Free The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland by Keith Baker

up to the bridge, she discovered chaos. Diplomats demanded explanations from guards who couldn’t hear them, and gnolls struggled to get everyone moving away from the bridge. They called a halt to regroup as soon as they were a safe distance from the span, and the deafening effects of the thunderstones finally faded.
    After some animated discussion, growling, and whining, the gnolls drew the entire group off the main road and into a forest, setting up camp beneath the gnarled trees. With the camp settled, the surviving gnolls drew together and appeared to be evaluating the damage and determining how to proceed. Movement in the sky caused a stir among the travelers, but it proved to be the gargoyles bringing salvaged supplies from the shattered wagons.
    Night was falling, and the light from the full moons fell through the trees. The passengers of the blue wagon sat around a crackling fire, watching one another uneasily. Jharl, the gnoll tracker who had ridden in their wagon, studied the sky silently, outside the circle, an arrow held to his bowstring. The buzz of flies filled the air, and Thorn fought to push the image of writhing broodworms out of her mind.
    The old elf approached Toli. The bodyguard had bandaged his own wound, but he winced whenever he shifted his weight. The priestess reached out her hand, but Toli pulled away, glaring at her.
    “Minister Luala only wishes to tend your wounds,” Drego said. “She’s a gifted healer. Unless you enjoy pain?”
    “I’ll take the pain over the touch of a Thrane,” Toli said, glaring across the bonfire.
    “In this, she acts not as an emissary of Thrane, but as a servant of the Silver Flame,” Drego said, and the old woman nodded gravely. “We both lost comrades in this attack, and you fought to defend us all. The light of the Flame touches any brave heart, regardless of your nation or your faith. Let us ease your pain.”
    The minister reached out again, and this time Toli pushed her hand aside. “I saw the light of your Flame at Vathirond, Thrane. I wasn’t defending you, and I don’t want your help.”
    Thorn said nothing, watching as the silent priestess returned to the other side of the fire. She understood his anger. The city of Vathirond lay on the border with Thrane and what had once been Cyre. Few Brelish towns had suffered as much during the war, and it took more than a few years of peace to ease the tensions of a century of war.
    Soon a gnoll hunter arrived, carrying a brace of large rabbits. Jharl prepared them over the flame, quartering them with his knife and passing chunks out to the travelers. With no spices and only water to wash it down, it wasn’t a meal worthy of the Twilight Palace, but it was better than nothing. Beren and Drego took turns asking for explanations of the attack, but all Jharl would say was, “Wait.”
    At last, the black-furred gnoll emerged from the deepening shadows around their camp. Jharl rose and bowed his head to Ghyrryn, and the larger gnoll addressed the travelers.
    “No delegate is dead,” he said. There was no hint of apology in his stance or his voice. “You travel in the morning.”
    Beren was on his feet. “I’ll need a better explanation than that, lad. Who did this? How do we know you weren’t involved?”
    “You are alive,” the gnoll growled.
    He’s got a point, Thorn thought. Despite her earlier doubts, if the gnolls had turned on the travelers on the bridge, it would have been a bloodbath.
    “Then who was responsible? Will they come after us again?”
    “We will know by morning. Before we travel.” Everything Ghyrryn said was a statement. If he had any doubts, he didn’t show them. “A messenger is sent ahead. Troops from the Crag will secure the way.”
    “And they couldn’t have done that sooner?” The silver embroidery on Drego’s doublet glittered in the firelight.
    “No need was seen. No delegate is dead.”
    The bear was the symbol of Breland, and in his anger, Beren had the menace of