The Queen of Stone_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [110]
“Don’t kill them!” Thorn cried out to Harryn. It was no simple task. As a man, Beren was old, kind, and generous. As a wolf, he was driven by hatred and hunger, a mad desire to kill. Thorn smashed the beast in the side of the head with the flat of the axe. As long as they weren’t striking with silver, the supernatural stamina of the creatures helped them shrug off the blows.
Stormblade resorted to crippling blows against the four who attacked him, breaking legs so the enemy could be left alive but helpless. Thorn focused on Munta and Beren. She refused to get blood on her spear; instead, she struck with the flat of her blade, using the long reach of the myrnaxe to hold the wolves at bay, and striking at crippling nerves whenever an opportunity arose. It was slow and dangerous, and time and again she caught tooth or tusk on the haft of her axe or against the mithral of her bracers. But she believed in her victory. She knew she could not lose. And while her unnatural strength didn’t return, in time both boar and wolf collapsed and remained still.
“Drukan Moonlord!” Harryn called again. “Your doom approaches. Two centuries I have waited. No more!” The blue-white light flared as the knight raised his sword above his head and charged at his enemy.
The oni chuckled. “Harryn Stormblade. The storm is a thing of the wild—learn that lesson now.” He casually waved his hand and a mighty gust of wind swept across the hall. The gale knocked Thorn off her feet, smashing her against the far wall. Stormblade held his footing, but he couldn’t move against the terrible force of the wind.
Drul raised his left hand, and thunder rumbled in the chamber. Blue-white light flashed again, but this time the lightning was the weapon of Drul Kantar. Bolts of energy rained down from the distant sky, ricocheting off the walls of the high tower before striking the battered knight. There was no escape. Crack! and Harryn staggered. Crack! and he dropped to his knees. Crack! one final bolt and he fell heavily to the floor.
Drul clenched his fist again, and Crack! Another bolt of lightning flared around Harryn. The knight was still. The pale blue giant seemed almost disappointed. “Who knew destiny could be so easily thwarted?” he murmured.
“Not I,” Thorn said, thrusting her spear into his spine.
The wind had died when Drul had begun his fierce assault on Harryn. Thorn had neither the strength nor stamina of the knight, but stealth was her gift, and the oni never saw her approach. He howled with rage and pain, and Thorn pulled the spear free as he turned to face her. His howls changed from rage to mirth.
“A silver spear?” He roared with laughter. “A silver spear? You might as well move the ocean with a spoon, child. You know not what you face. But I shall grace you with a vision of glory before you die.”
Another burst of wind threw Thorn backward. For a moment, she thought the ogre had exploded; he was surrounded by a cloud of blood and smoke. Then she realized that his wings had knocked her back, wings that seemed like flames—vast, leathery wings stained in red and black. He has the soul of a tiger, Harryn had told her, and so he did; he also had the head of a tiger, with bloody crimson stripes separated by bands of bottomless darkness. The only things that resembled the ogre lord were his size and mighty physique, and the collar of glowing orbs bound around his neck.
“Gaze upon true wonder,” he roared. “Drulkalatar Atesh, the Feral Hand, speaker of the Wild Heart. Immortal and perfect, soldier of the first age and the age to come.” Lightning danced around his outstretched arms, wreathing the hooked talons that tipped each finger.
Thorn was stunned by the spectacle before her, torn by conflicting emotions. The most powerful of all was fear. She had seen many horrors in her life—she had faced a demon and survived. But she had never encountered anything with the sheer presence of Drulkalatar. He