The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland

T
he scents of sweat and blood filled the common room of the Bloody Tooth. A minotaur covered in matted black fur bellowed in triumph as he shook blood from his horns. Across the room, a tattooed ogre fell back against the rough stone wall of the tavern, baring three-inch fangs as she clutched her gory shoulder. As the horned beast moved forward to seal his victory, the ogre suddenly rose to her full nine-foot height. A swift snap of her hand sent her blood flying into the eyes of the minotaur. The crowd roared its approval as the two giants grappled again. The shrill voices of goblins mingled with the deeper cries of brutish bugbears and the chortling laughter of hyenalike gnolls. Gargoyles hissed and scratched the floor with stony talons, and the only two dwarves in the bar set aside their bone dice to concentrate on the match. As the brawlers clashed, onlookers spread slivers of precious metal and the teeth of fierce beasts on the tables and floor, tokens of value in a nation yet to mint a coin.

None of the patrons noticed the woman in black as she moved along a wall, just another shadow in the faint and flickering light. Thorn wasn’t the only woman of the Five Nations in the Bloody Tooth, but anyone with human
blood in this place was likely a cutthroat, bandit, or worse. Thorn had no friends in that tavern—not even the man she had agreed to meet.

Thorn slid a short dagger from its sheath, keeping the dark blade hidden behind her forearm. In this room, bare steel would be seen as a challenge, and the last thing she needed was a fight with a drunken bugbear.

“Where’s your gold?” she murmured quietly into the stale air. “Scars or horns?”

You’re looking for a goblin
. The voice was a cool whisper, as clear as if the speaker were breathing into her ear, but Thorn knew no one else could hear it.
I’m searching for the amulet now
.

“The ogre’s a safe bet,” Thorn said as another cheer rose from the crowd. “You’re just afraid to take a chance.”

I have nothing to wager
. Steel’s voice was detached and indifferent.
And I question your judgment. The ogre has already been injured twice. Her opponent possesses superior natural weaponry. I expect the contest to end soon
.

“I’m sure it will,” Thorn said. “Look at the scars. She’s seen worse than this. He hasn’t.”

As if in answer, a roar rose up from the center of the room. As the minotaur charged, the ogre caught his horns in her calloused hands. Grunting from the exertion, she slammed the black-furred beast face-first into the stone floor. The minotaur spat blood and broken teeth, struggled to pull free as the ogre raised him up for another blow.

Thorn smiled. “Where’s the mark?”

The aura is strong, but it’s out of sight. The crevasse in the left corner. He’s about seven feet down the passage
. The southern wall of the Bloody Tooth was a sheer rock face, marred by a number of crevasses and small tunnels.
Gnoll tunnels
, Steel explained.
This place must have been a lair. The young seek spaces too small for their parents to interfere with them
.

“A game?” Thorn said, dodging around a chanting
gargoyle as she moved toward the tunnel mouth. Behind her, the crowd cried out again as the ogre smashed her enemy into the floor.

If you call murder a game. They’re quite competitive
.

“Lovely.” Thorn paused at the edge of the passage. A goblin—or young gnoll—might have no difficulty fighting in the tunnel, but it would be a tight fit for her. “Is he alone?”

I can sense only magical emanations. There’s one additional aura. I believe it’s some type of container, but it’s difficult to read. It’s an excellent abjuration effect—it can’t have been made by his own kind
.

“So you don’t know what’s inside.”

No. But I can tell you it’s more than it appears. I doubt there’s a sorcerer in this city who would notice even that
.

“Fine. Let’s go.” She slipped the dagger into its sheath and stepped out of the tavern and into the dark passage. As Thorn squeezed through a tight corner, her vision shifted into a different spectrum, each stone highlighted in sharp black and white. Thorn slid a finger along her enchanted ring that provided this gift. As useful as it was in her line of work, Thorn was still uncomfortable with darkvision. She’d received the ring only two months ago, just before the mission at Far Passage.

The crevasse came to an abrupt end. A goblin sat on the floor, a rough burlap bag at his side. He wore the gray rags of a laborer, and his skin was covered with dirt and sores. Looking up at Thorn, he plucked a withered tick from one leg and swallowed it.

Thorn saw no sign of weapons or wands, and at this range she could strike before he could complete the workings of a spell. But the Silent Knives of Darguun were trained to kill with their bare hands, and Thorn knew better than to underestimate the little man. She dropped into a crouch and held out her hands, palms up. “Silence is sharp as a blade,” she said.

“Yes,” said the goblin, his voice low. “Thorn of Breland, is it?”

Thorn gave a slight nod. “Kalakhesh of Darguun?”

“Yes,” the goblin said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “Many tales I’ve heard of you, lady. Much for one so young, though perhaps it is the long-eared blood in your veins that keeps your skin so smooth. I felt sorrow when I learned of the death of Magister ir’Torath of Arcanix … all his research lost in that remarkable fire that consumed both house and bone.”

“It’s always a tragedy when knowledge is destroyed.” Thorn said. “I remember hearing about the Arcanix blaze in Sharn, when I was serving with the Royal Guard.” She smiled, but behind the mask she was surprised. Not even the Royal Eyes of Aundair knew she’d killed the old wizard, yet it was clear that the goblin knew the truth.

“Oh, so you were not involved?” Kalakhesh smiled. “Pardons—we know so little of your nations. And the damage at Far Passage, you were surely not part of this. We know your Citadel was the moving hand, but it is said all those involved were killed. And here you stand.”

Thorn stiffened, hating herself for reacting, knowing that the goblin had seen it. She could still hear Dellan’s screams. And she still carried the crystal shards of the explosion in her flesh, embedded in her neck and spine. The stone at the base of her skull pulsed, the pain as sharp as a dagger pressed against her neck.

“We have business in the here and now,” she said, ignoring the pain. “I suggest we tend to it.”

“Yes,” the goblin said. “We do have that.” He slid a hand into the worn sack on the floor, producing a large book bound in black leather and gilded with strips of gold. The image of a sword gleamed on the spine, inlaid with bright silver. A figure in relief rose up from the cover—the full-sized image of a man’s face. Strong features, jaw set, a slight cleft to his chin … familiar, but too faint to recognize.

“I’ll need to verify it,” Thorn said.

“Do as you must. My hand does not leave until I am paid, and it would be unwise to try to remove it any other way.”

Thorn nodded. The goblin hid his feelings well, but she could see the tension in his stance, preparation for battle or betrayal. But she intended neither. She drew her dagger and passed it slowly over the heavy book. The furrow of crimson steel running down the center of the blade burned with a faint light. Thorn said nothing, waiting for the whisper in her mind.

Tell him to open it
, Steel said.

Thorn relayed the request, and Kalakhesh turned to a random page. Light filled the room, vellum glowing with a pale white radiance. The image of a knight in silver armor facing a dragon with blood-red scales and flames dripping from its vast maw caught Thorn’s eye. The artistry was astonishing, both the sharpness of the lines and the brilliance of the color. Thorn half expected the flames to burn through the page, or to see the image take life as the warrior leaped to dodge the snapping jaws. With a conscious effort, she pulled her eyes away from the picture and glanced at the facing page.