The Fading Dream_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [87]
“I told you,” the manticore rumbled. “I just wished to see an old friend.”
“I’m not Sarmondelaryx,” she said. “I’m Nyrielle Tam. I’m Thorn.”
“So you say,” the beast said, showing its bloody smile. “I can follow a scent across the length of the world, and I know dragon well. I heard the cry of triumph when you devoured Drulkalatar Atesh. Have you remembered the story I want to hear?”
“Try me.”
“No.” The manticore shook its massive head. “If you remembered, I would not have to ask. It is not our time yet. But we are close, yes. I smell the future on the wind, little one. And I will have my story soon enough.”
“I wish I could sit around and wait with you,” Thorn said. “Unfortunately I’ve got other things to do here.”
The beast raised its head, drawing a deep breath through its nose. “Yes. You’ve come searching for the fortress that lies in the woods.”
“As a matter of fact—”
“The woods are haunted,” it told her. “Filled with the dreams of those who came too close to the hidden citadel. Their bodies were burned, leaving only a last spark of hope, now turned ugly and sour, the one hope remaining to steal the life of another who might pass through.”
“Lovely,” Thorn said.
“In its way,” it said, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “I had a friend once who loved these woods. She’d come here from time to time, hunting these ghosts and swallowing them whole, savoring that last fading hope.”
“I’ve never had much of a taste for dashed hopes myself,” Thorn said. “We’ll manage somehow, I’m sure.”
“If only you had wings, you could cross the haunted wood on the night winds and glide over the walls themselves.”
“Why stop at wings?” Thorn said. “Perhaps I could have fiery breath that can melt stone and bring the citadel itself tumbling down.”
The manticore laughed, the sound a low rumble. “Were the walls made of stone, it would surely be that simple. But how long must we play this little game? How long until you ask for the strength of my wings again?”
“And what will I pay this time?” Thorn said. When she’d first met the creature, she’d thought its price of a story to be a gift; seeing it again, she was beginning to wonder what she had given up.
“You’ll only know if you ask.”
“Then tell me, my dear, old friend: Will you carry me through the air and to my destination?”
The manticore nodded. “That I shall. You may even bring your companion, if he has the courage to look me in the eye.”
“And the price?” Thorn said.
“I asked no price,” the beast replied. “Not this time. I will have what I seek soon enough.”
Thorn didn’t like the sound of that, but the offer of a swift flight across haunted woods was difficult to resist. “You can come out now, Drix.”
The tinker slowly crept out of his hole. When the manticore made no hostile move, he carefully lifted the black cloth from the board and folded it up.
“So gliding over the walls,” Thorn said. “That’s what you’d suggest if I had wings?”
The manticore scratched out a rough map in the soil, traces of blood rubbing off on the grass. “I do not know what it is you seek within,” it said. “There is a courtyard, yes. And many towers, each one dedicated to a different terror.”
“And since you know so much about it, I imagine you’d know if it’s filled with guards, people watching the skies, and such.”
“Yes,” it said. “And of course it is. They are preparing for battle.”
Thorn looked to Drix. “Bad enough that we’re likely to be seen going in. We haven’t even discussed what happens once we get there. This is a fortress girded for war. How do we find the stones once we’re inside?”
Drix seemed honestly surprised. “You can’t feel them?”
“No. How would I?”
Drix put a hand over his crystal heart. “In here. I can feel them. Far, yes, but stronger than before. I thought …” He looked at the shard in her neck. “I thought you could feel them too.”
“No,” Thorn said. “All right. So we can find the stones. All we need is a plan to survive after we fly over the walls and into certain doom.”
“Not merely doom,” the manticore said. “Dream. The fortress you seek exists in two worlds.