that opened to the sky. The golden face of the moon Nymm lay directly above them, and the crimson mist was beginning to overtake it.
A bizarre contraption lay below the moon-tunnel, a blending of crystal, iron, and what appeared to be molten brass, flowing and twisting through the air with no apparent support. Thirteen stone slabs were spread around the strange crystal flower-prison beds built for giants. But today, delegates and diplomats lay stretched out on the platforms, held in place by unseen manacles, or magic that froze the mind. There was Beren of Breland, Tharsul of Karrnath, Munta the Gray of the Gantii Vuus. And there was Jolira Jan Dorian of Zilargo, her throat cut and her blood flowing down her slab, seemingly absorbed by the pulsing crystal. Three of the delegates were already dead- one for each of the moons that had already passed over the shadowed hall.
A lone figure stood at the strange machine, adjusting the crystals and the flow of blood. He wore a long blue robe studded with golden stars, and around his neck the lunar orbs glowed with the power of the moons above. Drul Kantar, the Moonlord, glanced at the intruders and spoke. His voice was deep and gentle, the kindly teacher admonishing a tardy student.
'Leave me, children, and I will elevate you in the world to come. Soon hunter and prey will be divided. Leave me to my work and I will welcome you into my pride. Proceed with this impudence and you will brand yourselves my prey.'
'I know you by the orbs you wear, Drukan.' Harryn raised his sword above his head, and the blade flashed and rumbled. 'I swore to stand against you and your master, and tonight I will see that oath completed.'
Drul laughed, a calm and gentle chuckle. 'But I have no interest in fighting you, Harryn. Though I suppose I can spare these dogs.' He raised his hand and six of the envoys rose from their biers. They groaned as their bones twisted and muscles warped. To Thorn's horror, she saw Beren pulled into the shape of a lean gray wolf as he approached her, while old Munta the hobgoblin became a mighty boar. The newly transformed lycanthropes growled and grunted, until a gesture from the oni sent them loping across the floor.
'Don't kill them!' Thorn cried out to Harryn. It was no simple task. As a man, Beren was old, kind, and generous. As a wolf, he was driven by hatred and hunger, a mad desire to kill. Thorn smashed the beast in the side of the head with the flat of the axe. As long as they weren't striking with silver, the supernatural stamina of the creatures helped them shrug off the blows.
Stormblade resorted to crippling blows against the four who attacked him, breaking legs so the enemy could be left alive but helpless. Thorn focused on Munta and Beren. She refused to get blood on her spear; instead, she struck with the flat of her blade, using the long reach of the myrnaxe to hold the wolves at bay, and striking at crippling nerves whenever an opportunity arose. It was slow and dangerous, and time and again she caught tooth or tusk on the haft of her axe or against the mithral of her bracers. But she believed in her victory. She knew she could not lose. And while her unnatural strength didn't return, in time both boar and wolf collapsed and remained still.
'Drukan Moonlord!' Harryn called again. 'Your doom approaches. Two centuries I have waited. No more!' The blue-white light flared as the knight raised his sword above his head and charged at his enemy.
The oni chuckled. 'Harryn Stormblade. The storm is a thing of the wild-learn that lesson now.' He casually waved his hand and a mighty gust of wind swept across the hall. The gale knocked Thorn off her feet, smashing her against the far wall. Stormblade held his footing, but he couldn't move against the terrible force of the wind.
Drul raised his left hand, and thunder rumbled in the chamber. Blue-white light flashed again, but this time the lightning was the weapon of Drul Kantar. Bolts of energy rained down from the distant sky, ricocheting off the walls of the high tower before striking the battered knight. There was no escape. Crack! and Harryn staggered. Crack! and he dropped to his knees. Crack! one final bolt and he fell heavily to the floor.
Drul clenched his fist again, and Crack! Another bolt of lightning flared around Harryn. The knight was still. The pale blue giant seemed almost disappointed. 'Who knew destiny could be so easily thwarted?' he murmured.
'Not I,' Thorn said, thrusting her spear into his spine.
The wind had died when Drul had begun his fierce assault on Harryn. Thorn had neither the strength nor stamina of the knight, but stealth was her gift, and the oni never saw her approach. He howled with rage and pain, and Thorn pulled the spear free as he turned to face her. His howls changed from rage to mirth.
'A silver spear?' He roared with laughter. 'A silver spear? You might as well move the ocean with a spoon, child. You know not what you face. But I shall grace you with a vision of glory before you die.'
Another burst of wind threw Thorn backward. For a moment, she thought the ogre had exploded; he was surrounded by a cloud of blood and smoke. Then she realized that his wings had knocked her back, wings that seemed like flames-vast, leathery wings stained in red and black. He has the soul of a tiger, Harryn had told her, and so he did; he also had the head of a tiger, with bloody crimson stripes separated by bands of bottomless darkness. The only things that resembled the ogre lord were his size and mighty physique, and the collar of glowing orbs bound around his neck.
'Gaze upon true wonder,' he roared. 'Drulkalatar Atesh, the Feral Hand, speaker of the Wild Heart. Immortal and perfect, soldier of the first age and the age to come.' Lightning danced around his outstretched arms, wreathing the hooked talons that tipped each finger.
Thorn was stunned by the spectacle before her, torn by conflicting emotions. The most powerful of all was fear. She had seen many horrors in her life-she had faced a demon and survived. But she had never encountered anything with the sheer presence of Drulkalatar. He wielded the primal power of the predator-the feeling of the newly-shorn sheep staring into the eyes of the dire wolf. Yet there was something else.
Familiarity.
Thorn had never seen this creature before. She knew that, just as she knew she wouldn't be alive if she had. And yet, its shape, its voice, the light in its eyes, even the sense of fear… she'd seen it before. And there were voices, words in the back of her mind, whispers she couldn't quite hear.
She had no time to search her memory. As she'd stood frozen in fear and confusion, Drulkalatar had finished posturing.
'Had I the appetite, I would feast on your flesh, little half-elf.' The chamber shook with the sound of his voice. 'Instead, I will give you to the storm.'
As he raised his hands, time slowed to a crawl. Thorn could see the lightning flashing down toward her, brighter and stronger than anything he'd flung at Harryn. She knew the bolt would incinerate her, leaving burnt flesh and charred bones. She wanted to flee, but she was moving even more slowly than the lightning. She had no escape, just the delayed horror of watching…
Waiting…
When the bolt finally struck, it was almost a relief. Almost. The pain was beyond anything she'd ever felt. It tore through her, and she could feel her muscles snapping, her joints coming apart.
Then her mind exploded.
It lasted less than a second, but to Thorn it seemed a lifetime. When the smoke cleared, nothing remained of the Brelish spy.
In her place stood a dragon.
'Storm?' she said, and her breath was sulfur and heat. 'I prefer fire.'
CHAPTER THIRTY — FOUR
The Crag's Shadow Droaam Eyre 20, 999 YK
When the lightning struck her, Thorn gave in to madness. For a moment, everything fell away from her, and when it returned, every sensation was wrong. Her blood was on fire, searing heat spread throughout her veins, but there was no pain. The blaze within her was a comfort, warming her soul. She rose up and spread her wings, and only then did she realized that she had them. Her wings… her neck… her tail… what had become of her?
Two constants stood amidst the chaos. A needle of pain-the sharp agony of the stone set into the base of her skull. And the warm glow from the crystal at the base of her spine. Together they served as spiritual poles, as anchors for her thoughts. Clinging to these points made it easier to let go of the rest. It was akin to her sharpened senses; part of her already understood it, and Thorn only needed to surrender conscious thought to these instincts.
