The Queen of Stone_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [40]
“Why were you there?” Thorn said.
Beren laughed. “I know, I know—a tragic waste of such a mighty warrior. My father was to blame. The old man wanted to keep me away from Thrane, to find me a job signing parchments or washing dishes. I knew my duty as a Wynarn. I wanted a sword in my hand, and I found my way to the front lines soon enough. As it turned out, Thrane would have been far safer than Lherenstan.”
“What happened?”
“The tide of violence ebbed and flowed. Months passed with no trouble at all, then some settler or prospector would cross a line. The ogres would raid the villages, and we’d take the fight to them. I did my share of bloody deeds those days, on Aureon’s word!”
Thorn was accustomed to Beren’s stories, to his jovial bluster. But as he continued, she could tell that something was different about this tale. He still smiled, but the fire in his eyes had faded. He pressed on, as if compelled to speak.
“It was Zarantyr of 972 when she came to our gate. She was a refugee. She told us that her husband and children had been killed by trolls. I’ll never forget her. Tall and thin, hair as black as a crow’s wing and just as ragged, 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.
“But her spirit impressed me the most—the determination that had carried her so far from Sharn and Wroat, the courage that kept her going after her family was destroyed. She said she was hungry, asked if she could stay the night beneath our roof before continuing east. The commander agreed. But I didn’t stay for the evening meal. Cainan and I were sent on a scouting mission, to search for our lady’s village and track the aggressive trolls.”
“And what did you find?” Thorn said.
Beren studied the cold fire dancing along his enchanted torch. “There was no trail to follow. It was Zarantyr, and it had snowed the day before, but there were no tracks save ours … and the snow was stained with blood. Yet there were no signs of struggle. No smashed doors, no burned buildings. Just the bones of twelve settlers, picked perfectly clean and stacked neatly by the town well. Every bone … except for the skulls. Those were nowhere to be found.”
“And the woman?”
“We returned as quickly as we could, but it was past midnight by the time we arrived. I’d called on Dol Arrah, begged the Sovereigns to let that woman be a ghost, a restless spirit who’d simply wanted her remains to be found. But I knew what we were going to find. We’d left thirty people in that fort, veteran soldiers among them. All that awaited us on our return was their bones, picked clean and stacked on the table in the great hall. The skulls were gone. She’d told us the truth. She was hungry.”
Thorn had heard such tales before, but never from a man who had actually lived one. She tried to envision the hall filled with bones, but the only thing that came to mind was the battlefield in her dreams, the haughty figure dressed in black and red. The sword descending toward Drego’s face.
“Cainan … it broke him,” Beren said, still gazing into the fire. He wasn’t smiling any more. “He tried to kill me. I managed to reach the nearest supply post before collapsing. I don’t know if they ever restaffed that fort. A decade passed before I returned to the Graywall, to fight at Kalnor Pass. And I still dream of her … those dark eyes, boring into mine. Every night in the Kalnor campaign, I was convinced I’d wake to find her waiting at my bedside. That she’d take my skull next, trapping my spirit until the end of time.”
He stopped, and the silence was a weight across the room. The cold fire flickered but made no sound.
“At least we aren’t having dinner with Sora Maenya,” Thorn said. “Perhaps her sister isn’t