The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland (20 page)

What happened next made no sense, even to Thorn. She’d forced the wolf away, but she’d taken her eyes off the ogre. The brute dropped Ghyrryn and lunged for her. All she saw was a massive fist reaching for her face as the creature prepared to crush her head with its bare hands. She had no time to dodge, but she didn’t have to.

Thorn felt a surge of power, as if her blood were on fire, then she realized that she’d caught the ogre’s fist with her own tiny hand. It should have been impossible—the beast had more muscle in its right arm than she had in her entire body. Yet she’d stopped the blow and hadn’t even felt it. She closed her hand around the ogre’s fingers and felt flesh and bone give way. Then, throwing all of her newfound strength into the motion, she spun around, pulling the ogre and sending it tumbling into the snarling wolf. A startled yip mixed with a curse in the tongue of giants. Thorn lunged, driving her dagger into the ogre’s kidney, and she felt the blade sink into the flesh of the fallen beast. Whatever the burst of strength had been, it passed; she landed a solid blow, but it wasn’t enough to finish the job.

“Unwise.” The ogre drew an enormous cleaver as he rose to his feet. Next to him, the wolf circled around her, seeking to flank her, to force her into a position where she had to give one of them an opening. Thorn saw no communication between the two; the animal was well-trained in the art of war. “You become our meat tonight. I even follow orders. I need no blessings for you.”

At least Steel was silent; whatever his opinions, the dagger knew better than to distract her in the middle of a battle. Thorn said nothing. She just waited, dagger in hand, as her two enemies circled her.

The wolf moved first. It had slipped behind her, and now it sought to tear at her tendons and drop her to the ground. But it underestimated her speed and her awareness of her surroundings. The beast’s teeth tore at her dress, and she felt its breath against her leg, but she pulled away just in time. Turning in place, Thorn set her hand on the wolf’s back and vaulted over the creature. The ogre’s cleaver descended at the same moment, and he nearly struck his ally. As she spun through the air, she made a single thrust, catching the wolf at the base of his neck and pulling free as she landed.

It was a perfect stroke. She felt the blade against the spine; it wasn’t a killing blow, but it should have removed the beast from the battle.

It didn’t.

The wolf’s fur hid the wound, but it spun to face her, and in her surprise she barely avoided its snapping teeth.
Did I imagine—

She had no time to think. She was outnumbered, and both her enemies were upon her. The wolf charged again, and this time she jumped over the strike. She landed directly on the small of the beast’s back and called on all her strength. She tried to leap up and over the ogre, to buy more time, to find a better position.

She failed.

Pain flared through her as the ogre’s blade smashed into her chest, knocking her out of the air. A moment later, she slammed into the ground, her head bouncing against the stone floor. She was lucky—her foe had struck her with the flat of the blade. If he’d caught her full on, he might have split her in two. Thorn tried to gather her wits, to force herself to her feet. But the wolf was already leaping for her throat—the wolf that should have been dead. Teeth gleamed as they dived for her neck. She caught a flash of silver as warm blood spread across her chest.

It wasn’t hers. Ghyrryn was standing above her, and he’d just driven a metal point through the wolf’s throat. It collapsed atop Thorn, hot blood pouring from the wound and the stench of its flesh filling her nostrils.

Ghyrryn had saved her life, but there was a price to be paid. He’d left himself open to the ogre. Sparks flew as the cleaver struck Ghyrryn’s shoulder. Blood dripped from the gnoll’s mouth as he cried out in pain. His battered steel armor held, but the blow had dented the plates, driving them into the muscles of his arm.

The gnoll went on the defensive. His axe had two blades—the longer crescent blade and the smaller, curved spearhead he’d used to kill the wolf. Blocking the ogre’s next blow, he retaliated with the smaller blade, slashing his enemy’s arm. But the situation was hopeless. Ghyrryn was too seriously wounded. Blood was streaming down his injured arm and he was limping … and his enemy seemed to be an unstoppable wall of muscle.

But Ghyrryn was clever. He wasn’t trying to fight; he was getting the ogre to move. As he parried and cut, Ghyrryn was circling, forcing his foe to turn … and then the creature’s back was to Thorn. She was still on the ground, pinned beneath the fallen wolf, and he had forgotten her.

She pushed the wolf aside. Her ribs ached and the room spun as she rose to her knees, but she forced herself
to focus. As she climbed to her feet, Ghyrryn fell; the ogre knocked the gnoll’s weapon out of his grasp and forced him to the ground. She had no more time: setting aside her doubt, pushing away the pain, Thorn threw Steel.

The ogre raised his blade. The blow would surely shatter Ghyrryn’s skull. But he paused at the height of his arc and the blade slipped through his fingers to clatter to the floor. Steel was lodged in the base of his neck, and this time the blow was good. The ogre’s fingers flexed convulsively, and his limbs went limp. The floor rumbled when he fell.

“And I wanted … a challenge,” Thorn said. She sat down on the floor, struggling to catch her breath.

Gnolls were a tough lot, and Ghyrryn rose to his feet. He picked up his axe and prodded the body; the beast was dead. He looked at Steel, and Thorn raised her hand.
Return
, she thought, and the dagger pulled free from the corpse and flew to her fist. “Smaller than a crossbow,” she said. She gingerly rose to her feet, waiting to see what the gnoll would do.

Ghyrryn knelt over the ogre for a moment, his fingers working at its jaw. He grunted in satisfaction and threw a small object toward her. A bloody tooth landed on the floor and skidded into her foot. “Take it,” he said. “He waits for you in the world to come.”

It was the tradition he’d told her about on the first day of the journey … keeping trophies as a way of placating the spirits of the fallen. She reached down and picked up the tooth.

