The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland (7 page)

Oh, you’re a lamb
, Steel said.

“Honestly, I’m not even sure why I carry this,” she said to Sarhain, returning the dagger to its sheath. “I’ll probably end up hurting myself.” She looked down the bench. “Lord Beren! I’m sure Flamebearer Sarhain would love to hear about your deeds at Kalnor Pass.”

“Ah!” Beren cried, leaning out to look past his guards. “A man after my own heart, always keen to hear a tale of blood and battle. Now tell me, lad, have
you
ever faced an ogre in battle?”

Thorn continued to deflect further inquiries from Drego Sarhain, turning the conversation toward his companions or the difficulties of the journey. This was complicated by the fact that the Thrane priestess—Minister Luala—had taken a vow of silence, saving her words and her wits for the business at Flamekeep. Surprisingly, the gnolls proved to be more loquacious than the Thranes. Thorn noticed that each of them wore cords around their necks or wrists, with bits of metal, hair, or cloth, bound by leather. Their leader, Ghyrryn, explained that gnolls of the Znir Pact retained souvenirs to remember each kill.

“The Keeper takes us all,” he told Thorn. “When you come to the final lands, the prey of past hunts will be waiting. Honor them in life and they will honor you in death. Let them be forgotten, and they will be hungry and filled with rage.”

Ghyrryn showed her each of his totems—links of chain mail, knots of hair, claws, fangs. Jharl, the archer sitting across from her, was a tracker; he carried strips of cloth and leather taken from his victims’ clothes or skin. He seemed especially intrigued by Thorn’s scent, sniffing her hand and hair a few times. Thorn also noticed that he paid a great deal of attention to Drego Sarhain. The interest was subtle, but when the Thrane envoy looked away, the gnoll would breathe deeply, tasting the air around him.

Hours passed, and the well of conversation ran dry. Thorn was considering lying down on the floor to try to get some sleep when the gnolls rose to their feet. Ghyrryn hooted and whined.

“What is it?” she said to Ghyrryn. Around her, the soldiers of the Five Nations had hands on their weapons, ready to defend their charges.

“You are not concerned,” he told her.

“Humor me.”

“Korlaak Pass. Long crossing. The Pact will pass first and last, secure the bridge. You have no fear.”

Thorn could hear gnolls moving around the wagon, forming into squads. Around her, the human bodyguards drew their weapons. Toli was clearly suspicious and prepared for gnoll treachery. Outside, squad leaders barked commands and Thorn heard the troops moving forward. A few moments later, the wagon began rolling again. The bumpy road beneath the wheels shifted to smooth stone. Lifting the back flap of the wagon, Thorn could see a massive span stretching across a deep gorge—an impressive piece of architecture that seemed beyond the skills of the architects of Graywall. Three more wagons rolled across the bridge behind her, surrounded by gnoll soldiers. A trio of gargoyles circled in the sky above.

The wagons continued to move forward, and Thorn let the flap close. They rolled another fifty paces, then a shriek of alarm pierced the skies—the cry of a gargoyle scout, quickly picked up by another. Toli clenched his fist and a shield appeared—an oval formed from dark energy—and he moved his arm to protect Beren. Thorn watched Drego Sarhain, but the Thrane took no action; was he oblivious, or did he have such great confidence in the Thrane guards that he had no fear? She drew Steel, keeping the blade hidden against her inner arm.

Then the song began … and moments later, the screaming.

T
he song was the most beautiful sound Thorn had ever heard, but it was too far away for her to make out the words. She needed to move closer, to find a place where she could hear the lovely song. Then a second voice chimed in, and a third, a chorus coming from all around her.

The first scream came within moments, and it didn’t come from a human throat. It was a wailing howl, a gnoll’s cry of terror, and it faded too quickly for comfort. The scream snapped Thorn free from her reverie and into chaos.

With each passing moment, a new scream rose outside the wagon, but Thorn was more concerned with the situation within. The dwarf Grenn had drawn his sword and began cutting a hole in the canvas covering the wagon. A dreamy, distant look filled his eyes, and Thorn remembered the urge to follow the exquisite music, to reach its source. The effect had completely taken hold of Grenn. And he wasn’t alone. One of the gnolls had leaped out the back of the wagon. Drego Sarhain was holding onto the old priestess while the two Thrane soldiers were cutting their own holes in the canvas. Toli wrestled with Lord Beren, struggling to keep the diplomat inside.

Harpies
, Steel whispered, confirming Thorn’s thoughts. She could imagine the scene outside the wagons. Harpies beyond the bridge, calling out in their beautiful voices … and gnolls and guards leaping to their deaths in a doomed quest to reach the miraculous sound.

What can I do?

Someone else had an answer. Ghyrryn dropped his axe and drew an object out of a pouch on his belt—a round stone about the size of a human eyeball. He threw it to the floor and a thunderous explosion shook the wagon. There was no flame—just an immense boom that replaced both song and screams with a dull ringing.

Thorn shook her head, catching her bearings. Grenn was missing, but the deafening blast had shattered the harpy’s seductive power, and the others were clutching their heads and gathering their wits. Three gnolls were still in the wagon—Ghyrryn, the archer Jharl, and a halberdier who hadn’t spoken during the journey.

