The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland (26 page)

“What do you want?” Sheshka hissed, her voice colder than any serpent.

“I seek the return of someone stolen from our lands. Free him, and we can end this peacefully.”

“And my compensation for this indignity? Do you offer me gold? The goodwill of your nation?”

“Would that work?” Thorn’s mind was racing as she spoke. She knew nothing about Sheshka’s skill with the sword, but her title of warlord was hardly encouraging in that regard. And although Szaj was a young basilisk, she’d still be outnumbered.

“No.” Sheshka was considering the situation; Thorn could hear it in her voice. Thorn knew little about Sheshka’s abilities, but the medusa knew nothing about her talents, either. The fact that she’d gotten so close to her had to concern the queen.

“Just as well,” Thorn said. “I’m acting on my own, and I neglected to bring my vast personal fortune. You couldn’t just consider this a favor?”

“I might consider a trade,” Sheshka said. “I free your friend and keep you instead. It would amuse me to keep my would-be assassin close at hand.”

“Fine. Free him, and I’ll stay with you.”

“Him? A lover, perhaps? No.” Sheshka was growing more confident. “Speak the name of this love of yours, and then open your eyes. I may grant your request, but you will never see him.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You are in no position to bargain, girl. You are at best a failed thief, at worst a would-be assassin. I am Queen of Cazhaak Draal. I will keep my word, should I give it. Who is it you wish freed?”

The medusa was barely six feet away. It would be hard to strike a nerve cluster without opening her eyes, but Thorn would have to take that chance. She traced the scene in her mind: Lunging forward, striking Sheshka with an elbow, then sweeping her blade down into Szaj’s neck. The pain should incapacitate Sheshka for at least a few moments,
long enough to take her down and knock her blade away. But she needed the medusa to lower her guard.

I’ll have to tell her eventually, Thorn reasoned. “Harryn Stormblade.”

Silence settled across the room. Sheshka’s vipers became still.

Thorn leaped forward. But as she drew back her arm to strike, she realized something was wrong.

Someone else was in the room.

Her eyes still closed, Thorn had only instinct to guide her. Silk and flesh, a streak of steel—and it wasn’t aimed at her. Instead of using her elbow, Thorn slammed into Sheshka with her entire body. A razor wind nicked the back of her hood, passing through the space once occupied by the medusa’s skull.

Thorn winced as she felt three pairs of tiny fangs sink into her shoulder. No time to worry about that. Szaj was snarling and leaping at the intruder, who had drawn his long blade to deal with the threat. Thorn staggered backward, pulling free of the vipers and getting a wall against her back. Her shoulder throbbed, but she could tell that Sheshka had turned her attention to the newcomer. The clash of blade against blade echoed off the walls.

It must have been the silencer, she realized. I didn’t hear him come in. She could tell—smell?—that the stranger wasn’t a medusa, and he’d just tried to spill Sheshka’s blood.

“I’m going to pluck out your eyes and feed them to you.” The voice was deep, rough, masculine. Filled with hatred and cruel joy. It was enough to make Thorn’s eyes snap open. Medusa or not, she had to see the truth of this.

It was Toli.

T
horn saw three of them. The first stranger was a Valenar elf dressed in silk and mithral, spinning a double-bladed scimitar. Thorn opened her eyes just in time to see the blades dance across the neck of the rearing basilisk; blood spurted from the lizard’s throat, and Szaj fell backward. The elf’s face was hidden behind silk and a mask of black gauze, undoubtedly protection against the medusa’s gaze. Thorn wondered if it was Saer Vordalyn or one of his companions. Whoever hid behind the mask was a fearsome warrior.

His companion was a muscular hobgoblin, and his steel breastplate bore the fanged maw of the Gantii Vus. He was one of the soldiers who accompanied Munta the Gray. Fresh blood spattered his breastplate and his battle-axe; he’d already seen a fight that night. As the elf struck at Szaj, the hobgoblin charged forward. He roared as he leaped into the air, flinging himself at Sheshka. He’d barely sounded the battle cry when he fell silent, orange flesh becoming gray stone; he’d met the eyes of the medusa queen and paid the price. Sheshka took a step to the side to avoid the statue that crashed to the floor, its limbs shattering on impact.

As the battle unfolded around her, Thorn’s eyes were
locked on the third member of the trio: Toli. He advanced into the room with his sword drawn and ghostly shield forming a broad circle. A vicious light gleamed in his eyes, and his lips were drawn back in a cruel sneer.

This was madness. Toli couldn’t be working under orders of the Citadel; Sheshka’s death would make Thorn’s mission impossible. Besides, he wore the uniform of a Brelish guard. He wasn’t a trained assassin. He couldn’t know if the room was free of scrying eyes. And he didn’t have any protection against her power; he’d already been petrified once and should know the threat he faced. If he were killed, the Daughters would surely assume that Breland had tried to assassinate one of their leaders. Sheshka’s death was an acceptable loss …
as long as Breland couldn’t be blamed
. Those were her orders.

Take him alive
. Steel whispered.
Magic is at work. Don’t let Sheshka kill him
.

And who keeps Sheshka from killing me? Thorn thought. Her shoulder burned from the viper bites, though so far she seemed to be fighting off the effects of any venom. For the moment, Sheshka was occupied with the Valenar swordsman; as long as he could avoid her gaze, Thorn had a chance.

