The Queen of Stone_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [88]
“Until the Last War,” Thorn said. She knew that medusas had taken part in the battles along the western frontier.
“Yes,” Sheshka said, drawing out the word. “I did join my forces to the banner of Droaam. After centuries of silence, I felt it was time to speak. Now … I am still uncertain.”
A new chorus of howls rose into the moonlit sky, and this time they sounded closer.
“As much as I enjoy discussing politics … you said you had few allies here. I’m hoping ‘few’ isn’t ‘none’.”
“Have no fear, Thorn. My people are masters of stonework; it may be the ogre’s strength that shifts the blocks, but it is the medusa’s eye that places them. Together we will find the foreman. His companions will be architects and artists, but even the Dark Pack will be careful about falling under their gaze. Follow me. Silence is the wisest course for the journey.”
Thorn nodded. She hated to let the medusa take the lead. This was exactly the sort of operation Thorn was trained to handle. But Sheshka knew where they were going. Thorn would have to be satisfied with staying out of sight and keeping the queen alive. To that end, she returned the axe to the space within her glove and drew Steel. If they fought a wolf, she’d pull the silver. But for now, she wanted something she could throw.
“Lead the way,” she said.
Thorn was little more than a ghost in the moonlight. Her cloak was enchanted to gather the shadows, and her gray and black clothing blended into the broken stone. Though the surface was rough and uneven, Thorn left no trace of her passage, made no sound as she moved. She was a Dark Lantern of the King’s Citadel; stealth was her armor. But Sheshka was a surprise. The medusa queen might be no match for Thorn, but she was no clumsy aristocrat. She was as comfortable in the ruins as she’d been descending the slick tunnels of the sewers. Sheshka might not be a spy, but she was certainly an accomplished huntress.
Sheshka seemed to find every shadow, clinging to cover wherever it could be found. All too soon, they stumbled upon the revelers. Thorn had seen the people of Droaam at play in Graywall when ogre fought minotaur in the pit of the Bloody Tooth. Compared to the Midnight Dawn, the scene at the Bloody Tooth had been as calm as a noble’s picnic.
Gargoyles darted through the sky, striking at each other with feathered rods. A trio of changeling skindancers was spinning around, flesh shifting with every step, accompanied by frenzied orc drummers. Goblins leaped through rings of fire. Trolls wrestled, using full force of tooth and claw. These beasts healed at an astonishing rate, and most of their wounds were sealed as soon as they were opened. They possessed terrifying strength; a roar went up as Sheshka slipped past a fighting ring, and Thorn saw the victor brandishing the arm of his opponent over his head.
Farther on, several giants were flinging chunks of rubble at one another. The rock-throwing seemed a sport, and the brutes had a knack for snatching stones out of the air just before they struck. The scent of blood was strong, and Thorn soon saw a giant clutching his shattered arm; apparently the game was just as dangerous as it appeared.
Trolls, ogres, giants, goblins, orcs, harpies, gargoyles … and wolves. Wolves were everywhere, in all shapes and sizes. Some were the gray wolves Thorn expected to see preying on the sheep of Eldeen farmers. But there were black wolves. Dire wolves the size of horses, with thick hides and fearsome claws. Wolves seemed to be speaking to others around them. Other beasts were in the streets, but a wolf lurked in every shadow, snarling or howling at the moons.
Thorn felt sweat bead on her skin as they slipped through the city. Time and again a wolf raised its head to taste the air as she moved past. Yet time and again, luck, skill, and magic saw her through.
But luck never lasts, skill can be matched, and magic fades away. They were finally moving away from the celebration when they passed under a