by Keith Baker
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 c
ouldn'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.
CHAPTER TEN
The Duurwood Camp Droaam Eyre 12, 998 YK
Fight, or flee? Make a run for it, trusting the poisoned barbs of the ghoulbriar to slow pursuit? Stand tough and take down as many monsters as possible? Shift to nightclothes and play dumb? Had it only been Ghyrryn or even Gharn, the last option might work. But the image of the harpy's broken wings and empty eyes chilled her, and she didn't want to fall into the hands of this wolf pack. They might not hit the briar, and she couldn't outrun a wolf. She'd fight.
She reached her conclusion in less than a second, and her enemies hadn't moved. On the heels of their argument, both sides were cautious, waiting for the other to act. The tension broke when the elf moved forward, drawing a curved sword with one hand as he gestured to his wolves with the other. Thorn prepared for the attack.
A burst of sound and motion shook the briars and branches to her left. All heads turned, including Thorn's. A bird of prey-a hawk with dark feathers and a wide wingspan-broke through the canopy and rose into the moonlit sky. In a second, it was gone.
Thorn froze, holding her breath. Unless the breeze changed, she was still downwind from the wolves. As long as they blamed the disturbance on the bird…
"Go," said Gharn. He turned back to the hunters. Behind him, Ghyrryn and the other gnolls were ready for battle. "You have your task. Leave us to ours."
The elf stared at the horned gnoll, then glanced over his shoulder, following the path of the bird. "Very well, brother," he said, a razor edge to his soft words. "Have no fear. We'll be watching your path all the way to the Great Crag." His eyes drifted to Ghyrryn. "And beyond."
Ghyrryn gave a low, trilling whine, staring at the elf. The large wolf growled again, but this time the elf turned his back on the gnolls. "Come," he said, beckoning to his wolves. "We have other matters to attend to."
The gnolls remained until the hunters and their beasts were out of sight. Then they huddled together, hooting and growling. Thorn couldn't understand their words-but she could see that Gharn was angry and taking it out on Ghyrryn. Finally, one of the other gnolls picked up the wounded harpy and the quartet turned back to their camp.
"All I'm saying is that I wasn't the one who almost got us both killed."
"Which is a miracle, with all the noise you were making. I've seen drunken tribex quieter than you. Perhaps it was my fear that they'd hear you that caused me to slip."
"And yet-"
"Fine." Thorn said. "I acknowledge your skill, mighty Drego. Your gifts, and your gifts alone, prevented that battle, saved our lives, and avoided an international incident that would have sent the world spiraling into war."
"There's no need to exaggerate," Drego said reproachfully.
"Once I start, it's hard to stop."
Drego and Thorn sat in the woods on the edge of the Brelish-Thrane campsite. Jharl had spotted them as they returned to camp, but Thorn had already changed her clothes to her traveling gown. As she explained to the gnoll, the two were just enjoying the night and debating the issues that lay between their two nations.
"Impressive work, though," Thorn said. "You summoned the hawk, and the casting didn't break your invisibility. But why didn't I hear the words of the spell? Summoning can be noisy magic."
"Not for me," Drego said. He waved a finger in the air, and a spark of silver light flickered on the tip.
Duly noted, Thorn thought. She knew it was possible to cast spells without speaking-certainly a useful talent for a spy. But it took vastly more energy to cast a silent spell, and it was a difficult skill to learn; Thorn had tried with no success. It occurred to her that the Thrane minister Luala had remained silent while performing her healing magic earlier… apparently, the Thranes had a gift for it. Still, it was unwise of him to flaunt it. Now she knew that if she ever needed to subdue Drego, she'd need more than a gag.
Drego stared into the tiny flame. Thorn reached out and ran her fingers gently across his other hand. "So what happens now?" she said.
Her touch broke his concentration and the spark of light vanished. He turned to meet her gaze. His eyes were gray, but the light of the moons turned them silver. "What do you mean?"
"I'm not proposing marriage, and if I see you in Breland I'll probably cut your throat. But as long as it's us versus them… I think we can work together."
"I'm glad to hear it." He smiled, lifting her hand and touching his lips to her gloved fingers. "And the marriage will have to wait until you convert, anyhow. I have my faith to consider."
"We have other things to discuss. What did you make of that meeting?"
Drego released her hand, a pained expression on his face. "Very well, my lady, very well. To the matter at hand."
"Droaam is a young nation. The Daughters of Sora Kell arrived less than twenty years ago. Before that…"
"Chaos," Drego said. "My people know more of it than most. Crusaders of the faith would often venture into the savage lands of the west, dedicating their lives to destroying all the evil that they could until they themselves fell in battle. Few returned, but some journals have been recovered."
"And what qualifies as 'evil' in this tale?"
"Any monster that would threaten the settlers to the east… people of Breland, I'd like to point out. So my ancestors gave their lives to protect yours. If not for my great-greatgrandfather, you might never have been born."
Thorn refrained from pointing out that her mother wasn't even from Khorvaire. "So we're practically brother and sister."
Drego placed his hand over hers, and his smile wasn't exactly fraternal. "I wouldn't go that far. But in those days, there was no semblance of a nation. Ogres, trolls, giants-the stronger creatures enslaved the weak. When Galifar collapsed into war, the beasts of Droaam became more aggressive, but their attacks were still random, uncoordinated."
"And then the Daughters of Sora Kell arrived."
"Yes. Force is the only language these warlords understand, and thirteen years ago, the hags appeared with an army of trolls and other creatures. I don't know about you, but we've never been able to determine how they gathered such a powerful force in secret. Within a year, their opponents were either dead or sworn vassals. And here we are today."
"Sworn vassals are only as good as the oaths binding them," Thorn said. "From what I've heard, some in this land are glad to serve the Daughters. The gnolls are supposed to be a loyal bunch. But fear is the mortar that holds Droaam together, and if you're a tyrannical giant, it may hurt to bend your knee to some tiny crone."
"Which brings us to tonight's encounter. Did you recognize the name Callain?"
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It meant nothing to Thorn, but Steel whispered in her ear, and she repeated the words aloud. "Callain of the Final Word. Leader of a flight of harpies accused of multiple counts of banditry."
"The Wind Howlers."
"Yes," Thorn said. "I believe so."
"So it seems that we're bait," Drego said. "The Daughters invite delegates to the Great Crag, ostensibly to negotiate full recognition as a sovereign nation. Death of a delegate at the hands of monsters would be an embarrassment at best-at worst, a cause for war. If any of these warlords wants to challenge the Daughters, all they need to do is kill the delegates. Small wonder your gnoll friend isn't promising to keep the rest of us alive. I imagine they'll have their paws full as it is."
"There's more to it," Thorn said. "That elf… he said that Callain couldn't resist the opportunity because of the 'approaching storm.' What did he mean? And what did Ghyrryn say that made those hunters so angry?"
"That was odd," Drego said. "The worg warned the gnoll leader about speaking to 'the blessed.' Then our friend said… what's the best way to put this?" He closed his eyes for a moment, running his fingers along the back of Thorn's hands as he considered it. "Less blessed by the day. Less? Or… a blessing more common? It's not an easy translation."
Thorn mulled things over. "So the Daughters don't trust their vassals, and they're probably using us to draw out traitors. All this against the backdrop of a coming storm and a fading blessing." Her eyes widened. "Could they be talking about House Tharashk?"
Drego frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Think about it. Those people in black were trackers. One was a half-orc. We know House Tharashk has dealings with Droaam, and the half-orcs of House Tharashk carry the Dragonmark of Finding-the perfect tool for a bounty hunter, and the pillar of their house. What if that 'blessing'-their dragonmark-is fading away?"