Keith Baker: The Queen of stone

Her first impression was of his face. He looks like King Boranel, she thought, knowing that was madness. The strong brow, prominent nose, wide cheekbones, even the thin mustache and goatee… all strikingly reminiscent of Breland's king. Of course, the creature's head was twice the size of Boranel's, and his bloodstained mouth was lined with a double row of vicious teeth. Red, leathery wings spread out as the creature met her gaze, revealing the tawny flanks of a lion. A manticore.

Thorn had seen manticores before. During a mission in the Mror Holds, she was set upon by a gang of dwarf separatists mounted on manticores. This beast was larger than she remembered, his features less bestial than his Mror cousins. And where the eastern manticores had clusters of quills along their tails, this beast had a scorpion's barb. Wings and stinger… part wyvern, she thought idly. And part king. I wonder what Steel will make of this.

"Are you hungry, little one?" the manticore rumbled. Blood dripped onto the stones as he spoke. "You're welcome to a leg. I assume you don't want an arm."

He leaned down and Thorn heard the crack of snapping bone. When he rose again, a human arm dangled from his jaws. Then Thorn saw the bare and bloody torso, the stump of the neck-the corpse of a centaur. The manticore raised his head and wolfed down the arm, keeping one eye fixed on Thorn as he swallowed.

Though Thorn's first instinct was to flee, she held her ground. Compared to the mind flayer, this creature was almost mundane. And the manticore seemed more curious than aggressive; it was testing her.

It was an opportunity.

"I've had all the horse I can stomach for one evening. How's your appetite for flesh?"

"My hunger is all-consuming," the manticore replied. "But you have chosen your shape well. I have no taste for elf, and I see the taint of the old ones in your features." He sank his teeth into the centaur's chest, tearing out the heart and swallowing it. "What brings you to this place?"

"I wanted to take in the air." Thorn took a deep breath and managed not to choke. "I've heard so much about the night breezes of Droaam."

The manticore laughed, thunder echoing off the walls of the square. "I see there is strength within you, despite that fragile frame. But it's not safe to be walking the back paths at night, not with Olarune on the rise."

"That's what I've heard," Thorn said. "But I've never been one to take advice from strangers."

"And are we strangers?" The beast looked at her, a smile on his bloody lips.

Thorn was puzzled by the manticore's increasingly jovial demeanor, but it served her purposes. "Stranger than most."

"Yes," he said, "We are at that."

"Of course, the best place to take in the air is in the air," Thorn said. "Could you help me with that?" Masking her scent was a good plan, but flying out of the square would be even better.

The manticore considered this as he chewed on the centaur's other arm. "You would sit on my back? Hold fast to my mane?"

"That's what I had in mind."

"And you have no fear of my venom?" The stinger twitched, a drop of poison glistening on its tip. "My spite has laid dragons low."

"Give me your word that you'll give me safe passage and I'll trust you."

"And why would you say such a thing, little elfblood?"

"You have an honest face." The truth was harder to explain. She just believed it. She felt as if she'd seen this beast in a dream, that this had all happened before.

The manticore licked a paw and dabbed at his chin. "And the reward? What do you offer for the might of my wings?"

"What do you want?" Thorn knew this was coming, but she didn't know what to expect. The creature had no hands. Did he have any use for gems or gold?

"A story."

"Well, I'm no Phiarlan sage-singer, but-"

The beast laughed again, the rumble echoing around her. "No," he said. "It is your story that I wish to hear. A tale of my choosing, a truth from your past."

Thorn's doubt was echoed by the shard of crystal embedded in her neck. As her eyes narrowed, the stone grew warm and shivers of pain flowed along her spine. Did the beast know her true profession? Did it want some secret of the Lanterns?

"Very well," she said at last. "But it must be my story, and mine alone. I will not reveal any secrets that could harm my friends."

"Acceptable," the manticore said. He had cleaned the blood from his fur and face. He rose and stretched his front legs. His movements revealed powerful muscles-a sinuous grace in his leonine limbs, a touch of draconic majesty in his outstretched wings. He knelt before her. "Mount, lady. I will not harm you on this journey."

"And when we reach our destination?"

"You will not feel my sting under the light of these moons, little one," he replied. "You are safe until I have my story, and there will be another time for that."

Hardly a reassuring answer. But the image of Xorchylic still lingered in her mind, and the memory of the pale white eyes of the flayer drove Thorn onto the creature's back.

The manticore rose to his feet, and Thorn sank her fingers into his fur. She was already beginning to regret the decision. The Mror riders had saddles and stirrups.

"Before I take to the air, I should know where you wish to land."

"The Calabas," she said. "Someplace quiet. I don't want to cause a disturbance, especially at this hour."

"Of course." Thorn could feel the manticore's rumbling laughter shaking his sides. Then the beast leaped forward and rose sharply into the air, and suddenly laughter was the least of her worries.

Thorn didn't speak as they flew over the streets of Graywall. The wind drowned out all other sound. Thorn twisted on the creature's back, shifting her balance to keep from falling. Was this all a cruel game? The manticore promised that he wouldn't harm her, but that left Thorn free to kill herself.

Balancing on the creature's back took most of her concentration, but Thorn was able to take in the view of Graywall stretched below her.

Humans typically built cities on flat land, clearing obstacles from their way. Graywall was built in a mountain pass, a valley choked with tors and chunks of stone, but the city absorbed and assimilated them. Buildings merged into the edges of cliffs. Stonework was bound to hills that had served as lairs for gnolls and gargoyles long before the architects came. Beyond this blend of raw stone and artifice, the city had the same bizarre traits she'd noticed on the ground.

At a glance, the buildings seemed rough, functional, almost perfectly uniform. The roofs were an odd design-wide slabs of stone interlaced like a deck of cards, presumably supported by plaster or pillars below. The stone had the same subtle patterning she'd seen on the alley walls, and the faint shadows seemed to ripple in the moonlight, like the surface of a quiet pool. It was bright enough to discern each building under the light of the three moons, but the appearance would be quite different on a dark or cloudy night, when the moons hid their faces from the world.

The Calabas was something else entirely. It might have been plucked from another land and dropped into Graywall as punishment. This was the foreign quarter, home to merchants, explorers, exiles, and others who dared deal with the savage creatures of the west. Built by the architects of the dragonmarked House Tharashk, it was designed for the comfort of humans and their kin. Coldfire lanterns spread light across the streets. Ogres or trolls would have to crouch to fit through the doorways of most buildings, and many of the hostels and taverns had painted walls and windows of glass-sharp contrast to the stark stone of the city proper.

True to his word, the manticore descended in a quiet spot behind a Tharashk warehouse. Most of the inhabitants of the Calabas kept the hours of their homelands, and compared to the bustle outside the Bloody Tooth, the streets of the quarter were peaceful.