The Queen of Stone_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [28]
“That’s one.”
He gestured with his thumbs, pointing toward his chest. “I know you like my doublet. If we both survive this, I’m sure my mother would weave you a gown.”
Despite her best efforts, Thorn found herself smiling. “And the third?”
“Clearly, you don’t speak the language of the gnolls, or you’d know that last call was gathering the squad leaders. If you don’t get moving, you’ll miss the introductions … and unless I’m with you, you’re not going to understand them.”
“I see why your minister doesn’t feel the need to speak,” Thorn said. “You have a way with words. But I don’t know about working with a Thrane … let me consider it.”
She wanted a chance to hear from Steel, and he seized the opportunity.
I think you should let him live for now, he whispered in her mind. He’s attracted to you, and we can use that. Let him believe you are only here to gather intelligence. If he learns about Stormblade, he’ll have to die.
“Yes. I believe you’re right.” Thorn inclined her head toward Drego. “Shall we see what our gnolls have planned?”
Though Drego was a spy, he proved the adage that magic was no substitute for skill. He conjured new invisibility, and although it probably served him well on the city streets, he had little experience in the wild. He scraped against trees and shrubs, trampled dry leaves, and left countless traces of his passage. Though she couldn’t see him, Thorn was aware of his location almost constantly.
Fortunately, the gnolls made plenty of noise of their own. Most of the healthy soldiers guarded the delegates. The gnoll camp was filled with those injured during the attack, and they whined and growled as the healer moved among them. The old gnoll was dressed in dark brown robes, and his fur was patchy and gray. Lacking the magical powers of the minister of the Silver Flame, he relied on mundane methods to do his work—bandages, powders of questionable potency, foul-looking salves and tinctures. Thorn winced as she saw him setting broodworms against a particularly ugly wound. She’d heard that such creatures devoured infected tissue. As a child, though, she’d lost a dog when broodworms had entered a cut and ultimately burrowed into its brain. The memory still haunted her.
Beyond the tending of the wounded, considerable activity was underway. Two young gnolls sorted through the goods salvaged from the broken wagons. A soldier sharpened blades with a whetstone, while another carved new arrows. Amidst all this commotion, not even the patrolling sentry noticed Drego’s clumsy footsteps.
Thorn had seen similar activity a hundred times during the war. Aside from the fur and sharp teeth, it could have been any camp on the Cyran front in the days before the Mourning. She detected no explanation for the attack, no sign of betrayal; if anything, the wounds of the soldiers proved that they’d put themselves in harm’s way to protect the foreigners.
But one thing was missing. She didn’t see Ghyrryn, or the gnoll with the horned helmet. These were the common troops … where were the officers?
Thorn began to circle the edge of the camp, moving cautiously along the tree line. The sound of Drego’s footsteps followed her closely. Thorn silently cursed the noisy Thrane; if he drew the attention of a sentry, she was the one the gnoll would see. But despite their large ears, the gnolls seemed to lack the keen senses of other beasts.
A hand closed on her shoulder. Her immediate instinct was to lash out, thrusting Steel beneath her arm and burying her blade in her enemy’s chest. But she knew it was Drego, and she checked her aggressive impulses. His fingers traced a slow path down her arm, finally tugging at her hand. If he doesn’t have a good reason for this, I’m going to take one of his fingers as a keepsake, she thought. But she let him lift her hand. A finger tapped her glove. He pointed.
Four gnolls were gathered a few hundred feet from their camp. They were spread across a moonlit grove, weapons drawn but not