“You fought for me.” Blood dripped from his mouth as the gnoll removed his damaged armor.

“You defended me at the Korlaak Pass,” Thorn said. “You saved my life.”

“True,” the gnoll said. “Explain your purpose.”

Thorn studied the wounded gnoll carefully. She could
feel Steel’s presence buzzing in the back of her mind, and she sheathed the dagger before it could speak.

“I’m searching for a statue,” she said. “And I want to know where Queen Sheshka resides.”

“Describe the statue.”

She’d kept the golden tome hidden in her left gauntlet throughout the journey. Now she drew it forth, flipping through until she found a picture of Harryn Stormblade.

Ghyrryn studied the image. Then he looked at her. For a moment both were silent, the bruised and bloody gnoll studying the Dark Lantern. Then he spoke. “The statue was on display. It was moved, at the request of a warlord. Where, I do not know. We will pass Sheshka’s quarters on the way to your own.”

Thorn gestured at the bodies around them. “This … what will you do?”

“I will speak to my brothers. The Children of Zaeurl do not sleep when the moons are high. This will not be known.”

“But why were they going to kill you?”

The gnoll made a gesture with his hand, palm flat and horizontal. “You have saved my life, and I yours. I care nothing for a statue. But I hold the honor of my brothers, and this I cannot speak of. There is a …” He paused, searching for a word. “Disease, the darkness that spreads. I do not like what I see. But it is not my place to challenge the rules of war.”

Thorn inclined her head. “I thank you for my life, noble Ghyrryn.”

“We have shared blood.” He glanced at her. “You need new clothing. Take what you will from this place.”

Thorn was surprised, but she wasn’t going to argue with this good fortune. The gnoll knew what he was doing. He wouldn’t reveal secrets, but he seemed willing to trust her. She searched the footlockers until she found a hunter’s uniform that would fit her, with a sack to hold it.

“A final gift,” he said. “We have shared blood, but you placed yourself in danger when you had taken no vow. We are brothers.” He held out his long axe.

“That’s all right,” she said. “I don’t really need it.”

“You will,” he said. He glanced at the dead wolf, but said no more. Thorn remembered the feel of Steel piercing flesh—a blow that had done no harm.

She took the axe and drew it into her right glove.

G
oblins stared at Thorn as she and Ghyrryn made their way through the hallways of the Crag, but a snarl from the black-furred gnoll was enough to send the servants scurrying. Ghyrryn needed only a few minutes to find a squad of gnoll soldiers. Thorn couldn’t understand their whines and chittering howls, but four of the warriors loped away following Ghyrryn’s instruction; she imagined that they were going to deal with the mess they’d left behind.

The other two helped Ghyrryn and Thorn reach a dormitory held by the Znir Pact. At least twenty gnolls filled the long room; some were tending armor and weapons, some sparring, others playing a game that involved pitching teeth into an outline chalked on the floor. The arrival of the wounded Ghyrryn created a stir, and the pack crowded around him, hooting and crying in their strange tongue. The elderly healer pushed the others aside and forced Ghyrryn to sit on a bunk.

“You stay,” Ghyrryn told Thorn. For the moment, she welcomed the chance to sit down. The pain in the crystal shards had faded to the usual faint ache, but her side was a mass of bruises and her head throbbed where she’d struck the ground.

The healer came to examine her. His fur was patchy and graying, but his green eyes were sharp and alert. Still, Thorn remembered him applying broodworms to open wounds in the Duurwood camp, and she wasn’t eager to trust her health to a gnoll medicine man. She held up her hand, keeping the healer at bay.

Ghyrryn snarled at the old gnoll and a debate ensued … or so it seemed to Thorn. Perhaps they were discussing the weather, but if so, the gnoll language was quite dramatic. Then Ghyrryn turned to Thorn. “Please.” It was the first time she could recall him saying something that wasn’t an order. “This is Fharg. Let him help.”

Well, I’ve come this far, she thought. She stretched out on the bunk, her bruised muscles resisting the movement. “Very well. But you tell him—no worms.”

Thorn had been treated by halfling healers, which was strange in its own way. Seen in blurred or peripheral vision, a halfling was much like a human child, and it was strange to wake up surrounded by children who appeared to be playing the healer.

Working with Fharg was something else entirely. She’d spent the better part of a week in the company of gnolls, but something was disturbing about having a creature with such bestial features sniffing at her wounds. She trusted Ghyrryn, but a primal part of her was afraid that Fharg would suddenly take a bite out of her.

His treatment was surprisingly effective. Fharg rubbed a numbing oil into her bruised skin, then applied a salve to her wounds. She felt her skin tingling beneath the greasy lotion, a sensation she recognized from the healing potions of House Jorasco; she realized that Fharg used a magic tonic. Then she understood the argument between Ghyrryn and Fharg; the gnolls undoubtedly had a limited supply of such goods, and the healer would be reluctant to use his stores on a human.

Fharg had little interest in conversation. He was quick
and efficient, surprisingly so for his age. He paused when he discovered the two crystals embedded in her flesh. “Hurt?” he said, running a finger across a shard and the scarred flesh around it.

Nothing your salves can help, she thought. The memory of that mission flashed through her mind. Hundreds of dragonshards had orbited the eldritch core of Far Passage, serving both to empower the mystical weapon and to prevent Thorn and her companions from reaching it. The pain she felt still was nothing compared to the agony when those shards had torn into her flesh—crystal shrapnel ripping through leather and cloth. When she finally woke from her coma, the healer had removed most of the shards from her flesh … all but these two, which had fused to bone and nerve. At least they were stable; the halfling assured her that she wasn’t in any danger.