The Queen of Stone_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [113]
Mud. Cold earth. The stink of fetid water. And the sounds of battle, now fading. Thorn was lying face-down in a puddle of muck. She was weak, barely able to push herself out of the mud. She was in the patch of swamp, and though the moons were still in the sky, the long shadow had disappeared. The moons themselves were free of the ruddy hue Stormblade had attributed to the Moonlord’s curse.
Harryn! Looking about, Thorn saw the knight on the ground nearby, his sword stuck in the mud. The swamp was littered with bodies, some still breathing, others merely the remains of bloody deeds done in the shadow. The delegates were strewn about, both the living and the dead. Thorn staggered to her feet and began dragging the bodies to solid ground. At last, she reached Harryn. His breastplate covered his chest, and she couldn’t see if he was still breathing. When she tried to move him, his body was cold.
“Harryn.” Her throat was raw, and though she tried to yell, what came out was little more than a whisper. “Harryn!” She slammed a hand against his chest, but his face remained as still as when it was stone.
“Listen to the water, child.”
Thorn hadn’t noticed the old woman standing behind her. Bent with the burden of years, she was dressed in stained gray rags. A weathered hood was pulled down to hide her eyes. Her skin was so wrinkled that it seemed it might crumble if she were to smile. Thorn couldn’t make any sense of what she’d just said, but she spoke with utter conviction.
“My friend needs help,” she said. “Many here need help. Is there a healer in the city—”
“Life and death are part of the same stream,” the woman said. “What is it like to swim the river twice?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Thorn said. “I need—”
The crone raised an admonishing finger. “Help comes, soon enough for those who will live. Until then, I have gifts for you and yours.”
“Gifts?”
The woman took Thorn’s hand, and there was surprising strength in her withered arms. She pressed a small object into Thorn’s hand. “Never a gift at all, you see. This was not the gift you were given, and what you were given was not a gift.”
“Yes … of course,” Thorn said. She was surprised a madwoman could survive in the Shadow of the Crag; the locals didn’t seem likely to be overflowing with charity.
The crone kept one hand on Thorn’s, holding her fist closed around the mysterious gift. But she knelt next to Harryn. “Not yet time for rest,” she said. “There are pages still unwritten. What I once took, I give once again.”
She placed her hand over Harryn’s heart. The faint gleam of mystical energy appeared, and Harryn stiffened, gasping for air, his fingers clutching at the mud.
“Harder this time, yes,” the woman murmured. “And harder still to come.”
Harryn’s eyes snapped open, and he was gazing into Thorn’s face.
“Thorn …” he choked, and tried again. “Thorn …” “Nyrielle,” she whispered. He nodded, and a faint smile touched his face.
“Harryn,” he said.
“Sister!” A new voice rang across the swamp, bold and powerful. “Didn’t mother teach you not to play with your food?”
Soldiers were approaching, a troop of ogres. Thorn tried to pull free, but the ragged crone had a grip of iron. “Listen to the water,” she said. “This story is almost done.”
“She speaks the truth,” said the newcomer. “You are in no danger. The Warlord Sheshka sent us to find you, to bring the survivors back to the Crag.”
The stranger came closer, and when Thorn caught sight of her, she knew exactly who she was. Tall and thin, hair as black as a crow’s wing and just as ragged, yet surrounding her like a shroud woven from the night itself. I could see that her skin was flawless beneath the dirt, and her eyes were as dark as her hair. The dark-haired woman went straight to Beren and picked him up as if he were a child. She opened her mouth, and as Thorn had guessed, rows of