The Queen of stone tob-1

by Keith Baker

  If he'd truly been there all along, his skills with concealment had improved considerably. Scent and sound told Thorn he was nearby, but she hadn't been able to pinpoint his location. Yet everything else about him seemed the same. He was dressed in black and silver, his hair shone in the moonlight, and there was laughter in his eyes. But something about him was different. Like his scent, it had always been there, but she hadn't been aware of it until then.

  Familiarity.

  It was something in his eyes, the way he spoke, his laughter… she'd seen him before Droaam. Spoken with him. But she couldn't remember where; the more she thought about it, the more it seemed like a dream. But she felt as if she knew him… and he seemed to feel the same way about her.

  He smiled at her. "So what is this, Nyrielle?"

  "The warlord Zaeurl is about to unleash chaos on the Five Nations. Zaeurl was the traitor all along."

  Drego laughed. "That's ridiculous."

  "I know it seems that way, but it's the truth. She's a werewolf, Drego-"

  He placed his hand over hers, gently brushing his fingers across her skin. "I know."

  Then she saw it all. Toli. The Aundairian. Steel flashed into her hand, and she let the point dig in just below his chin. "You're one of them."

  He smiled and slowly raised his chin, just enough so he could open his mouth. "You're wrong. And you should know."

  "And how's that?"

  "You have a stone at the base of your spine, a crystal shard."

  Thorn let the dagger touch his throat again. "How do you know that?"

  He ignored the threat and the question. "When we were in the woods that night and the wolves approached-did you feel something in the stone? A chill, perhaps?"

  She said nothing.

  "And when you saw Zaeurl at the Great Crag?"

  "I felt that same chill all day yesterday," she said.

  "Yes… when you were with your comrade Toli, I suspect. But do you feel it now?"

  He was right. Thinking about it, she'd only felt that chill in the presence of Toli, and later at the Ossuary. Now, the stone was calm. "If the pain means something-if it reveals werewolves-I think I'd have noticed during the week I spent in the wagon with Toli."

  "Or, perhaps, he wasn't a werewolf then."

  Thorn lowered the dagger and Drego smiled. It was a lovely smile… though it froze when she set the point against his heart. "I'm still listening. For someone who's not a werewolf, you know a great deal about them."

  "Silver Flame," he said. "It comes with the church. As for Toli, I think it would be obvious. He was taken after the welcoming feast, along with some of the other delegates. It's a good thing you had an early night-otherwise you might be howling at the moon yourself."

  "But you said Zaeurl wasn't behind this."

  "She's not. She's a werewolf-she doesn't have a choice in the matter. She needs to obey when her master calls."

  Master. Then it came to her. He had power over those who were touched by the wild; he could drive them to madness or force them to do his bidding. "The Moonlord."

  "Yes."

  "You knew about him?"

  "Yes, I did." Drego's voice was calm.

  "And you're here to stop him?"

  "No. I'm afraid that's where we have a little problem."

  "What are you talking about? He's trying to spread a plague across the Five Nations! The same plague your people fought so hard to stop!"

  "Exactly." Drego seemed, if anything, pleased-as if she'd just solved the puzzle.

  "What do you mean, 'exactly'?"

  "The same plague we fought so hard to stop. And did stop. Don't you see, Nyrielle? This is exactly what the world needs. I didn't come here to stop it from happening. I came to make sure it did happen."

  Thorn pressed the blade against his skin. "Give me one good reason to let you live."

  "The end of war." He smiled at her surprise. "Don't you see? This is exactly what we need. A common enemy, a threat that compels us to join forces. The first crusade against lycanthropy brought hundreds of thousands to the Church of the Silver Flame. The second will reunite Galifar, as people remember what saved them before."

  "Convenient that it's Breland and Aundair that stand on the front line of this new threat, and Thrane that holds the seat of the Silver Flame."

  Drego shrugged. "I did say I was pursuing the interests of my people. They just happen to coincide with yours. Be reasonable, Nyri. Tens of thousands died in the Silver Crusade. Perhaps more will be lost this time. But how many died in the Mourning? This is a chance to force reunification without war. The people will demand it."

  He could be right. Steel was in her hand and his voice was in her head. The most zealous followers of the Silver Flame are Aundairians, as a direct result of the crusade. The battle against the shapechangers is one of the fundamental things people know about the church. If there's a new plague of lycanthropy, people may turn to the Flame.

  "You don't know that," Thorn said. "People might band together to face the common threat. Or they might turn on each other. And the Church may not be strong enough to face this challenge again. You're gambling with the fate of the world."

  "I like the odds. And we shatter Droaam in the process. The Moonlord is no friend to the Daughters of Sora Kell. He'll tear their forces away and turn these beasts against each other. Come on, Nyrielle. Don't you want to change the world?" He smiled, and a part of her wanted to work with him, wanted to turn her back on everything she'd done before. But that was a tiny spark that flickered and died.

  She thought about Beren's tales of fighting on the Droaamish front. She remembered Sheshka's tales about the dark times of her youth-the infection that turned its victims against their loved ones. And she imagined the trollbear smashing through a Brelish village, how many common soldiers-men like her father-would fall fighting such a beast.

  "Not like this," she said.

