The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland (32 page)

It seemed strange that the knight had remained silent throughout her conversation with Sheshka. On the other hand, he didn’t know her, and he was undoubtedly confused. She turned to speak to him, but her voice died before it left her tongue.

Harryn Stormblade stood before her. At least, his body did. His face was as blank and expressionless as it had been when it was cast in stone. His eyes were unfocused, staring vaguely ahead.

Thorn took a step toward him, gently waving a hand before his face. No reaction. “Harryn?” she said. “Lord Stormblade, can you hear me?”

Nothing. He stood up straight, and he’d followed when Thorn had pulled his arm. But there was nothing to suggest that a single conscious thought floated in his head.

“You said a few centuries wouldn’t hurt him,” Thorn said as she drew Steel, holding him out toward the placid warrior.

“I said that mere centuries of imprisonment would leave no mark on the soul,” Sheshka said, and there was true sorrow in her lovely voice. “It has not. You see him as I saw him last, so many years ago.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Stormblade and I … we knew each other for a time. Centuries ago. I was young, and I sought adventure and excitement as all youths do. There was darkness in the land, and while it could not threaten Cazhaak Draal, I had followed it south. I met Harryn. In another time, we might have been enemies, but he had a different quest.” Sheshka’s eyes were closed and her serpents were very still; they were draped down around her shoulders, so still that they could have been mistaken for hair. “I let fear gain the upper hand and I parted our ways before he faced his final foe. The next time I saw him, he was in this condition.”

“And it didn’t occur to you to mention this earlier?”

A few of Sheshka’s vipers rose up around her shoulders. “You asked me for the Stormblade, and I have given him to you. I have lifted my gaze from him. What afflicts him is none of my doing. I have fulfilled my promise.”

Steel had taken a long time to study the serene knight, and he whispered in Thorn’s thoughts.
This may have been the work of magic, but there is no ongoing mystical resonance. This isn’t a curse that can be broken. A spell isn’t clouding his thoughts—his mind has been taken away
.

Taken away. Thorn thought about the stories her father had told her, the tales of the Shield of the Crown. The Stormblade. “What happened to his sword?”

“You see him as I found him,” Sheshka said. “Unarmed and helpless. I could not take him to Cazhaak Draal. There would have been no place for him there. But he was a brave warrior, and I did not wish him to be taken by the beasts of the land. So I changed him and I left him, another guardian among the stone ghosts of the Great Crag.”

“It’s the thrice-damned
sword,”
Thorn said. Three keys, and I found only one.

“What makes you so certain?”

“I read it in a book,” Thorn said. “‘Without his sword, he was bereft of his past, and so he met the Queen of Stone.’ It said that I’d need to find ‘his sword and his past.’ If you don’t know where his sword is, it seems like a lost cause.”

Sheshka’s serpents had risen around her head—not hissing, simply watching, tongues flicking out to taste the air. “Tell me of this book. I do not see how anyone could know of such a thing.”

“No need to tell when I can show.” The tome was still stored in her left glove; a thought brought it into her hand.

Sheshka’s reaction was as dramatic as it was unexpected. She took a step backward, and as she did so, all of her vipers spread out to their full length, baring their fangs and hissing. Venom dripped to the floor. Her eyelids flickered, and Thorn sensed that it took effort for her to keep them closed. “Where did you get that?”

“An acquaintance,” Thorn said. “No longer with us, I’m afraid. He didn’t give me any details.”

“His death is no surprise to me. You have carried this thing through Droaam and lived to speak of it! While standing before Sora Katra herself!” Her snakes were writhing wildly as if in pain.

“What
is
it?”

“I know the people of the east tell tales of Sora Katra
and Sora Maenya. I’m sure you’ve heard how Maenya binds the souls of her victims to their skulls, and sleeps on a bed of the damned. But it seems you know little of Sora Teraza.”

“As I recall, she’s the one who’s not so bad—the one who gave me the helpful note.”

“She follows a different path from her sisters. That makes her no less dangerous. She is the oldest of the three, and her ways are mysterious even to them. It’s said that she has a library in the Crag, filled with the lives of heroes and prophets.”

Thorn frowned, more puzzled than angry. “There’s a room in the library of Wroat filled with the lives of prophets. What’s so strange about that?”