Ghyrryn snatched up his axe and struck the flat against the canopy to attract attention. Once all eyes were upon him, he made a sweeping gesture encompassing the passengers, then pointed at the floor. The meaning was plain enough—
stay here!
He turned and jumped off the wagon, accompanied by the archer. The halberdier moved into the center of the coach, lowering his weapon to block the passage.

Toli pushed Beren back onto the bench. The lord’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, and his lips were drawn back in a scowl. Toli was right—as a diplomat, Beren needed to stay out of danger. But the soldier in him surely wanted to take the fight to the enemy. Thorn knew the feeling intimately.

The canvas of the coach offered no sanctuary. Deafened as she was, Thorn didn’t hear the arrows tearing through the cloth, or the cries as they bored into flesh. Toli staggered under the impact of an ash shaft that drove through
his breastplate and into his shoulder. Bad as it was, he was still alive; one of the Thranes wasn’t so lucky. Younger than Thorn, she wouldn’t see another season; an arrow passed fully through her throat, and two more lodged in her chest. She collapsed against the edge of the wagon, leaving a trail of blood as she slid down. The old priestess pushed Drego aside and bent over the young woman, and silver fire blazed around her wizened hands. But whatever sacred powers she possessed, it was too late for the Thrane; the flames sealed the flesh, but she could not catch her spirit.

Toli was still standing. His magical shield had doubled in size and was almost the height of a man. He’d forced Beren behind it, leaving himself exposed. A spreading bloodstain darkened the fabric of his cloak, and his gritted teeth and the shaft of the arrow were mute testimonies to his devotion to his homeland.

The gnoll soldier still guarded the back of the wagon, but Thorn had no intention of sitting and waiting for the next volley of arrows. Grenn had left a wide hole in the canopy next to her. Given the horrors surrounding them, it was reasonable for the courtier to faint—and an unfortunate coincidence that she slipped into the gap in the cloth and fell through it. Thorn saw Drego Sarhain turning toward her, reaching for her, but he wasn’t fast enough to catch her.

It was a short fall, but Thorn was able to twist in the air and get her feet under her. As she landed, she took stock of the world around her.

It was worse than she’d imagined. A trio of harpy archers swept overhead, raining arrows on the blue wagon. She saw the corpses of at least half a dozen gnolls, though she took some comfort from the broken body of a harpy smashed against the bridge.

The worst part was the chaos. The gnolls that had managed to deafen themselves could resist the harpies’ song, but they couldn’t coordinate their actions. As she took in the situation, Thorn could see that the passengers
weren’t the only ones threatened by the magical compulsion; the beasts of burden were equally vulnerable, and some were trying to respond to the song Thorn could no longer hear. Beyond the blue wagon, a pair of gnolls was helping a group of gnomes and halflings out of an orange-brown coach, practically throwing the small folk to the ground. Ahead of them, two more gnolls were struggling with the creatures pulling the wagon—massive horses with scaly skin and sharp teeth—while a third gnoll fought to cut the tethers binding the beasts to the vehicle. It was no use. The bizarre horses knocked the handlers aside and charged toward the edge of the bridge. A low lip was all that separated the edge of the stone span from the chasm below, and the horses leaped over the edge, the wooden front wheels shattering as the carriage was pulled after them.

This is an unwise course of action
, Steel told her. Though Thorn’s ears were still ringing from the thunderstone, the voice of the dagger was perfectly clear.
If you reveal your talents in front of the other delegates—or worse, the gnolls—you’ll place the entire mission at risk. Let the soldiers and the bodyguards handle this. You are a political aide, not a warrior of legend
.

“Just tell me how many harpies we’re dealing with,” Thorn said, hoping Steel could hear her. She couldn’t even make out the sound of her own voice.

A gargoyle was sprawled on the ground near the blue wagon, riddled with arrows—no small feat, given the toughness of the creature’s stony hide. Thorn seized hold of a leg and dragged the corpse beneath the carriage; she expected it to be a chore, but the body was surprisingly light, as if stuffed with straw.

There are fourteen harpies in the air
, Steel told her.
However, in planning such an ambush, I would have placed the singers beneath the bridge, where they could be shielded from attack
.

Weaving a spell proved to be a challenge. Thorn couldn’t
hear her own voice, and her chosen incantation always required a little improvisation. She was afraid she might miss a syllable, dispersing the mystical energy.

Focus, she told herself. Stone and strength. Horn and wing. With her gestures and whispered words in the Draconic tongue, she painted a picture of the gargoyle, and she felt the familiar tingle as the illusion took shape around her. The wings were the weakest element. She couldn’t stretch the disguise very far beyond her own body, so her illusory wings were folded against her sides. Like her medusa guise at the Bloody Tooth, it wouldn’t hold up under close inspection, but it would serve her purpose.

“I hate this part,” Thorn muttered, still unable to hear her own words. The next incantation was shorter and simpler, but the spell required a certain talisman to trigger its effect. As she completed the final gesture, Thorn felt the mystical potential building around her. She pulled a box from a hidden pocket, a tiny container too small for even a ring. Flipping it open, she inhaled quickly, drawing a little spider into her mouth. She swallowed before it could start to crawl. Damned spiders.

With a thought, she drew her rapier out of the magical pocket in her right palm and let it fall to the ground. She’d need Steel for the work that lay ahead, and until then she’d need both hands. Each glove could hold only one object, and she wasn’t about to leave the magical book on the ground.

What are you
—Steel’s words were cut off as Thorn drew him into her glove. With all her preparations in place, she leaped out from beneath the wagon.