The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland (19 page)

Especially considering what she was about to do.

They had traveled six days to reach the Crag, and Thorn had spent a few of her evening hours reading … specifically, reading the parchments she’d found in the sack belonging to the goblin Kalakhesh. Thorn’s father had fought on the eastern front and served with Darguul units. He’d taught her the goblin language between the seasons, and while she couldn’t speak it well, she could read it. It had taken her a few days to crack the cipher used by the goblin spy, but she’d succeeded.

Kalakhesh had spent months at the Crag in the guise of a servant. During that time, he’d found a way to move about the fortress—via the latrines. He’d already known much about the layout of the Crag when he arrived. The original foundations of the subterranean fortress had been carved by hobgoblin architects thousands of years earlier, and Kalakhesh had access to an ancient plan. The parchments were his notes, including his initial expectations and the discoveries he’d made as he explored the mountain.

A moment’s concentration sent Steel into the mystical pocket inside Thorn’s glove, freeing her hands. A second
thought and her gown transformed into black garments and leather armor. She’d want the gown back when she found her way out, but the dress wasn’t an ideal choice for climbing.

Sifting through the pockets and pouches of her working harness, she produced two small objects. The first was an ivory clip that she pressed across her nostrils. The stench of the latrine alone was enough to make her retch, and she could only imagine how much worse it would be below.

The second object was a loop of leather cord, another object she’d found in Kalakhesh’s sack. She placed it over her finger and felt a faint tingle as it tightened against the leather of her glove. Studying the makeshift ring, she pictured a spider web, imagining sticky strands reaching out and wrapping around her palms, feet, and fingers. Thought became reality, and she could feel the invisible threads against her hands. She ran her palm across the rough surface of the latrine wall and felt the threads catch on the surface.

She’d put this off as long as she could. All the preparations were made. Taking a deep breath, she sat down on the privy and lowered herself through the larger opening.

The space below was just as foul as she’d expected. She set her hands and feet against opposite walls and crept slowly down the shaft. The walls were coated with filth and fungus. Though she found herself clutching outcroppings covered in ooze, the spell she’d performed earlier kept the sewage from clinging to her clothing or hair, and it restored anything she touched to its pristine—or filthy—condition. But the spell couldn’t do anything about vermin, and as she descended farther into the tunnels, the insects became larger and more numerous. Centipedes landed in her hair, beetles the size of an elf’s eye crawled all around her. She’d seen worse in the sewers of Sharn, but she was sure she’d be seeing this scene again in nightmares to come.

Every major intersection bore a few scratches on the wall,
letters carved by the goblin miners who gouged the sewers out of the rock. These were the keys to navigating through the fortress. Thorn wanted to locate Sheshka’s quarters and evaluate the area. The medusa hadn’t been at the Crag at the same time as Kalakhesh, and Thorn had no idea where to find the medusa queen. But the notes mentioned the quarters of another warlord, and the events of the feast had given Thorn an idea. She just hoped that she didn’t find an ogre sitting on the exit.

Fortunately for Thorn, no one was in the privy when she arrived. The room was almost identical to the one she’d left behind … just a little larger, designed to accommodate ogres and trolls. The walls were rough stone, marred by a few faint inscriptions long faded with time. Thorn couldn’t make out any of the messages. Scandalous rumors? Insulting comments about a hated officer, or professions of unrequited love? The creatures of Droaam might be hideous and fearsome, but the fact that they left messages on the privy walls made her smile. Perhaps Sora Katra was right; perhaps they weren’t so different.

She removed the leather cord from her finger, breaking the climbing enchantment. After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled the clip from her nose; the scent of sewage was so strong that she nearly gagged. She quickly restored her fine clothing and drew Steel from her gauntlet. As she held the dagger against her wrist, the puffy sleeves of the gown helped hide him from view; if necessary, she could send him back into the glove with just a thought. She gestured toward the door and the hallway beyond.

No magical auras
, Steel said.
And no one watching through magical means. That’s all I can promise
.

So, you’ve wandered away from the party, Thorn thought to herself. You’ve accidentally bypassed dozens of guards without being seen. And you’ve found your way
into the latrine. Perfectly logical. Everyone needs to use the privy sometime.

She slipped around the doorway and into the hall beyond.

The corridor was taller and wider than the guest quarters a few levels up, so multiple ogres or bugbears could walk side by side. She froze as she heard footsteps pounding against the stone. A moment later a goblin sprinted past her, running as if his life depended on it. This being Droaam, perhaps it did. If he even saw Thorn, he gave no sign of interest.

A good start.

Most of the creatures of Droaam were comfortable in the darkness of the tunnels, but few could see very far in pitch blackness, and even then, they saw the world in shades of gray. Because she had an innocent excuse—the poor, drunken foreigner who’d wandered away from the party—Thorn chose passive stealth. The goblin had proved it—she didn’t look like a threat, and they ignored her.

She kept close to the wall and walked at a slow and steady pace, doing nothing to attract attention. Catching sight of a large figure at the edge of her vision, Thorn froze in place. A moment later, a troll strode into full view. Trolls were usually savage, brutal beasts, but this one was drawn right out of Sora Katra’s illusions. His rubbery hide was covered with armor; a halfling’s skull was set into his steel breastplate; and a crest of spikes ran down the center of his helmet. A troll could tear a man apart with his bare hands, but this warrior carried a heavy battle-axe whose blades were notched and worn.

