The Queen of stone

CHAPTER THIRTY

The Ossuary Droaam Eyre 20, 998 YK

Harryn's eyes never left Thorn's as the howls echoed throughout the hall. From the sound, the beasts were at the entrance to the Ossuary, still some distance away. The fact that they were announcing their presence suggested they saw this as a game, a hunt to be savored.

"Wolves," he said. "Your enemies?"

"Yes," she said. "But they're worse than wolves. They're-"

"You need not explain." He lowered his sword. "I am Harryn of Thronehold, called the Stormblade. You have an honest face, Thorn of Breland. And it seems we have a common foe."

"Yes. That we do. And about that foe, they aren't wolves. They're-"

"Shapechangers."

"Yes. Why would you guess that?"

Harryn was studying the chamber, and she could see the wheels turning in his mind. He was judging the field of battle, looking for ways to turn it to his advantage. "If two centuries have truly passed, it appears there's been little progress. And I fear that your dagger is a poor weapon for the work that lies ahead."

"Well," Thorn raised her hand and summoned the myrnaxe out of the air. "We've made some progress."

Harryn's eyes widened slightly. But he had no time to discuss magic; the enemy was closing fast. They heard a woman's voice, faint and far off, at the distant entrance to the great hall of statues.

"Spread out. Forgahn, right. Ghass, left. Farhn, guard this post. The rest of you, with me."

The light from Harryn's blade faded. It wasn't entirely dead, but it wouldn't reveal their presence. Harryn whispered, "Tell me about this place."

"I know of only one exit to the surface," Thorn said, pointing toward the passage. "And it sounds like it's being watched."

Harryn tapped a statue. "These are everywhere?"

Thorn nodded.

"Then we'll use them." He made his way through a column of hobgoblin soldiers. Ahead of them, vast numbers of broken statues had been piled together in heaps; the result was a series of makeshift walls formed from the shattered corpses, a hedge maze built from lost souls.

"What about Sheshka?" Thorn whispered. She didn't plan to leave the medusa to the mercy of the wolves.

Harryn's face was turned away, but she could see the muscles in his neck tighten. "What was she doing here?"

"She released you. I don't know what happened between you, but it's been two centuries, Harryn. She risked her life to save you."

"As long as you're Thorn, call me Stormblade," he said. "And you're correct. You don't know what happened."

Thorn opened her mouth to retort, then closed it and pointed. A light flickered up ahead-the glow of a torch. The wall of statues blocked their line of sight, but the torchlight shone through the gaps in the heap of granite goblins, flickering across frozen faces and clutching hands. Thorn studied the motion of the light, the shadows that she saw… two figures. One humanoid, holding the torch, and a wolf, sniffing for a scent they hadn't left. She signaled Harryn, pointing at the enemy, indicating the path she planned to take. He nodded, and she stepped away.

She was finally on her own.

Sheshka was a huntress, but she was no match for Thorn. And legend or not, Stormblade was a soldier, slowed by his heavy armor; Thorn could hear him as she slipped away. If Thorn could hear it, the nearby wolf likely could as well-she had to act quickly. Her enemies were exposed by their torchlight, but Thorn was the hunter in the dark, slipping among the statues. Stormblade was leading their enemies away, backing deeper into the hall, while Thorn was closing in behind them.

Thorn slipped around a wall of stone, avoiding an outstretched hand frozen in granite. She saw them-an ogre carrying the torch, and a gray wolf padding along at his side. They moved cautiously, the wolf leading the way. It hadn't howled yet, but that could come at any moment. Thorn leaped up onto the mass of goblins, moving soundlessly along the wall of stone corpses. The wolf and its companion crept along the wall. Thorn drew ever closer.

And then Harryn Stormblade stepped into view, blue sparks crackling around his silver blade.

The pair had been sent to hunt Sheshka. At the least, they were surprised to see the knight with the gleaming sword, and Thorn seized the distraction. She dropped down from above, the silver tip of her spear flashing in the torchlight.

The wolf never had a chance to howl. Pulling the spear free from the creature's spine, Thorn swung the axe blade in a low arc, hoping to slash the muscles in the ogre's leg. The axe was plain steel, but this was just an ogre…

Except that it wasn't.

Thorn had only seen the beast from behind. He walked on two legs, and he wore the armor of a guardsman of the Crag. But up close, she saw the bristly black hair along his arms. His posture was hunched, more than most ogres. And his head had a strange shape, long and blunt, with great tusks rising from his mouth. It looked as if a sculptor had taken a clay figure of a fierce boar and forced it into the form of an ogre, retaining as much of the beast as possible.

Her axe cut into the creature's flesh, but it didn't have the impact she'd hoped for. Her enemy was still on his feet. He turned to face her, and she felt flecks of spittle on her face as he snorted and raised his cleaver. But the blow never fell. A flash of light blazed as Harryn's sword cut through the blade of the weapon and into the arm of the beast. The ogre flailed wildly at his foes, but it was no use. Thorn danced away from the clumsy blow, while Harryn swatted it aside with his blade.