  One moment, her knife was against his chest. The next, he was six paces away from her. Magic was at work, and his spell was still active. He was standing right in front of her, but he was flickering, wavering. With her enhanced senses, she could feel him slipping in and out of existence.

  He's shifting between planes, Steel whispered. Any attack or spell may pass through him, and if he needs to, he can slip away through solid matter… walking through a wall while he's on another plane.

  "I don't want to kill you, Nyrielle," Drego said, and his voice was warped by the spell, rising and falling. "When the sun rises, this will be inevitable, and we'll be able to fight on the same side. But I can't let you stop it."

  "It's not up to you." Thorn charged forward, spinning on her heel and aiming a kick for Drego's temple. By the time the sun came up, it would be over, one way or the other. Though they came from different nations, relied on different skills… she felt a bond to Drego. Somehow, whatever it was, she didn't want to kill him.

  He blinked out of existence just before she struck him, and her foot passed through empty air. He reappeared a few feet away, holding his hand toward her. The air rippled as a field of energy took shape in the form of a giant hand. By the time she knew what it was, it was already wrapped around her, pinning her limbs with iron strength.

  "It's over," Drego said. "I'll have to bind you, I'm afraid. As for your companions, the medusa is supposed to be dead already. And as for Stormblade-if he is truly who he appears to be, I'm sure that Thrane could use another champion."

  "My sword belongs to Galifar." Perhaps Thorn had distracted Drego; perhaps it was an indomitable will finally breaking its bonds. Harryn Stormblade was striding toward Drego Sarhain, and lightning crackled around his greatsword.

  Drego grinned. "If that's true, shouldn't it be broken?" His next word struck Thorn's ears with physical force. She felt a moment's pain, but the impact on Stormblade was far more severe. His armor rattled, but his sword was the target of Drego's spell. The metal shivered and shook, and for a moment it seemed like it would shatter. And then the m
oment passed.

  "That's quite a sword," Drego said. The blade flashed in Harryn's hands, but once again, Sarhain vanished just before the blow landed. He returned a few feet away. "Let's try again. I've got time."

  All the while, Thorn was struggling against her bonds, but to no avail. The ghostly hand might as well have been made of stone. Her muscles simply couldn't match the magic. All she could do was watch the battle between Drego and Harryn, the sorcerer and the knight.

  Then, as she watched, she saw another battle. Another knight. An armored warrior with Drego's face. How will history remember you, I wonder?

  With that thought, power flooded through her, fire blazing through every tendon. She flexed, and the silver hand holding her shattered into a thousand pieces and was gone. Steel was already in her hand as she charged forward. Drego flickered back and forth, slipping away from Stormblade's blows. But Thorn could sense the motion of the air. She could feel the currents shifting away from where Drego had been and the place he was going to be. She tried not to think; she let her instincts guide her, and the spy appeared just before the point of her blade. He was looking away from her when the blade passed along a rib and into his heart. But she heard his voice, faint and bloody.

  "Well done… Sarm…"

  He never finished the last word. Thorn had barely pulled Steel free when she felt his flesh harden beneath her touch. His doublet of black silk became black marble. Thorn knew what had happened even before she heard the hiss of Sheshka's serpents.

  It had to be done. Thorn knew it was necessary. Her mission was to retrieve Harryn Stormblade and to protect Breland. But as she turned toward the long shadow, she saw a pair of laughing, familiar eyes in her mind, and for one moment, she hated her job.

  CHAPTER THIRTY — THREE

  The Crag's Shadow Droaam Eyre 20, 998 YK

  Sheshka and Stormblade had heard everything. Drego's spell had paralyzed their muscles, but it had done nothing to their ears. Harryn said nothing. Thorn guessed that he was dedicated to the mission, and that for the moment everything else was secondary… even the state of Galifar. She could hardly blame him. He'd just lost more than two centuries of time; how could this seem like anything but a dream? The last thing he remembered was the fight against the Moonlord, and he was fighting that battle once more.

  But the medusa queen had other plans.

  "You heard him," she hissed. "This Moonlord is no friend to the Daughters of Sora Kell. And Zaeurl is his slave. The Daughters were never my enemy. Someone is seeking to shatter Droaam beneath their eyes."

  "And we're approaching that someone's palace in the shadows right now."

  "When I thought that all in this place stood against me, I was prepared to die at your side. But the Daughters must be told." Sheshka was too angry to close her eyes, though she was looking away. Her serpents were seething, a roiling mass of rage.

  "It's too dangerous. We're almost at the shadow now. And we don't know how many of the Crag Guards have been turned."

  "I told you before," Sheshka said, "that I would fight for Droaam and Cazhaak Draal. We choose our battles. You have yours. This will be mine."

  "Your power could make all the difference," Thorn said.

  "I trust that it will," Sheshka returned. Thorn looked at Harryn. "Do you have anything useful to add?"

  The knight inclined his head, solemn as ever. "You have always chosen your own path, Queen Sheshka. I hope that you are making the correct choice this time."

  "As do I." Sheshka's serpents had quieted, and she closed her eyes. "Shadow hide you, Harryn Stormblade. And you, sister Thorn."

  "Aureon light your way," Harryn said.

  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 un
steady 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.