The Queen of Stone_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [19]
Then the song began … and moments later, the screaming.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Korlaak Pass Droaam
Eyre 12, 998 YK
The song was the most beautiful sound Thorn had ever heard, but it was too far away for her to make out the words. She needed to move closer, to find a place where she could hear the lovely song. Then a second voice chimed in, and a third, a chorus coming from all around her.
The first scream came within moments, and it didn’t come from a human throat. It was a wailing howl, a gnoll’s cry of terror, and it faded too quickly for comfort. The scream snapped Thorn free from her reverie and into chaos.
With each passing moment, a new scream rose outside the wagon, but Thorn was more concerned with the situation within. The dwarf Grenn had drawn his sword and began cutting a hole in the canvas covering the wagon. A dreamy, distant look filled his eyes, and Thorn remembered the urge to follow the exquisite music, to reach its source. The effect had completely taken hold of Grenn. And he wasn’t alone. One of the gnolls had leaped out the back of the wagon. Drego Sarhain was holding onto the old priestess while the two Thrane soldiers were cutting their own holes in the canvas. Toli wrestled with Lord Beren, struggling to keep the diplomat inside.
Harpies, Steel whispered, confirming Thorn’s thoughts. She could imagine the scene outside the wagons. Harpies beyond the bridge, calling out in their beautiful voices … and gnolls and guards leaping to their deaths in a doomed quest to reach the miraculous sound.
What can I do?
Someone else had an answer. Ghyrryn dropped his axe and drew an object out of a pouch on his belt—a round stone about the size of a human eyeball. He threw it to the floor and a thunderous explosion shook the wagon. There was no flame—just an immense boom that replaced both song and screams with a dull ringing.
Thorn shook her head, catching her bearings. Grenn was missing, but the deafening blast had shattered the harpy’s seductive power, and the others were clutching their heads and gathering their wits. Three gnolls were still in the wagon—Ghyrryn, the archer Jharl, and a halberdier who hadn’t spoken during the journey.
Ghyrryn snatched up his axe and struck the flat against the canopy to attract attention. Once all eyes were upon him, he made a sweeping gesture encompassing the passengers, then pointed at the floor. The meaning was plain enough—stay here! He turned and jumped off the wagon, accompanied by the archer. The halberdier moved into the center of the coach, lowering his weapon to block the passage.
Toli pushed Beren back onto the bench. The lord’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, and his lips were drawn back in a scowl. Toli was right—as a diplomat, Beren needed to stay out of danger. But the soldier in him surely wanted to take the fight to the enemy. Thorn knew the feeling intimately.
The canvas of the coach offered no sanctuary. Deafened as she was, Thorn didn’t hear the arrows tearing through the cloth, or the cries as they bored into flesh. Toli staggered under the impact of an ash shaft that drove through his breastplate and into his shoulder. Bad as it was, he was still alive; one of the Thranes wasn’t so lucky. Younger than Thorn, she wouldn’t see another season; an arrow passed fully through her throat, and two more lodged in her chest. She collapsed against the edge of the wagon, leaving a trail of blood as she slid down. The old priestess pushed Drego aside and bent over the young woman, and silver fire blazed around her wizened hands. But whatever sacred powers she possessed, it was too late for the Thrane; the flames