Son of Khyber: Thorn of Breland (10 page)

Thorn had to agree. “You want us to steal from a forgehold?”

House Cannith were the master artificers of Khorvaire, and it was their hands that had built the warforged and untold wonders besides. Infiltration was a specialty of hers, and she’d made her way into the arcane libraries of Aundair and the sacred crypts of Karrnath … but this was another matter entirely.

“Fear not, children of Khyber.” Dreck’s voice was calm. “Our leader would not send so few to face such a challenge. Our quarry is in Dragon Towers, well beyond the fortress walls of the Cannith enclave. Speed and force are called for. We leave none alive who can tell the tale, and we will travel directly to the depths thereafter.”

“And what of the grayblood trackers?” Fileon said. “How will you evade the eyes of House Tharashk?”

“Bah!” Brom dismissed these concerns with a wave of his left hand. His left arm was muscular and strong but seemed crippled next to his massive right limb. “We travel on the orders of the Son of Khyber and are guided by the wisdom of our steel brother. Do you think either would leave such matters to chance?”

“I know that Thora Tavin would never do such a thing,” Fileon said. “It was her hands that brought our house together, and she never set us against Cannith or Tharashk. Would you call down their wrath upon us when there is so much work yet to be done?”

Dreck held up the Deneith brooch. “Lady Tavin gathered the army, Shaper. The Son of Khyber will lead us to battle. Destiny unfolds, and he leads us down the path. And so you will walk with us tonight. You will watch for wards and deal with any guardians who cross your path. Brom will apprehend the target. Leave all other concerns to me.”

“As you wish,” Fileon said. He glanced at Thorn, and his eyes were cold. As if she were to blame.

Dreck spread a map across the table, an architect’s sketch of a manor tower. “The strife of others is our fortune. We have been following a marital dispute between two of the wealthiest Cannith heirs in the city. They severed their bond two weeks ago. Growing tensions caused the lady Ilena d’Cannith to purchase property beyond the house enclave.” He gestured at the map. “Torran Spire has been a Cannith holding for less than a week. We will surely have to overcome basic Kundarak seals and wards, but they have not had the time to place those defenses you fear, Shaper of the Young.”

“Hostiles?” Thorn asked.

“Minimal household staff. Ilena has yet to establish her household. What guards are present are likely to be automatons—golems or homunculi trusted to watch the house in the absence of its lady.”

This was reassuring. There was nothing to be done about Sorghan’s death, but Thorn didn’t want to make a habit of killing her supposed clients. At the same time, Sorghan’s voice echoed in her mind: No one of tainted blood could ever sit at Alder’s table. It’s time we destroyed Tarkanan’s brood. Beginning with you.

Perhaps that hate was misplaced. Thorn had studied every inch of her skin before returning to Fileon, and she still found no trace of an aberrant dragonmark. Nonetheless, when she thought of the venom in Sorghan’s voice, the hatred in his eyes, it was hard to muster much sympathy for the man. She still didn’t know if she was an aberrant or not, but little Zae, the rat girl, was and she didn’t deserve to die because of it.

Dreck’s voice pulled her from her reverie. He ran a finger along the map. “You will enter here, beloved, with the shaper by your side. Follow this path to the servants’ entrance. With fortune’s favor, you won’t encounter any further resistance. You need not kill any you find, but do not hesitate to do so. Brom and I will wait beyond this door. Once you have opened it, we shall proceed to our target.”

“And Lady Ilena?” Thorn asked. She didn’t want to kill a Cannith heir, but she’d prefer not to be seen by one.

“Attending the Tain Gala this evening. I trust that her most capable guards will be with her. She won’t return until the turning of the bells.”

“Very well,” Fileon said. “Let us be about this. But know this, Dreck. I will have words with the Son of
Khyber when this is done. I see only darkness on the path ahead, and this is the last time I do his bidding unquestioned.”

“Understood, Shaper,” Dreck said. “I am certain that he will ask nothing further of you, once this night is done. But let us finish this final task as brothers.” He placed his hand against the map, and the emerald lines of his dragonmark pulsed across his face. “Cannith awaits.”

Torran Spire was on the very edge of Dragon Towers, clinging to the vast central column that supported most of the district. Mystical security aside, the doors were reinforced and barred from within. And so Thorn and Fileon made their way to a back window. The challenge soon became clear: the back of the spire projected out and away from Dragon Towers, and it was thousands of feet to the rocky shores of the Dagger River far below.

Despite his complaints, Fileon took point, and he proved surprisingly capable. The halfling made no sound as he slid up along the wall of Torran Spire, finding the slight irregularities in the stone with practiced ease. Even his withered arm proved no handicap, and Thorn guessed that there was magic at work, some spell supplementing his skill. Thorn, dressed in the simple black clothing she favored for silent work, followed at his heels. Thorn’s dark garb was enchanted to draw the shadows to her, helping her hide from sight. Wind whipped around her, tugging at her clothes and whistling in her ears.

Fileon had reached their target: a large window with enough of a ledge for the halfling to stand on. A gargoyle crouched over the casement, its frozen snarl
revealing a fierce array of granite teeth. Such decorations were common enough in this city of towers, and Fileon gave it only a cursory glance before producing his tools and setting to work on the window.

Thorn wasn’t so confident. The gargoyle was as still as any statue, its dark skin a perfect match for the frame of the wide window. But there was a chill in the base of her spine—a shiver emanating from the crystal shard that set her on edge.

“
Shalitar,”
she whispered, in the first tongue ever spoken on Eberron.
Spider
.

