The Queen of stone

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Duurwood Camp Droaam Eyre 13, 998 YK

The brilliant light of the moons made it difficult to sleep. Thorn remembered seeing four full moons in the sky when she was a child, marveling at the multihued light they cast across the land. The moons waxed and waned at different rates, and now Dravago and Nymm were growing wider and brighter. Within a few nights, six of the twelve moons would be full.

While Thorn had little interest in history and the academic significance of such events, the topic had come up on the long wagon ride. Drego explained that over two centuries had passed since the last such spectacle. It was a natural wonder, but for Thorn it was simply annoying. She was a restless sleeper at the best of times, and the shimmering light was too much. She pulled her blanket up over her head. It was scratchy and hot, but anything was better than the glare.

The darkness was a blessing, but Thorn's thoughts were troubled. The campfire spat and crackled, and the sounds mingled with images of the battle with the harpies-the crushed corpses at the bottom of the gorge and the smell of blood. Thorn tried to push the thoughts away, but the charnel stench grew stronger with each moment. She heard moans, sobs, and distant cries of pain. She was certain it was all in her imagination; it was too distant, too faint, and she'd heard no sounds of battle.

Then she heard the sound of a steel blade shifting in a mailed fist, the rasping noise of armor plates brushing against one another. A soldier in full plate mail, and only a few steps away from her. Thorn threw aside the blanket and rose to her feet, reaching for Steel.

But Steel wasn't at her side. And she wasn't in the camp anymore. Wagons, tents, even the others who had been sleeping around her-were nowhere to be seen. She couldn't even say if it was still night, because the sky was filled with thick clouds of smoke, reflecting the light from fires burning across the land before her.

She saw that she was dressed in a gown of red and black glamerweave, better suited to the ballroom than the battlefield. Illusions had been woven into the cloth, giving the red pigments the liquid intensity of fresh blood. Red leather covered her arms and legs: thigh-high boots stretched up beneath her skirts, and gloves rose past her elbows. The fingertips of the gloves were open, revealing long, curved nails painted with black enamel. The only familiar aspect of the scene was the pain at the base of her skull; the upper gem was throbbing against her flesh.

Everything was different, yet somehow it was familiar. Had she been here before?

She'd been right about the sound. The man was wearing full armor, and he clutched a longsword in his outstretched right hand. But he was sprawled on the ground, his beautiful armor covered with mud and ash. The sound of the sword was the man's effort to maintain his grip on the hilt, not a preparation for attack. He coughed, and Thorn could smell the blood in his mouth. He was broken inside, and he wouldn't last much longer. "Why?" he croaked.

Thorn wanted to help him, to ask him what had happened… but she couldn't move. Her body betrayed her, acting with a mind of its own. Instead of assisting the injured man, she found herself laughing at him, her lips twisted in a cruel smirk.

"Because it amuses me." Thorn could feel her mouth shaping the words, but she didn't stop them; she was an observer in her own body-if this was her body. She walked toward the fallen soldier, and Thorn could see details beneath the mud and grime. The seal of old Galifar was engraved on the soldier's breastplate, along with the rising sun emblem of the goddess Dol Arrah. It was a princely suit of armor, the raiment of a general or lord.

As she drew closer, the man forced himself up on one elbow-an impressive feat, given his injuries and the weight of his armor. He swung his blade in a low arc, putting all his remaining strength into the blow. Thorn's instinct was to leap back, but her body had other ideas. A surge of energy flowed through her and she dropped down and caught the blade with her hand. Despite the force of the blow and the razor edge of the sword, there was no pain and no blood. Thorn felt the steel against her skin, but the stroke didn't even cut the fine leather of her glove. She felt as if her muscles were on fire, burning with a power she could scarcely contain, and her hand closed around the blade and tore it from the grip of the weakened soldier.

"This isn't about you, little prince." She placed the heel of her boot against the knight's chest and pushed him down to the ground. "I don't care about you or your kingdom."

"Fiend…" the knight struggled, but he'd spent all his strength on that last blow. He couldn't even raise an arm.