Thorn shivered at the thought of fighting such a brute, and she felt the familiar throb of the shard at the base of her skull, the faint pain returning once more. She remained as still as a statue and the troll walked past her, the claws on his wide, flat feet scraping against
the stone. She waited until the sound faded before she moved again.

As she approached her destination, she saw something she hadn’t considered: light. Cold fire torches were set in sconces along the walls of the tunnel. It was a good sign. If she’d read Kalakhesh’s notes correctly, Thorn was entering the territory of the warlord Zaeurl. The goblin’s records described the location of the barracks used by the hunters, and Thorn intended to steal one of the black and gray uniforms they wore. Her gown might serve as an alibi that night, but posing as one of Zaeurl’s children would be considerably more useful once the party was over … especially if they were all treated with the same respect that the gnolls had shown in the Duurwood.

Even as the thought of the Duurwood crossed her mind, she heard a sound that had become familiar—the whining speech of a gnoll, emerging from an open doorway just ahead of her. A single tooth lay in a pool of blood by the doorway—a fang likely torn from the mouth of the creature she heard.

She slid closer to the doorway and heard the thud of flesh against flesh, and a body striking a stone wall. Then came laughter, and the clear voice of a young man. “I told you we’d be watching. You should have listened to my brother when you had the chance.”

The voice sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. But the next voice she knew well. It was Ghyrryn, the gnoll who escorted her from Graywall. His speech was slurred with pain.

“I would rather die than receive your blessing.”

The man laughed, and Thorn knew where she’d heard his voice. He was the young elf from the Duurwood … the child of Zaeurl.

“Fortunate for us both, because your death is what we have in mind. I’m just not sure which to eat first—your arms or your legs.”

Thorn wore a mithral bracelet on each wrist, hidden beneath the cuffs of her gown. She clicked them together and they unfolded along her forearms, becoming armored bracers.

What are you doing?

Steel whispered. Saying nothing, she stepped into the room.

G
hyrryn had been badly beaten. One of his eyes was swollen shut, and his fur was matted and stained with blood. He’d lost more than one tooth since Thorn had seen him. He was being held against the wall by an ogre, whose snarl revealed a maw filled with long, yellowed teeth. The ogre pressed his forearm against Ghyrryn’s throat, and he held the gnoll a foot above the floor. Ghyrryn was gasping for breath, his snout and nostrils flecked with bloody saliva.

The room was a barracks, with bunks for a dozen soldiers. Fortunately for Thorn, only two other creatures were in the room, and all eyes were focused on the ogre and his prey. A young man stood between Thorn and the gnoll—a man in black and gray. He was the elf from the Duurwood, as she’d suspected; he held a curved steel blade in one hand, and the scimitar’s tip was stained with blood. The other occupant of the room walked on four legs—a lean gray wolf, sniffing at the captive gnoll.

Thorn gasped in horror, raising her hand to cover her mouth and bringing her other arm up to her chest, keeping Steel hidden against her bodice. “What … what is going on?”

All eyes were upon her. The ogre snarled, and for an instant Thorn thought his teeth were
growing
, but it was surely a trick of the light. The elf spun to face her, lowering his sword and raising a hand to admonish the ogre. “Don’t!” he snapped at his companions. “You have your orders!”

“Who
are
you?” Thorn said, filling her voice with shock and terror.

“This is not your concern,” the elf said, taking a step toward her. The wolf padded over to stand next to him. Not threatening, not yet, but an intimidating physical presence, yellow eyes boring into her own. “How did you get here?”

As the elf spoke, a second voice echoed in her thoughts. Steel.

Get out of here. Now!

Thorn stood frozen in place, her eyes wide. A chill began at the base of her spine, the same sensation she’d felt in the Duurwood and when facing Zaeurl. It was painful, but it held a promise of energy and anger waiting to be unleashed. She held her ground, watching the elf, studying the way he moved, the way he held his blade.

She knew little about the hunter, but he was a man used to having his way; she’d seen his pride in the forest clearing. She was trusting that he wouldn’t kill her right away. He apparently had his orders, and she might actually be a diplomat broken free from her guards. As long as she remained silent, he couldn’t classify her as enemy or innocent, and she could see the frustration building in him.

“Speak, woman!” he snapped, taking another step toward her. “What are you—”

That step was all she needed. Steel flashed in the torchlight as Thorn raised her hand and lunged forward. He was quick, and he tried to dodge as soon as he saw the glint of metal. But he’d come too close, given Thorn too much time to anticipate his motions. The dagger went straight into his left eye, and Thorn struck the pommel with the heel of her free hand, driving it deep into his brain. His
right eye widened in shock, and for a moment it seemed to change, the white becoming darker, orange—then his muscles spasmed as the news of his death spread across his body.

In a situation like this, the first death was always easy. She had surprise on her side, time to study her foe, the chance to set the pace of things. That was over. She planted a hard kick in the chest of the dying elf, using all her strength to force her blade free from his skull. The gray wolf was leaping for her throat, a streak of fur and muscle. Thorn flung her arm up and the wolf sank its teeth into her forearm, only to grind against the mithral bracer. Thorn pushed against the wolf, pressing her armored limb into its jaw, and it staggered back and released her, spitting and choking.