to undertake this mission. However, even with your injuries, he believes you are best suited to the task.
"So you're keeping secrets from me for my own good."
You're angry, the cold voice whispered. Is that normal for you?
Thorn cursed under her breath, but she knew the dagger was right. The memories of Far Passage, the pain of the stones… they were playing games with her emotions. This wasn't who she was. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She thought of her father, of the smile on his face when he saw her after a long absence. She thought of the mission and the challenges she had to overcome. The pain receded, and she was herself again.
"Reconnaissance is first priority," she said. "I'll need the information if I'm going to manage the rescue… and I think we'll have to leave quickly once it's done."
I concur.
"Is there anything else I need to know tonight?"
There is nothing more that I may say.
Thorn narrowed her eyes. "That's not quite an answer, is it?"
Steel said nothing.
"That's fine. I need the sleep. I think tomorrow will be an interesting day."
Thorn closed the shutter on the lantern, and the room fell into darkness. Through the blinds of the windows, the moonlight cast purple shadows across the floor.
CHAPTER FIVE
The City of Graywall Droaam Eyre 12, 998 YK
The laughter of ghosts woke Thorn from her sleep and she sat up. As her thoughts cleared, she realized that the laughter wasn't a remnant of her nightmare… it was a sound outside her window.
Gnolls. Lots of gnolls. Thorn reached for her shiftweave and gauntlets.
"Delegates of foreign lands!" The voice was curt and rough, loud enough to echo across the plaza. "Present yourselves! We leave with the setting moon!"
Thorn relaxed. The manticore hadn't betrayed her, and the Pact hadn't tracked her to the Calabas. This was simply business; this was why she was in Droaam.
For a thousand years, the land to the west of Breland had been a savage frontier. Trolls lurked in mountain passes while harpies and wyverns circled the peaks. Many bold warriors traveled west to slay horrors in the name of Galifar; few returned. But over the centuries, these monsters posed little threat to the lands beyond the Graywall Mountains. The creatures weren't organized. Warlords laid claim to land and then fought the other monsters to hold it. Now and again, a flight of harpies or pack of worgs would venture east to prey on human settlers, but for the most part the monsters had more interest in battling their own kind. Then came the Daughters of Sora Kell.
Thirteen years ago, the hags appeared in the west accompanied by an army of ogres, trolls, and other fearsome creatures. Through sheer force and fear they bent the warlords to their will, but they wanted more than power-they wanted a kingdom. The Daughters declared the land west of the mountains to be the sovereign territory of Droaam. Soldiers scoffed at the idea that the beasts of the west could create any sort of nation; surely it would collapse within a decade, and the name of Droaam would be forgotten.
Cyre fell before Droaam. While the Mourning destroyed the heart of Galifar, Droaam built cities and roads, expanding the city of Graywall and the capital, the Great Crag. The hags asked for a voice at the Treaty of Thronehold, but the lords of the eastern nations scoffed at the idea. It was bad enough that Darguun and Valenar were sitting at the table, but those nations had armies and had fought in the Last War. Droaam was a joke, and surely it would be gone in a year. Perhaps, with the war over, Breland would take the time to cleanse the area once and for all.
If it was a joke, no one was laughing any longer. Three years had passed since the Treaty of Thronehold, and Droaam was stronger than ever. Through House Tharashk, the monsters of Droaam found employment as mercenaries and laborers, and the people of the Five Nations saw for themselves the power these creatures possessed. The leaders of the Thronehold nations began to wonder what forces the Daughters of Sora Kell had at their disposal… and then the invitations arrived. The hags had asked the leaders of the twelve nations recognized under the Treaty of Thronehold to send representatives to the Great Crag, to reconsider counting Droaam among their number.
It was hard to imagine King Boranel accepting a hag or a mind flayer as a fellow monarch. But it was an excellent chance to get a spy into the heart of Droaam. Thorn's original mission had been a simple one: Observe. Gather information. Find out as much as possible about Droaam's capabilities and intentions. Watch the delegates of the other nations. Breland wouldn't be the only nation with eyes-or knives-at the assemb
lage.
Thorn had wanted to bathe, but she had no time with the convoy to the Great Crag already gathering. She pulled on her courtier's dress. Dark brown with russet trim and the bear of Breland on the breast, it complemented her auburn hair and dark green eyes. Next came the traveling cloak, and finally her gloves.
Like the rest of her wardrobe, her gloves were made from shiftweave, and she adjusted them to match her outfit; leather gauntlets transformed to long silk gloves. Their appearance meant little to Thorn-what mattered was the pocket of space mystically bound to each glove. One held her rapier; in a fight, she preferred something with more length than a dagger. The other held the book-the chronicle of Harryn Stormblade.
Thorn mentally checked the placement of the dozen professional tools hidden on her person and hid Kalakhesh's sack inside her traveling bag. Shouldering the bag, she made her way into the hall. A polished marble orb was set on a pedestal at the top of the landing. Thorn placed her palm on the orb and felt a slight breeze blow across her skin. The cleansing stone was an Aundairian innovation. As its energy passed over her, it drove dirt and oil from skin, clothes, and hair. In addition, it dispersed the lingering odor of the slaughterhouse, replacing it with a hint of fresh rain. Thorn didn't think any of the creatures outside would be looking for her, but it never hurt to be careful. She took a loaf of brown bread from a silver platter in the atrium and walked onto the Roar.
Seven long wagons were spread across the plaza, their interiors hidden beneath canopies of painted cloth. Dozens of gnoll warriors moved around the convoy, and a knot of gargoyles circled in the sky above the square. Thorn examined the closest soldier-seven to eight feet in height with spotted reddish fur, blunt snout, gleaming green eyes, and strength to rival bugbears. His limbs were long and lanky, and his legs were jointed like those of a dog. Despite the awkward appearance, none of them had any trouble standing or walking upright. The nearest gnoll wore a jerkin of black leather set with iron rivets, and he held a bow taller than Thorn. He glanced at her and grinned. It was difficult to tell if it was meant to be friendly or aggressive.