"You know so little of the world," Thorn found herself saying. "I'm no fiend. My kind bound the demons at the dawn of time. I am more than any pathetic devil, and greater than any of your gods." She tossed the longsword into the air, catching the hilt in her hand and placing the point of the blade against the soldier's chest.

Leaning into her work, she slowly gouged a slash across the symbol of Dol Arrah. "Look at your people, so devout, so confident that their goddess will come to their defense in their hour of need. Yet here we are. I have burned your hall and your holdings. I have devoured those you love and savored the taste of their blood.

"Your Dol Arrah is the Sovereign of the Sun, but my fires have sent the sun into hiding. Now we will see what path your people will take when this pillar is broken. Shall they cling to their faith even when the Sovereigns leave them to die? Might they embrace a new mystery, or take up the banner of those death-worshippers to the east? Or will they worship me, raising altars to the Angel of Flame?" She laughed again, and Thorn could feel the cruel joy within her. She'd caused the deaths of thousands, tens of thousands. Thorn couldn't quite grasp the memories, but she knew it was the truth. And she felt no remorse. It was just a game, played with human lives.

"The Sovereigns…" The man was speaking again, struggling to form words. "With us. They know… will punish…"

Thorn shoved her boot against the man's chest, cutting off breath and speech. "If any god was going to punish me, it would have happened long ago. You are alone in this world, prince. And you will go alone into your death. No realm of glory awaits you-just the slow dissolution of your memories, of everything you are. You should be grateful. You won't have to remember how badly you failed your people." She raised the sword and tapped it against his helmet. "How will history remember you, I wonder? Will your people create some glorious death for you, pretending that you gave your last breath locked in battle with a mighty monster? Or will some sage piece together this scene-a broken man slain with his own sword, begging for mercy amid the wreckage of all that he loved?"

That incredible power flowed through her again, an exhilarating burst of strength and energy. With a casual flick of the sword, she flipped open the knight's visor. The face below was covered with blood and dirt, but the features were unmistakable.

It was Drego Sarhain.

His mouth opened, bloody saliva flecking his lips as he called out. A final curse? A plea for compassion? Thorn couldn't hear anything beyond her own silent scream of fury and the song of triumph that filled her thoughts. The sword was as light as a blade of grass as she raised it over her head, but it was deadly steel as the point struck home between Drego's eyes. She raised her arms and roared at the sky, and the shard at the base of her spine was burning, throbbing as if it were the point of a spear. Pain, anger, and alien joy merged together in a terrifying cacophony, overwhelming all sensation.

Then a hand gripped her shoulder. At the touch, the world around her faded away and fell into utter darkness. The howls in her mind fell silent. There was no sword, no battlefield; she was lying on the ground with a blanket over her face.

"Nyri?" It was Beren ir'Wynarn, the Brelish ambassador. "Are you well, child?"

Thorn reached up and pulled the blanket from her face. Lord Beren was kneeling over her, with Toli right behind him. The light of the moons had given way to dawning sun, and Jharl was preparing breakfast by the campfire. All that remained of the nightmare vision was the piercing pain in her lower back; it felt as if the crystal shard were digging into her spine.

Thorn sat up and laid a hand across Beren's arm. "I'm fine, my lord. Just a bad dream."

"Perhaps the rabbit from last night disagreed with you," Beren said. "I hope not, though. It appears we have the same for breakfast. I supposed I should be grateful that these gnolls are determined to keep me alive, but the quality of that life leaves something to be desired."

Thorn couldn't muster the energy to laugh at the old man's joke, but she managed a smile. "I think I have some Talentan spices in my bag. I do need to take care of my ambassador, after all. Give me a moment to gather my thoughts and I'll see what I can find."

"Bless you, child." Beren beamed. He stood and helped Thorn to her feet. "Olladra smiled when she brought our paths together."

"Yes, I'm sure she did," Thorn replied. Even as she bowed her head to acknowledge the Sovereigns' favor, the words of the dream echoed in her mind. I am greater than any of your gods. Now we will see what path your people take when this pillar is broken.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Drego Sarhain staring at her from across the camp.