The ogre was still a fearsome foe. Thorn remembered how much trouble it had been to bring down his cousin in the Crag, and this creature had the added muscle of the boar. Thorn took a deep breath, ready for a long, hard fight.

Harryn stepped to the side, slashing at the beast, handling the greatsword with the speed and dexterity of a rapier. No single cut caused much damage, but he forced the beast to turn, building its rage. The ogre was snorting and spitting, and Thorn was completely forgotten, until she sank her silvered spear into its back, piercing lung and heart. Blood flowed down the haft, and the creature roared in pain and anger.

Thorn felt the pulse of the heart, and she knew the wound was mortal. But the ogre-boar wasn't willing to fall. He spun around with such force that it tore the spear from her hands, and he charged at her, bloody foam flecking his lowered tusks. Harryn's blade was gleaming in the darkness, but there was no time for the Stormblade to reach her. Thorn rolled to the side, drawing Steel and flinging the dagger with all her might. It caught the ogre in the right eye, and the creature staggered sideways. He caught himself with one massive hand splayed against the floor, then collapsed, his tusk snapping as it struck the stone.

The beast was transforming as Thorn retrieved Steel. She pulled the myrnaxe from the ogre's side, the bone twisting as the features of the boar faded away.

"How can you still be fighting these creatures and not know of Drukan Moonlord?" Harryn whispered. "Just tell me… tell me that Galifar has survived, that these things have not destroyed our glorious land."

"Well, these things haven't destroyed Galifar," Thorn said. She pushed forward before Harryn could respond to her hesitant tone. "I told you, I've never heard of this Moonlord, and I've never seen a werewolf until today. According to the stories, they were wiped out over a century ago."

"How?"

Thorn wanted to move. The other hunters had surely heard the ogre's death cry. But Harryn had locked his hand around her wrist, and his grip was a vise.

"I know this is strange for you, Stormblade, but I wasn't even alive then. From what I've heard, it was a bloody mess that spread across the west. Soldiers from the Church of the Silver Flame organized the defense, standing against these shapeshifters until the tide turned."

"At what cost?"

Thorn slipped her free hand down to Steel's hilt; history wasn't one of her strengths, but the dagger whispered details into her mind.

"Tens of thousands. Aundair suffered the worst of it. Farmers, mostly. The shapechangers spread out from the woods and across the east. Thousands more were lost to the persecution of innocents after the fact. Can we save the history lesson for when we don't have wolves at our heels?"

"No," Harryn said, his voice low but steady. "I must know now. I need to know what lies beyond that gate. You say that you haven't seen these wolves before, that you thought they were wiped from history. And yet it seems that there are many of them. You are certain that you haven't heard of the Moonlord?"

"No." Thorn tried to keep watch for approaching torches. "Who was he?"

"A mage in the dark lands of the west. Some said he was a wizard, a student of Mordain the Fleshweaver. But as I pursued him, I learned a different truth. He was not a man at all, but a shapeshifter, a tiger in human flesh. He served an ancient power, a darkness from the very dawn of time, a force that embodies all our fears of the wild.

"I have known shifters. And I have even met werewolves who were not creatures of evil, who were simply drawn to the woods. But all who carry that mark can be brought under the sway of Drukan's ancient master. Six moons-that was what he sought. Under the light of six moons, he could shake the bonds of the slumbering fiend, empower the skinchangers, and bring them under his sway. They would spread the curse across the land, and as their power grew, so would that of the chained demon, until he could finally burst his shackles and usher in an age of savagery."

Harryn paused, his eyes clouded.

"I fought monsters and minions. I seized the Orb of Olarune. I made my way to the ancient mountain fortress, but I could not find his tower of shadows. And that is the last thing I remember… standing in a field of statues, knowing the moons would soon rise."

He shook his head.

"At least the horror was contained. Even at the cost of thousands of lives. At least Galifar survives."

Thorn had been drawn in by the story, and she found herself at a loss for words. She could sense Harryn's pain. But this was not the time to try to explain the Last War. And there was something else…

"Wait," she said. "Did you say six moons?"

Harryn's answer was cut short by snarls.

Thorn and Harryn were in a wide alleyway, bordered on either side by piles of shattered statues. Now dark shapes emerged on either side of them, light flooding the area as the Aundairian sorceress threw a glowing sphere into the air. A massive gray wolf stood alongside the woman, and four wererats stared at Thorn with hungry eyes. On the other side, three wolves were spread around a truly terrifying figure. Once, it had been a giant troll-fearsome enough, possessing tremendous strength. But its features were blended with the worst aspects of the bear. Ursine eyes glared out of sunken sockets. Its snout bristled with yellowed fangs, and its long and twisted fingers were tipped with vicious claws. He roared, and his breath was thick with the scent of blood and flesh.

"I don't know who you are," the woman said. The dragonhawk crest gleamed on her breast, and energy crackled around her fingers. "But your answer to my next question will determine just how long it takes for you to die. Where is the Queen of Stone?"