The air resonated with the power of the word, and Thorn let that energy flow through her, along her limbs and into her hands and feet. To this point, it had been strength and skill alone that allowed her to scale the wall. Now the touch of the spider held her fast to the surface, even as she let go with one hand to draw Steel. She couldn’t speak without alerting Fileon, but she didn’t have to. Steel could feel her touch, and they had codes for such situations. She pointed the blade at the gargoyle and traced a cross along the hilt.
Threat analysis
.

Little of note. A simple arcane lock on the window itself, but your companion seems to have that in hand. If it’s the statue you’re worried about, I sense no magical emanations
.

That’s a start, Thorn thought. But she wasn’t about to let her guard down. She studied the statue, imagining what the beast would be like if it spread its wings and took flight, if life came into the granite eyes. What would it take to bring down such a creature? Thorn had been trained in the arts of assassination and knew many ways to cripple a human, dwarf, or elf. But Eberron offered many challenges to the would-be killer. Where would a gargoyle hide its
heart? If she couldn’t rely on striking a vital organ with that first blow, what gave the best odds of crippling the creature?

Paranoia and preparation paid off. Thorn heard a faint
click
as Fileon pulled at one of the casement panels—and then the gargoyle was in motion. It moved with inhuman speed, catching the halfling before Thorn had time to react. The beast drove one palm into Fileon’s forehead, knocking him backward and off the ledge.

He might have been crippled and caught by surprise, but Fileon’s reflexes were remarkable. He spun in midair, reached out, and caught hold of the very edge of the ledge. He slammed into the wall below, but he kept his grip on the outcropping, hanging off the edge of Torran Spire. Blood was flowing into his eyes from the gash on his forehead, and his hands were scraped raw.

Even as Fileon was falling from the ledge, Thorn was in motion. She flung Steel at the beast’s eye, which was no longer stone. Regardless of whether there was a true brain behind it, few creatures with eyes could afford to lose them. But hitting such a target while hanging from a wall was no small task. Thorn struck close to the mark, but not close enough—and the gargoyle’s skin was nearly as tough as the stone it resembled. Steel caught the beast directly between the eyes with enough force to snap its head back, but the blade didn’t penetrate the skin.

Thorn had drawn the creature’s attention away from Fileon, but there wasn’t a moment to lose. Once the gargoyle took to the air, it would have the advantage—and that was assuming that it stayed to fight, instead of fleeing to warn its mistress. Trusting in the spider charm, Thorn pulled her left hand free of the wall and
ran directly up to the gargoyle, the magic holding her feet to the stone. The enchantments woven into Steel drew him back to her, and she caught him without thinking. Yet Steel would not serve for the task ahead. While she preferred to fight with finesse, sometimes sheer force was required. With a thought, she pulled Steel into the pocket of space bound into her glove and drew out the weapon that had been held within. It was the myrnaxe, the brutal weapon forged in the fires of Droaam.

While she hadn’t crippled the creature, Thorn’s blow had at least staggered the gargoyle. Now it was the focus of all her senses. She could see it straightening, its wings spreading to catch the air. Not fast enough!

Thorn sprinted past the struggling Fileon and straight along the glass of the closed windowpane, then she slammed into the gargoyle. She caught it with the iron-shod haft of the myrnaxe, and it felt as if she’d struck a wall. Yet it was sufficient. The gargoyle stumbled back, falling down against the roof. Without sparing a moment for thought, Thorn raised the myrnaxe and brought the spear end down against its chest, striking the spot where a human would keep his heart. Instinct and training guided her hands, but what happened next was enough to jolt her from her trance. She’d expected resistance. She’d seen how Steel bounced off its hide. Instead, she felt nothing at all as the spear slid through the gargoyle. Her hands were touching its chest, and she realized that she’d pierced the roof of the building.

The surprise came with a cost. The wound would have surely driven a human into the ground, but the gargoyle was more resilient. The roof vanished in a flash of pain as the gargoyle smashed the back of one stony hand across Thorn’s face.

Thorn staggered back across the roof, struggling to keep her balance. If not for the spider charm, she would have fallen. She called Steel into her hand, preparing for the gargoyle’s leap. But it never came. The creature was thrashing against the roof, flailing with its arms and legs. It was impaled by Thorn’s spear and, try as it might it, could not pull free. Shingles flew, and the beast carved deep gouges into the stone, but it could not stand. Mercifully, it was silent.

Thorn circled the pinned gargoyle. “I might not know how to kill you,” she whispered. “But I’m sure I can figure something out.”

Dispatching the gargoyle proved to be a simple if gruesome task. The greater challenge was prying the myrnaxe free of the corpse. The spear had sunk deep into the stone, and whatever strength had allowed her to strike the blow had faded.

“Be swift!” Fileon hissed behind her. As Thorn had anticipated, the halfling had been able to pull himself up on his own. Thorn held her tongue, devoting all her energy and attention to the axe. At last it slid free, and she drew it back into her glove.

“You waste our time,” Fileon whispered, but he nonetheless extended his good hand and helped Thorn down to the ledge.

“Sorry. I thought it might be a good idea to save your life. I’m sure you’d do the same in my place.”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t.” Fileon was still holding Thorn’s hand, and as he spoke, Thorn saw his dragonmark gleaming on his withered arm.

Before she could react, she felt a terrible numbness spread throughout her body—and then she felt nothing at all.

Fileon pulled his hand free, and there was something like sorrow in his eyes as he looked up at her. “I
truly wish there was another way, sister. I had hoped you’d be crippled by the Deneith blade, but I should have known better than to trust in one of them. It seems I am my only ally—along with the gargoyle that killed you. It seems the Son of Khyber will have to alter his plans.”

Don’t be a fool, Thorn thought. Try as she might, she couldn’t move a muscle. She could only stare into Fileon’s eyes and hope he would see reason. She saw no hatred in his gaze. If anything, there was true sorrow.

Shaking his head, he pushed her off the ledge.

Dragon Towers