The Queen of Stone_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [34]
“Fiend …” the knight struggled, but he’d spent all his strength on that last blow. He couldn’t even raise an arm.
“You know so little of the world,” Thorn found herself saying. “I’m no fiend. My kind bound the demons at the dawn of time. I am more than any pathetic devil, and greater than any of your gods.” She tossed the longsword into the air, catching the hilt in her hand and placing the point of the blade against the soldier’s chest.
Leaning into her work, she slowly gouged a slash across the symbol of Dol Arrah. “Look at your people, so devout, so confident that their goddess will come to their defense in their hour of need. Yet here we are. I have burned your hall and your holdings. I have devoured those you love and savored the taste of their blood.
“Your Dol Arrah is the Sovereign of the Sun, but my fires have sent the sun into hiding. Now we will see what path your people will take when this pillar is broken. Shall they cling to their faith even when the Sovereigns leave them to die? Might they embrace a new mystery, or take up the banner of those death-worshippers to the east? Or will they worship me, raising altars to the Angel of Flame?” She laughed again, and Thorn could feel the cruel joy within her. She’d caused the deaths of thousands, tens of thousands. Thorn couldn’t quite grasp the memories, but she knew it was the truth. And she felt no remorse. It was just a game, played with human lives.
“The Sovereigns …” The man was speaking again, struggling to form words. “With us. They know … will punish …”
Thorn shoved her boot against the man’s chest, cutting off breath and speech. “If any god was going to punish me, it would have happened long ago. You are alone in this world, prince. And you will go alone into your death. No realm of glory awaits you—just the slow dissolution of your memories, of everything you are. You should be grateful. You won’t have to remember how badly you failed your people.” She raised the sword and tapped it against his helmet. “How will history remember you, I wonder? Will your people create some glorious death for you, pretending that you gave your last breath locked in battle with a mighty monster? Or will some sage piece together this scene—a broken man slain with his own sword, begging for mercy amid the wreckage of all that he loved?”
That incredible power flowed through her again, an exhilarating burst of strength and energy. With a casual flick of the sword, she flipped open the knight’s visor. The face below was covered with blood and dirt, but the features were unmistakable.
It was Drego Sarhain.
His mouth opened, bloody saliva flecking his lips as he called out. A final curse? A plea for compassion? Thorn couldn’t hear anything beyond her own silent scream of fury and the song of triumph that filled her thoughts. The sword was as light as a blade of grass as she raised it over her head, but it was deadly steel as the point struck home between Drego’s eyes. She raised her arms and roared at the sky, and the shard at the base of her spine was burning, throbbing as if it were the point of a spear. Pain, anger, and alien joy merged together in a terrifying cacophony, overwhelming all sensation.
Then a hand gripped her shoulder. At the touch, the world around her faded away and fell into utter darkness. The howls in her mind fell silent. There was no sword, no battlefield; she was lying on the ground with a blanket over her face.
“Nyri?” It was Beren ir’Wynarn, the Brelish ambassador. “Are you well, child?”
Thorn reached up and pulled the blanket from her face. Lord Beren was kneeling over her, with Toli right behind him. The light of the moons had given way to dawning sun, and Jharl was preparing breakfast by the campfire. All that remained of the nightmare vision was the piercing pain in her lower back; it felt as if the crystal shard were digging into her spine.
Thorn sat up and laid a hand across Beren’s arm. “I’m fine, my lord. Just a bad dream.”
“Perhaps the rabbit from last