The Queen of stone tob-1

by Keith Baker

  "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."

  CHAPTER THIRTY — FOUR

  The Crag's Shadow Droaam Eyre 20, 999 YK

  When 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?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Great Crag Droaam Eyre 21, 999 YK

  Sora Katra studied the man before her. "I give you this final chance to change the fate of nations, Lord Beren. What is your will?"

  They stood in the Great Hall of the Crag, the audience chamber of the Daughters of Sora Kell. All three of the sisters were present. They stood on a raised dais, but it held no thrones; rather, a dead tree spread its limbs above and around the sisters. The significance was lost on Thorn, unless it was supposed to be as gnarled and tough as Sora Teraza.

  Lord Beren ir' Wynarn had been chosen to speak for the surviving delegates. "Sora Katra, I am astonished that you even ask. While under your roof, my compatriots have been kidnapped, cursed, and some of them killed. If not for the graces of the noble Minister Luala, many of us would still be afflicted with lycanthropy. There are yet a few who could not be cured, and who have suffered permanent psychological damage. And you still dare to raise the question of your petition?"