Son of Khyber_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [53]
Fire flowed from her mouth, engulfing the oncoming horde. When the flames settled, Drulkalatar’s minions were ash, and the fiend himself was scorched, the flesh nearly flayed from his bones. Before he could cast another spell, Thorn pounced, her massive fore-paws pinning him to the floor.
“Why?” he asked, staring up at her. “Why would you do this?”
“I don’t know yet,” she said. “But I will.”
“I cannot die,” he said. “You of all creatures should know that. I will return. And you will pay for this.” He spoke that name again, and as before, it slipped away from her ears.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “And my name’s Thorn.”
Reaching down, she caught the crippled demon between her jaws. She raised him up in the air, slowly crushing him. And then, as she felt his resistance fading, she unleashed her anger. Fire flowed through her teeth, and Drulkalatar was at the heart of the flames. His bones melted away, his body vaporizing in the intense heat. But she could still feel the last trace of his presence, the essence of his evil. His spirit. And before he could slip away, she swallowed him. She felt a flash of pure hatred, surprise, and fear. And then he was gone.
Thorn’s eyes snapped open. She was lying in her bunk. The crystal shard in her neck burned against her flesh, and for a moment she felt Drulkalatar’s presence at the heart of it, as if the demon lord were driving a red-hot dagger into her spine. She staggered off the bunk and made her way to the infirmary, clutching at her neck.
“Dreamlily,” she told the halfling minding the stores. The narcotic was one of the few things she’d found that could ease the pain of the shards when it reached this level. And she still felt Drulkalatar’s gaze weighing on her, the gleaming eyes of the predator.
The halfling hadn’t seen Thorn before and was readying his stock to tend to any Tarkanans who might be injured in the attack on the forgehold. Even before he opened his mouth, Thorn knew that he wasn’t going to help her. “What seems to be the probl—”
She gripped the front of his shirt and lifted him off the ground. Her pain and anger must have triggered the mysterious power within her, for he felt all but weightless as he rose in her grip. “Dreamlily,” she snarled. She tossed him back against a pile of bandages, harder than she’d intended. “Now!”
The halfling rose to his feet and scampered over to a chest of drawers, producing a small clay vial from within. He tried to find his voice and to protest as he turned around, but Thorn’s fierce gaze silenced him, and he handed her the vial. She stood there, glaring at him, and he reluctantly gave her a second vial.
Thorn swallowed the acrid liquid as she strode from the room, and a chilling numbness spread across her nerves. The stone still burned, but the pain was a distant thing, something she’d heard about but forgotten. She made her way back to her bunk and collapsed on the plank. Around her, Tarkanans were beginning to stir, some arming and preparing for the morning meal. Thorn simply pulled Steel to her and lay on the bed, wrapping her arms around the dagger.
Not such a good night, then.
Thorn said nothing. The dreamlily held the physical pain at bay, and the memories of the dream began to fade. But painful pieces remained. The agony as the lightning took her, and the lingering sensation of Drulkalatar’s eyes watching her. She’d had the same dream at least once a month since she’d left Droaam, each time more vivid and painful than the last.
The mystery was almost as bad as the pain. The dream was as much as she could remember about the conclusion of her mission to the Great Crag—and like a dream, the memories were hazy and hard to focus. Her handlers at the Citadel said it was likely an effect of facing a powerful demon. Such creatures warped reality with their presence, and they could twist memories without even trying. What had truly happened that night? In the dream, she’d become a dragon. And it felt so real, so true. Her tail, her wings, the fire in her blood … it was as if these