“Not accounts of their lives … the lives themselves. Until now, I have heard this only as rumor, and I could be mistaken. But the face on the book is just as I have heard. Teraza must have claimed him, taken his story from him—and left this shell behind.”

Thorn looked at the leather-bound book, the stern face staring up at her from the cover. Strength lay in that face, a sense of purpose that was missing in the vacant expression of the man standing behind her.

“Stealing from Sora Teraza …” Sheshka’s snakes were twisting about nervously.

“You said it yourself. I had the thing in my hand when Sora Katra was only half a room away, and nothing happened. But I don’t need a story. I need his past. I need his sword.” She considered the gilded tome again. The proud face. The silver sword gleaming on the spine. “You say she took his
story
away.”

“Yes.”

“But he’s missing his sword. And he’s Harryn
Stormblade
. His sword
is
his story. And his story is his past.”

Thorn turned to face the knight. He still stared at her, his expression vacant as ever.

“Take it,” she said. She thrust the book at him, holding it so he could see the spine. “Take it back.”

Harryn’s eyes focused on the gilded sword. His hand twitched, and then he slowly raised his arm and reached for the book. The moment his fingers touched the leather, it slipped free of Thorn’s grip. It should have fallen to the ground—Harryn didn’t have a firm grip on it. Instead, it hung in midair. Mist flowed out from the pages, a gray mist lit from within by a pale blue light.

A blinding flash lit the room, and a crash of thunder sent Thorn staggering back. When her vision returned, the hall was illuminated by the shimmering blue light. But the light emanated from the furrow running down the blade of a gleaming silver greatsword. Harryn’s sword was as beautiful as his armor was plain. The blade was perfect, polished to a mirror finish, not a nick on its edge. The knight held the weapon in both hands, and his face had changed. He wore the stern expression Thorn had seen pressed into the black leather. His eyes were hard, and when they fixed on Sheshka, they flashed with anger.

“You!” he cried. Blue-white energy crackled along the blade as he drew it back. He dropped his gaze to the ground, and Thorn knew what would come next.

He lunged forward, but Thorn was ready for him. The knight had turned his back on her, and as he started his charge, she slipped behind him and tripped him, sending him tumbling to the ground.

“Sheshka, go!” she shouted. “Let me deal with this!”

The medusa was already darting away, disappearing into the silent ranks of the stone army. Harryn tried to rise and follow her, but a swift kick put him back on the ground.

This is one of the greatest warriors of old Galifar? she thought. Well, he’s been asleep for a few hundred years …

Her overconfidence was nearly her undoing. The knight had been distracted by Sheshka, but his attention shifted to Thorn. As he rose, he was ready for her kick. He caught her foot with one hand and pulled Thorn toward him; it was all she could do to keep from falling.

“What are you?” he growled. In the light of his sword, she could see his eyes, a deep and vivid blue. “Are you one of Drukan’s creatures?”

Thorn broke free from his grip and backed away. She kept her hands out before her to show that she wasn’t holding a weapon. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve been cursed. I just released you from its effects.”

“More lies,” he said. She could sense his pain and confusion. He was trying to focus on her, but his eyes were glancing about the room.

“Do you know where you are?” Thorn said. She continued to back away, and he followed her. Thorn wanted to move him away from Sheshka and the petrifying ward. “Do you know how you came here?”

A flicker of doubt crossed his face, but his blade was steady, and he leveled it at her chest. If he charged at Thorn, no one could protect her. “Who are you?” he said.

“I am Thorn of Breland, Dark Lantern of the King’s Citadel.”

“The King’s Citadel.” His eyes narrowed. In Harryn’s time, the Citadel had served the king of Galifar, not the ruler of Breland, but he knew the name. “And how can I know you haven’t been corrupted by Drukan?”

“Because I don’t even know who that is,” Thorn said. She tried to project all the sympathy and sincerity she could muster. “If you are Harryn Stormblade—you’ve been petrified for over two hundred years.”

Harryn’s eyes were fixed on hers. His mouth opened to protest, but he could see the hundreds of statues all around him, mute testimony to Thorn’s tale. He stared at
her, searching for the slightest hint of deception. She stared back, willing him to believe her.

A sudden sound broke the tension. The howling of wolves, and the deeper call of the dire wolf.

The Children of Zaeurl had found them.

H
arryn’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.