The Queen of stone

CHAPTER FIVE

The City of Graywall Droaam Eyre 12, 998 YK

The laughter of ghosts woke Thorn from her sleep and she sat up. As her thoughts cleared, she realized that the laughter wasn't a remnant of her nightmare… it was a sound outside her window.

Gnolls. Lots of gnolls. Thorn reached for her shiftweave and gauntlets.

"Delegates of foreign lands!" The voice was curt and rough, loud enough to echo across the plaza. "Present yourselves! We leave with the setting moon!"

Thorn relaxed. The manticore hadn't betrayed her, and the Pact hadn't tracked her to the Calabas. This was simply business; this was why she was in Droaam.

For a thousand years, the land to the west of Breland had been a savage frontier. Trolls lurked in mountain passes while harpies and wyverns circled the peaks. Many bold warriors traveled west to slay horrors in the name of Galifar; few returned. But over the centuries, these monsters posed little threat to the lands beyond the Graywall Mountains. The creatures weren't organized. Warlords laid claim to land and then fought the other monsters to hold it. Now and again, a flight of harpies or pack of worgs would venture east to prey on human settlers, but for the most part the monsters had more interest in battling their own kind. Then came the Daughters of Sora Kell.

Thirteen years ago, the hags appeared in the west accompanied by an army of ogres, trolls, and other fearsome creatures. Through sheer force and fear they bent the warlords to their will, but they wanted more than power-they wanted a kingdom. The Daughters declared the land west of the mountains to be the sovereign territory of Droaam. Soldiers scoffed at the idea that the beasts of the west could create any sort of nation; surely it would collapse within a decade, and the name of Droaam would be forgotten.

Cyre fell before Droaam. While the Mourning destroyed the heart of Galifar, Droaam built cities and roads, expanding the city of Graywall and the capital, the Great Crag. The hags asked for a voice at the Treaty of Thronehold, but the lords of the eastern nations scoffed at the idea. It was bad enough that Darguun and Valenar were sitting at the table, but those nations had armies and had fought in the Last War. Droaam was a joke, and surely it would be gone in a year. Perhaps, with the war over, Breland would take the time to cleanse the area once and for all.

If it was a joke, no one was laughing any longer. Three years had passed since the Treaty of Thronehold, and Droaam was stronger than ever. Through House Tharashk, the monsters of Droaam found employment as mercenaries and laborers, and the people of the Five Nations saw for themselves the power these creatures possessed. The leaders of the Thronehold nations began to wonder what forces the Daughters of Sora Kell had at their disposal… and then the invitations arrived. The hags had asked the leaders of the twelve nations recognized under the Treaty of Thronehold to send representatives to the Great Crag, to reconsider counting Droaam among their number.

It was hard to imagine King Boranel accepting a hag or a mind flayer as a fellow monarch. But it was an excellent chance to get a spy into the heart of Droaam. Thorn's original mission had been a simple one: Observe. Gather information. Find out as much as possible about Droaam's capabilities and intentions. Watch the delegates of the other nations. Breland wouldn't be the only nation with eyes-or knives-at the assemblage.

Thorn had wanted to bathe, but she had no time with the convoy to the Great Crag already gathering. She pulled on her courtier's dress. Dark brown with russet trim and the bear of Breland on the breast, it complemented her auburn hair and dark green eyes. Next came the traveling cloak, and finally her gloves.

Like the rest of her wardrobe, her gloves were made from shiftweave, and she adjusted them to match her outfit; leather gauntlets transformed to long silk gloves. Their appearance meant little to Thorn-what mattered was the pocket of space mystically bound to each glove. One held her rapier; in a fight, she preferred something with more length than a dagger. The other held the book-the chronicle of Harryn Stormblade.

Thorn mentally checked the placement of the dozen professional tools hidden on her person and hid Kalakhesh's sack inside her traveling bag. Shouldering the bag, she made her way into the hall. A polished marble orb was set on a pedestal at the top of the landing. Thorn placed her palm on the orb and felt a slight breeze blow across her skin. The cleansing stone was an Aundairian innovation. As its energy passed over her, it drove dirt and oil from skin, clothes, and hair. In addition, it dispersed the lingering odor of the slaughterhouse, replacing it with a hint of fresh rain. Thorn didn't think any of the creatures outside would be looking for her, but it never hurt to be careful. She took a loaf of brown bread from a silver platter in the atrium and walked onto the Roar.

Seven long wagons were spread across the plaza, their interiors hidden beneath canopies of painted cloth. Dozens of gnoll warriors moved around the convoy, and a knot of gargoyles circled in the sky above the square. Thorn examined the closest soldier-seven to eight feet in height with spotted reddish fur, blunt snout, gleaming green eyes, and strength to rival bugbears. His limbs were long and lanky, and his legs were jointed like those of a dog. Despite the awkward appearance, none of them had any trouble standing or walking upright. The nearest gnoll wore a jerkin of black leather set with iron rivets, and he held a bow taller than Thorn. He glanced at her and grinned. It was difficult to tell if it was meant to be friendly or aggressive.

