The Queen of Stone_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [59]
It was a perfect stroke. She felt the blade against the spine; it wasn’t a killing blow, but it should have removed the beast from the battle.
It didn’t.
The wolf’s fur hid the wound, but it spun to face her, and in her surprise she barely avoided its snapping teeth. Did I imagine—
She had no time to think. She was outnumbered, and both her enemies were upon her. The wolf charged again, and this time she jumped over the strike. She landed directly on the small of the beast’s back and called on all her strength. She tried to leap up and over the ogre, to buy more time, to find a better position.
She failed.
Pain flared through her as the ogre’s blade smashed into her chest, knocking her out of the air. A moment later, she slammed into the ground, her head bouncing against the stone floor. She was lucky—her foe had struck her with the flat of the blade. If he’d caught her full on, he might have split her in two. Thorn tried to gather her wits, to force herself to her feet. But the wolf was already leaping for her throat—the wolf that should have been dead. Teeth gleamed as they dived for her neck. She caught a flash of silver as warm blood spread across her chest.
It wasn’t hers. Ghyrryn was standing above her, and he’d just driven a metal point through the wolf’s throat. It collapsed atop Thorn, hot blood pouring from the wound and the stench of its flesh filling her nostrils.
Ghyrryn had saved her life, but there was a price to be paid. He’d left himself open to the ogre. Sparks flew as the cleaver struck Ghyrryn’s shoulder. Blood dripped from the gnoll’s mouth as he cried out in pain. His battered steel armor held, but the blow had dented the plates, driving them into the muscles of his arm.
The gnoll went on the defensive. His axe had two blades—the longer crescent blade and the smaller, curved spearhead he’d used to kill the wolf. Blocking the ogre’s next blow, he retaliated with the smaller blade, slashing his enemy’s arm. But the situation was hopeless. Ghyrryn was too seriously wounded. Blood was streaming down his injured arm and he was limping … and his enemy seemed to be an unstoppable wall of muscle.
But Ghyrryn was clever. He wasn’t trying to fight; he was getting the ogre to move. As he parried and cut, Ghyrryn was circling, forcing his foe to turn … and then the creature’s back was to Thorn. She was still on the ground, pinned beneath the fallen wolf, and he had forgotten her.
She pushed the wolf aside. Her ribs ached and the room spun as she rose to her knees, but she forced herself to focus. As she climbed to her feet, Ghyrryn fell; the ogre knocked the gnoll’s weapon out of his grasp and forced him to the ground. She had no more time: setting aside her doubt, pushing away the pain, Thorn threw Steel.
The ogre raised his blade. The blow would surely shatter Ghyrryn’s skull. But he paused at the height of his arc and the blade slipped through his fingers to clatter to the floor. Steel was lodged in the base of his neck, and this time the blow was good. The ogre’s fingers flexed convulsively, and his limbs went limp. The floor rumbled when he fell.
“And I wanted … a challenge,” Thorn said. She sat down on the floor, struggling to catch her breath.
Gnolls were a tough lot, and Ghyrryn rose to his feet. He picked up his axe and prodded the body; the beast was dead. He looked at Steel, and Thorn raised her hand. Return, she thought, and the dagger pulled free from the corpse and flew to her fist. “Smaller than a crossbow,” she said. She gingerly rose to her feet, waiting to see what the gnoll would do.
Ghyrryn knelt over the ogre for a moment, his fingers working