Toli circled around Sheshka, searching for an opening. He’d raised his shield so he couldn’t see her face and was keeping his eyes on the floor. Toli’s attention was focused on the medusa, and he didn’t see Thorn as she slipped behind him and wrapped her arm around his throat. But Toli was no common soldier. He was a Shield of the King’s Citadel, and as Thorn had been trained to spy and kill, Toli had been taught to defend. Surprised as he was, Toli still reacted before Thorn could tighten her grip. He dropped his chin to block the hold and slammed the edge of his shield into her stomach. Despite being formed of magical energy, the shield was as hard as iron, and Thorn staggered backward, gasping for air. Toli turned to face her, fury in his eyes.

At least I don’t have to worry about him killing Sheshka, Thorn thought.

The Valenar and the medusa whirled in the darkness, blades singing, and Sheshka’s serpents hissed and spat as they struck at her foe. Thorn turned all of her attention to Toli. He was relentless, striking with both sword and shield. She was handicapped by her shorter reach and her desire not to kill him.

“A shame,” Toli snarled. His thrust missed her throat but grazed the side of her neck. “I wish I had more time to savor this, Nyrielle.”

Nyrielle?
Thorn was hooded and masked, and she was dressed in the clothes of a Crag hunter. How could he—

The distraction cost her dearly. The world went white as Toli’s shield smashed into her face. She tried to leap back, out of range, but the world was spinning and her legs would barely hold her. Pain washed over her, and she felt the sickening sensation of steel grinding against her flesh and bone. His sword had pierced her right lung, and warm blood spread across her skin as he pulled the blade free. She fought against the pain as she dropped to one knee, trying to keep from fainting. She saw Toli’s white teeth gleaming in the darkness, his sword raised for another blow.

A rage built inside Thorn as she fought for control. She wasn’t going to die. Not like this. Not at the hands of a Brelish soldier. She had barely enough strength to lift her arm, but she grabbed at Toli’s chest, hooking her fingers into his chain mail shirt.

Toli screamed. For a moment, Thorn thought she was on fire; a burst of heat engulfed her hand and flowed up her arm. But it was more than heat; it was strength, a surge of energy. It swept over her body and the pain of her injured lung evaporated before it. All the while, Toli howled in agony.

He pulled free of her grasp after several seconds, but it
felt like eternity. He fell to his knees, and his skin was pale and sweaty. He lay still for a moment, staring at Thorn, the steel flashing behind her as medusa and Valenar continued their dance.

Then he changed.

His eyes were the first thing she saw. They weren’t human eyes anymore; they turned orange and black, the eyes of an animal. His jaws lengthened, pushing forward from his skull, sharp fangs gleaming in the light. Then he seemed to
burst
, his human skin and clothing falling to the floor to reveal a creature standing in his place.

A wolf.

He recovered his strength during the transformation and leaped at Thorn in a blur of fur and fang. But Thorn’s muscles were still singing from the surge of energy. For her, the wolf seemed to move in slow motion; it was a simple matter to roll out of its way and rise to her feet. The beast skidded against the stone floor, snarling and spitting. Whatever this was, it wasn’t Toli, and Thorn didn’t hesitate; she drove Steel into the creature’s neck.

The blow didn’t stop the wolf; instead, he twisted his head and snapped at her wrist. He was surprisingly strong and knew how to use his weight to his advantage; in an instant, he’d pulled Steel from her grip. The dagger buried in his neck didn’t seem to bother him, and Thorn saw only a tiny trickle of blood.

Wolf. Steel doesn’t hurt him. Shapechanger …

It all became clear. As the wolf leaped at her, Thorn held her ground and raised her hands. Ghyrryn’s axe flashed into her grasp, and Thorn lodged the haft between the jaws of the beast. She used her training, spinning and slamming the beast to the ground. As the wolf gasped for air, she raised the gnoll’s weapon and drove the spearhead into the beast’s exposed belly, aiming for the heart. The wolf howled, and blood flowed out in a dark fountain. The spear had a cutting edge, and Thorn placed her foot
on the wolf and drew the blade toward her, slashing deeper into its chest. The howl faded, and the room went silent.

Caught up in the frenzy of battle, a few moments passed before Thorn realized what that silence meant. As she pulled her weapon free from the bloody wolf, she caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of her eye. A blade made of black marble. The blade that had belonged to the Valenar elf. The only sound in the chamber was the furious hissing of Sheshka’s vipers … directly behind her. She felt the point of a sword pressing against her back, and the touch caused more pain than mere steel could account for.

“About that deal …” Thorn said.

“You hold a myrnaxe,” Sheshka said. Her voice was cold but steady. “Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift,” Thorn said.

“From whom?” For a woman who’d just been surprised by assassins twice in one night, Sheshka was disturbingly calm. She might have been discussing the price of tribex.

“A friend.”

Thorn winced as the point of the blade dug into her back. Though it was just a single motion, it felt as if Sheshka were carving into her flesh and pouring salt into the wound. Steel had warned her about this sword; apparently, it was as dangerous as he’d claimed.

“Enough games. Tell me why you are here. Who sent you? And what do you know of these others?”

“Yes. About that—”

Thorn never got to finish her sentence. The silencing mist was still effective, and she’d heard nothing from the hall. But she saw a flash of motion. A woman in the archway, wearing a dark cloak fastened with a blue pin. Hands outstretched before her, fingers twitching … magic. War magic.

Fire filled the room, sweeping everything away in a wave of light and heat.

The air was scalding, and the smell of scorched flesh was overpowering. Thorn pushed past the nausea and fought to overcome the pain … only to realize that there was no pain to overcome. Her flesh, her clothes—the fire hadn’t touched her. She’d felt the blazing heat, but she wasn’t burned; her hair wasn’t even singed.