"People of foreign lands!" The gnoll who had called them out to the Roar shouted. "I will tell you what carriage to ride in. I will hear no argument, and my soldiers will prevent any battles between you. Leave your struggles in this place. I care nothing for your nations, for crimes done to you or your brood. My task is to bring you safely to the Three, and if you must be chained for your safety it will be done."

Thorn glanced around the plaza at the other delegates. The dwarves from the Mror Holds, with jewels and finery fit to rival the King of Breland. The Aundairians-but which was the wizard, and which the spy? Everyone had fallen silent, waiting for the gnoll to speak.

"Aundair! Brown coach!"

Thorn watched the delegates as they moved. Both the servants had hidden pouches and pockets woven into the lining of their cloaks. One would be carrying the many tools of arcane magic-pinches of sulfur, cat whiskers wrapped in paper, little balls of guano from which to conjure fire. The other would have poisons, weapons, lock picks, and tools… the same things Thorn had hidden on her person.

Unless, of course, they were both sorcerers and spies.

"Breland! Blue coach!"

Gray was about as close to blue as anything on the plaza, so Thorn made her way toward the gray wagon. She spotted two soldiers in the red and gold uniform cloaks of the Brelish Royal Guard, escorting a familiar figure.

"Nyrielle! There you are!" Lord Beren ir'Wynarn beamed as he caught sight of her, and his escorts turned to face her. "Gentlemen, Nyrielle is here as my aide. Nyri, meet Toli and Grenn, the worst layabouts my cousin could find. I'd say the bear was trying to kill me, but I think you and I could take on these brutes ourselves, eh?"

Thorn laughed, but it was Nyrielle who answered. "Normally, I could fight an even dozen, my lord, but I slept poorly last night. You'd be unwise to rely on me today."

"Then I suppose it falls to me," Beren grumbled, grinning behind his beard. "Good thing I'm up to the challenge. Did I ever tell you about my victory over the champion of Kalnor Pass?"

"I've had the honor of hearing the tale, Lord Beren, but I've always heard it said that your royal cousin King Boranel fought that battle."

Beren waved this aside. "Oh, I let it be spread about that way, yes. Good for morale. But you ask Boranel where the brute's axe is… and then come to my manor and see what hangs above the hearth."

Thorn liked Beren, though she doubted that she'd ever be invited to his mansion. A senator and cousin of the king, he'd spent his younger years in battle. Age was beginning to take its toll; streaks of gray snaked through his golden hair, and there were new lines in his face. But he retained strength and pride. He might not be able to fight a dozen gnolls, but he was likely a match for either of his bodyguards.

Thorn guessed that this was how he'd drawn the assignment. The Crag Summit might be an excellent opportunity for espionage, but the diplomatic goals were equally important. Breland needed someone brave enough to sit across the table from a medusa, and someone smart enough to match wits with Sora Katra herself. Beren might not be a hero of legend, but of all the senators she'd met, he was the best.

Thorn doubted Beren knew everything about her mission-especially this business with the Stormblade statue-but Zane had told her that Beren would give her a free hand. She might be attached to the delegation as his aide, but Lord ir'Wynarn was a capable man. She suspected that he wouldn't call on her too often over the course of the summit.

She considered the guardsmen as they climbed the ladder into the coach. Despite Beren's jibes, she knew Boranel wouldn't leave his cousin in the hands of fools. Grenn was a dwarf, and his ease with his armor and the notches on the hilt of his sword spoke of long service. He smiled at Thorn, but if there was any interest in his gaze, it was simple lechery. This man was a soldier, chosen for strength and courage. Thorn was certain he'd lay down his life for his charge without a second thought-provided he saw the enemy coming.

Toli was cut from different cloth. He was taller than Beren, and his dark skin hinted at Seren Islander blood. Thorn could tell that the guard's breastplate was uncomfortable for him; she hated inflexible armor herself. The true tell was his eyes. It was subtle; he was a professional. But Thorn could see him studying her, searching for concealed weapons or other threats, just as she'd done with the Aundairians. King's Shield, she thought. One of the elite bodyguards of the realm, trained to protect the king himself. Good thing, she mused. With a rescue and a kidnapping to plan, I won't have much time to keep him safe.

Toli knew his work. He stopped Beren from climbing into the wagon, carefully testing each rung himself. He disappeared into the wagon for a moment, then appeared at the door of the carriage and offered his hand to Beren. "Please enter, my lord."

