The Queen of Stone_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [109]
Thorn had no idea what hidden powers this beast might possess, but the chill at the base of her spine told her it was no normal animal. Beyond the nightclaw, a pack of wolves blocked the lone hallway leading deeper into the tower. Thorn couldn’t even see how she and Harryn had entered; no gate stood behind them.
She had no time to ponder that question—the cat was already in motion. The nightclaw was a blur of muscle and fur as it darted toward them, claws scraping against the strange, rough stone of the floor. Fierce as it was, a more fearsome creature stood in the chamber. Harryn Stormblade’s life had been stolen from him, and returned centuries later. He had awoken in the dark, among thousands of lost souls, and had been forced to fight war trolls and sorcerers. It had taken time for the hero of old to rise to his senses.
That hero had returned. A crack of thunder and a blaze of light erupted as Stormblade slashed at the beast. He moved with remarkable speed despite his heavy armor, and when the werewolves joined the fray, he slipped among them, spinning and slashing. A living whirlwind, he filled the creatures with fear and despair. Thorn joined the fight, lashing out with her silver spear, but she might as well have watched the battle. Nothing could stand in the Stormblade’s way. His guard was all but impenetrable, his stamina without limit. Bear, wolf, rat, troll—all fell before his shining blade.
Until they reached the heart of the tower.
The chamber was huge. Thorn could barely see the far side of the hall. The walls were formed of rough red crystal that pulsed with a bloody light, a disturbingly unsteady beat. The roof was a vast chimney, a hollow tube that opened to the sky. The golden face of the moon Nymm lay directly above them, and the crimson mist was beginning to overtake it.
A bizarre contraption lay below the moon-tunnel, a blending of crystal, iron, and what appeared to be molten brass, flowing and twisting through the air with no apparent support. Thirteen stone slabs were spread around the strange crystal flower—prison beds built for giants. But today, delegates and diplomats lay stretched out on the platforms, held in place by unseen manacles, or magic that froze the mind. There was Beren of Breland, Tharsul of Karrnath, Munta the Gray of the Gantii Vuus. And there was Jolira Jan Dorian of Zilargo, her throat cut and her blood flowing down her slab, seemingly absorbed by the pulsing crystal. Three of the delegates were already dead—one for each of the moons that had already passed over the shadowed hall.
A lone figure stood at the strange machine, adjusting the crystals and the flow of blood. He wore a long blue robe studded with golden stars, and around his neck the lunar orbs glowed with the power of the moons above. Drul Kantar, the Moonlord, glanced at the intruders and spoke. His voice was deep and gentle, the kindly teacher admonishing a tardy student.
“Leave me, children, and I will elevate you in the world to come. Soon hunter and prey will be divided. Leave me to my work and I will welcome you into my pride. Proceed with this impudence and you will brand yourselves my prey.”
“I know you by the orbs you wear, Drukan.” Harryn raised his sword above his head, and the blade flashed and rumbled. “I swore to stand against you and your master, and tonight I will see that oath completed.”
Drul laughed, a calm and gentle chuckle. “But I have no interest in fighting you, Harryn. Though I suppose I can spare these dogs.” He raised his hand and six of the envoys rose from their biers. They groaned as their bones twisted and muscles warped. To Thorn’s horror, she saw Beren pulled into the shape of a lean gray wolf as he approached her, while old Munta