The Queen of Stone_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [37]
But what were they, really? Why did the pain come and go? Was it purely physical—the shard rubbing against bone—or was magic involved, or some sort of energy that caused the agony?
The last few nights had been calm. The hunters and their wolves had lived up to their promises; five days had passed with no new attacks. Thorn had done more scouting, studying the other delegates, but with no compelling threat, she’d spent most of her time with her countrymen. The last thing she wanted was to arouse any suspicions. They would arrive at the Great Crag before sundown, and then her mission would truly begin.
She’d slept more soundly since that first night, but the dream still troubled her. She’d tried to discuss it with Steel, but he refused to take interest. Considering that I do not dream, I’m ill-equipped to offer any insight. Perhaps you should try talking to your bedroll. She often had dreams in which her actions didn’t make sense, but never so vivid. The sensation of watching her body move on its own, of hearing such cruelty in her own voice … it still sent a shiver down her spine.
And then there was Drego. Surely his presence proved there was nothing to the dream. The two of them were soldiers on the opposite sides of a conflict. They’d had little private contact since that night. The experience had shown that they could work together, but if it came to it, she would kill him to protect Breland, and she’d expect no better treatment from him. Perhaps that’s all the dream was—a dramatization of a possible future. But she still felt a chill when she met Drego’s gaze, still felt the sword in her hand as it pierced his skull.
As the hours passed, Thorn sensed that they were drawing closer to the Great Crag. In the confines of the coach, the passengers could see nothing. But Thorn heard the sounds of traffic on the road, of other wagons and columns of troops. There were cries in the air, the calls of wyverns, and a few voices that had to be harpies, though none were raised in song. Minister Luala seemed ill at ease, and Toli kept his hand on his sword. Vordalyn kept his gaze fixed on Thorn. She knew that he was trying to unnerve her, and she had no intention of responding, so she ignored him. Occasionally she brushed a finger against Steel to ask if he could identify a strange sound.
In time, the wagons came to a halt. The rear flap was drawn back, revealing a patrol of armored ogres accompanied by a handsome young man—a human with fine, dark features and wavy black hair. Ghyrryn raised a hand before anyone could speak. The man said nothing; he stepped into the wagon, glanced at Ghyrryn, then looked slowly around the coach, pausing to study each face.
Doppelganger, Steel whispered. Thorn was inclined to agree. While the young man appeared human, it seemed more likely that he was some sort of creature with the power to read thoughts, seeking signs of hostility or treachery. As a Lantern, Thorn had been trained to resist such attempts. Taking a deep breath, she let her thoughts fall into a peaceful pattern, steady waves in the deep ocean. As she’d expected, Thorn felt the faint hint of an alien presence as the youth’s gaze passed over her—a touch of curiosity, something she might have dismissed as her own subconscious if she weren’t trained to recognize it. The young man turned to Ghyrryn, inclined his head, and stepped out of the wagon.
Soon they were traveling again, rising up a sharp incline—the final approach to the Crag itself, Thorn guessed. She heard dozens of voices outside the wagon—chattering goblins, rumbling ogres, creatures speaking in different languages. Then the voices were drowned out by a loud grinding sound and an impact that shook the ground. It came from the rear of the wagon, and as the coach drew to a halt, Thorn could imagine the source. They were inside the Great