The interior of the wagon confirmed Thorn's suspicions. Troop transport. The weapon racks were empty, as were the hard wooden benches. But the odor remained, and it didn't take the nose of a gnoll tracker to recognize the scents of oiled steel, sweat, and damp bugbear fur. Bugbears and gnolls were taller than humans, and the benches were too high and wide for comfort.

As they tried to settle themselves, a gnoll climbed up into the wagon. Unlike his cousins, his fur was black, with a crest of red-orange running from his forehead to the base of his spine. Like most gnolls, he had spotted fur; gray patches mottled the coarse blackness. All together, it gave the impression of a line of flame along his back, with flecks of ash blowing across his body.

Thorn could see Toli tensing, his hand slipping to the hilt of his sword. The gnoll wore a small, wedge-shaped shield on one arm. The lower end tapered to a narrow point, sharpened on either side, and Thorn could imagine it being used to disembowel a foe at close range. His other hand held a long axe with steel at both ends. One head was a heavy crescent blade. The other was a spearhead, sharpened along the edges. The ugly weapon showed as much wear as Grenn's sword; Thorn was certain this beast knew the business of war.

"Ghyrryn." The gnoll pounded his chest with the blunt edge of his shield. He spoke slowly, straining to form words in the common tongue around his snout full of sharp teeth. Nonetheless, his voice was clear and deep. "You are in my charge. Breland, this side." He gestured to his right.

"Lord Beren will sit where he chooses," Toli snapped, moving between the nobleman and the gnoll.

"We'd be happy to have Lord Beren ir'Wynarn on our side of the wagon," came a voice from the back of the carriage. The speaker had climbed up moments ago, and Thorn hadn't seen him behind the gnoll.

Toli looked as surprised as Thorn, and that made her feel a little better. It was the bodyguard's job to notice such things, after all. She took measure of the newcomer, and liked what she saw. Human, male, late twenties-the picture of a young courtier. His short brown hair was perfectly groomed. His white silk shirt was spotless and bright. Black breeches. Tall boots of oiled leather. A fine black doublet with glittering silver embroidery along the collar and cuffs, woven into patterns of silver flame. His amulet caught her eye: a small silver arrowhead with the image of a flame engraved on the surface.

"Breland, on the right," the gnoll growled. "Thrane, left."

Toli frowned. Twelve nations, seven wagons. Some of the delegates would be sharing coaches. "Lord Beren. Please sit here, between Grenn and myself."

"Oh, I'd planned to speak with Nyri during our trip," Beren said cheerfully. "I hate to leave a lady without a suitable companion, and Olladra knows the two of you are terribly dull."

"I'm certain your aide can take care of herself," Toli said, with a meaningful glance at Thorn.

"So Lord Beren won't sit where he chooses?" Thorn asked innocently. She saw the corner of the Thrane's mouth twitch slightly.

Toli wasn't amused. "Lady Tam, I hope that you understand the dangers we face in this place. We will do our best to defend you, but our first priority is to protect Lord Beren. Please let us do that."

Beren raised a hand. "Look here, boy-"

"He's right, Lord Beren." Thorn nodded to Toli. "I'm sorry for being rude. But you must listen to your guards."

The gnoll was tired of the discussion. "Sit now," he growled. "Others wait outside. Caravans leave before sun rises."

The Brelish took their seats on the hard bench. The Thrane diplomat sat across from Thorn, flashing a brilliant smile at her. The gnoll moved deeper into the wagon, making room for the remaining members of the Thrane delegation. First came a soldier dressed in a lightweight shirt of polished chain mail. Her sword was drawn, and the engraved blade gleamed in the fading moonlight. Thorn guessed that the steel was mixed with silver. The Thrane warrior studied Beren and his guards with obvious distaste, but sheathed her weapon and took a seat alongside her countryman.

A second soldier helped an elderly elf woman up the ladder into the wagon. The elf wore the habit of a priestess of the Silver Flame, and judging from the pale parchment of her skin and her sunken eyes, she had to be at least four hundred years old-almost as old as the church itself. Apparently, the Thranes weren't concerned about having a delegate who could defend herself if a brawl broke out-or they trusted that the Silver Flame would protect her. For a moment the priestess met Thorn's gaze, and looking into the pale eyes of the elf made Thorn think of her mother. Where was she now? What had led her to Khorvaire thirty years ago, and why had she been so quick to leave?

This was no time to ponder the past. A few more gnolls climbed into the wagon, and they spoke in their own tongue-a strange mix of hoots, whines, and fluting sounds that she never would have expected from creatures with such canine appearance. At long last the black gnoll that had called himself Ghyrryn closed the back flaps of the wagon and sat down next to Thorn. He gave a long cry, and a moment later, the wagon lurched forward. The journey to the Great Crag had begun.