Keith Baker - The Queen of stone

Something wasn't quite right. When Thorn first laid eyes upon them, a chill passed through the crystal shard at the base of her spine, and that faint sensation lingered as the strangers approached the gnolls.

Two more wolves arrived. While fierce in demeanor, these were the sort Thorn was accustomed to-strong and better fed than those she'd seen in the King's Forest, but no match for the beast that led this pack into the grove. Despite their mundane appearance, Thorn felt the chill again as one of the wolves passed her hiding place.

"My mother sends her greetings, brother Gharn." The elf spoke. His voice was soft and clear, and Thorn heard a hint of menace in his tone. It was clear that he held himself above the gnolls.

The armored gnoll inclined his head. "The children of Zaeurl are welcome in this place. Reveal our enemy." Like Ghyrryn, Gharn spoke in statements, never asking a question. He was almost three feet taller than the elf. Yet instead of barking out orders as he had on the plaza in Graywall, he was almost polite.

The half-orc threw his burden to the ground, and the wrappings fell away. It was a harpy-or the remains of one. Her wings were fractured in multiple places, her feathers were soaked with blood, and Thorn could see pale bone protruding from flesh. Her broken wings were wrapped around her body like a cloak and bound with heavy rope. Her face was bruised, her chin stained crimson, and Thorn thought she was dead. Then her eyes opened. The harpy stared right at Thorn. Yet even if the harpy had seen Thorn, her eyes were empty. She was broken, little better than dead.

"Wind Howlers," the elf said, placing his heel on one of the broken wings and grinding his foot against it. "As expected. Callain couldn't resist such choice prey, not with the storm approaching."

"Callain lives." Again, a statement, not a question.

"Such were my orders." The elf prodded the harpy again, but received no reaction. "The old bird's working with one of the others-the Ashlord, Tzaryan Rrac, Sheshka-and our ladies wish to draw out the game. You're to take this one with you to the Crag for questioning." He reached into a pouch, producing a piece of glistening pink flesh. "I made sure to find one that knew how to write."

He tossed the tongue to Gharn, who closed his fist around it. "Go, then. Guard our path on the journey ahead."

Perhaps Gharn had grown too bold, too dismissive. The half-orc scowled, his hand falling to the haft of a hatchet. The massive wolf drew its lips back from vicious teeth… and spoke.

"Mind your tongue, two-legs," it snarled, its voice deep and rough. "Or we may take yours next. Watch how you speak to the blessed."

The gnolls raised their weapons and shields, and Ghyrryn barked out a phrase in their strange tongue. Wolf and gnoll faced each other, teeth bared.

And then Thorn's knee slipped against the soft ground and damp grass. Perhaps she'd leaned too far forward, trying to see the wounded harpy. Maybe it was a cruel trick of a malevolent god. She caught herself with her left hand and saved herself from tumbling into the ghoulbriar. But it was too late. When she looked up, all eyes had turned toward her.

The Duurwood Camp Droaam Eyre 12, 998 YK

Fight, or flee? Make a run for it, trusting the poisoned barbs of the ghoulbriar to slow pursuit? Stand tough and take down as many monsters as possible? Shift to nightclothes and play dumb? Had it only been Ghyrryn or even Gharn, the last option might work. But the image of the harpy's broken wings and empty eyes chilled her, and she didn't want to fall into the hands of this wolf pack. They might not hit the briar, and she couldn't outrun a wolf. She'd fight.

She reached her conclusion in less than a second, and her enemies hadn't moved. On the heels of their argument, both sides were cautious, waiting for the other to act. The tension broke when the elf moved forward, drawing a curved sword with one hand as he gestured to his wolves with the other. Thorn prepared for the attack.

A burst of sound and motion shook the briars and branches to her left. All heads turned, including Thorn's. A bird of prey-a hawk with dark feathers and a wide wingspan-broke through the canopy and rose into the moonlit sky. In a second, it was gone.

Thorn froze, holding her breath. Unless the breeze changed, she was still downwind from the wolves. As long as they blamed the disturbance on the bird…

"Go," said Gharn. He turned back to the hunters. Behind him, Ghyrryn and the other gnolls were ready for battle. "You have your task. Leave us to ours."

The elf stared at the horned gnoll, then glanced over his shoulder, following the path of the bird. "Very well, brother," he said, a razor edge to his soft words. "Have no fear. We'll be watching your path all the way to the Great Crag." His eyes drifted to Ghyrryn. "And beyond."

Ghyrryn gave a low, trilling whine, staring at the elf. The large wolf growled again, but this time the elf turned his back on the gnolls. "Come," he said, beckoning to his wolves. "We have other matters to attend to."

The gnolls remained until the hunters and their beasts were out of sight. Then they huddled together, hooting and growling. Thorn couldn't understand their words-but she could see that Gharn was angry and taking it out on Ghyrryn. Finally, one of the other gnolls picked up the wounded harpy and the quartet turned back to their camp.

"All I'm saying is that I wasn't the one who almost got us both killed."

"Which is a miracle, with all the noise you were making. I've seen drunken tribex quieter than you. Perhaps it was my fear that they'd hear you that caused me to slip."

"And yet-"

"Fine." Thorn said. "I acknowledge your skill, mighty Drego. Your gifts, and your gifts alone, prevented that battle, saved our lives, and avoided an international incident that would have sent the world spiraling into war."

"There's no need to exaggerate," Drego said reproachfully.

"Once I start, it's hard to stop."

Drego and Thorn sat in the woods on the edge of the Brelish-Thrane campsite. Jharl had spotted them as they returned to camp, but Thorn had already changed her clothes to her traveling gown. As she explained to the gnoll, the two were just enjoying the night and debating the issues that lay between their two nations.

"Impressive work, though," Thorn said. "You summoned the hawk, and the casting didn't break your invisibility. But why didn't I hear the words of the spell? Summoning can be noisy magic."

"Not for me," Drego said. He waved a finger in the air, and a spark of silver light flickered on the tip.

Duly noted, Thorn thought. She knew it was possible to cast spells without speaking-certainly a useful talent for a spy. But it took vastly more energy to cast a silent spell, and it was a difficult skill to learn; Thorn had tried with no success. It occurred to her that the Thrane minister Luala had remained silent while performing her healing magic earlier… apparently, the Thranes had a gift for it. Still, it was unwise of him to flaunt it. Now she knew that if she ever needed to subdue Drego, she'd need more than a gag.

Drego stared into the tiny flame. Thorn reached out and ran her fingers gently across his other hand. "So what happens now?" she said.

Her touch broke his concentration and the spark of light vanished. He turned to meet her gaze. His eyes were gray, but the light of the moons turned them silver. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not proposing marriage, and if I see you in Breland I'll probably cut your throat. But as long as it's us versus them… I think we can work together."

"I'm glad to hear it." He smiled, lifting her hand and touching his lips to her gloved fingers. "And the marriage will have to wait until you convert, anyhow. I have my faith to consider."