Son of Khyber: Thorn of Breland (24 page)

Drego was watching her when she woke.

Her sleep had been mercifully free of dreams. As she rose from the darkness, she felt the dull ache of the shards burning against her spine—and she felt Drego. Even before she opened her eyes, she knew he was there. In part it was his scent, and in part she just
knew
that it was what he would do. He was bold, she had to give him that. And again she wondered why he was so interested. It had to be more than sheer physical attraction. They served different nations, and he had to know that she’d kill him if Breland demanded it. So what game was he playing?

She kept her eyes closed, her breathing slow. How long had he been standing there? How long would he wait?

Minutes past before he finally spoke. “Nyri,” he said softly. “Nyrielle. It’s time.”

She opened her eyes and stared at him. “I thought you’d keep your distance for a time, brother Drego. And in this place, my name is Thorn.”

“You’ve always been dangerous … Thorn. I could see that the first time we met. But whatever you may
think, I’ve never been your enemy. I know that you’ll see that in time. And I want to be close at hand when you do. I truly hate to take you out of bed, but the others are waiting.”

Thorn slid off the bunk, pulling her cloak from the floor. She ran a hand along its various hidden pockets, wondering if Drego had searched through its contents while she slept. It seemed unlikely. Drego’s strength lay in his magic, and while he might be able to weave a spell of invisibility, he had little talent for practical stealth. “Lead the way then. I think I’ll follow this time.”

There was a great deal of activity in the fortress. The canteen had been stripped, and Tarkanans were packing crates and dragging goods away. It seemed evacuation was the order of the day.

“I know I was a little brusque earlier,” Thorn said as they wove a path between the Tarkanan laborers. “I never expected to see you again, and that ‘plot to release a plague of werewolves’ kind of stayed with me. Can we start over?”

“I should like nothing better, sister Thorn.” He even sounded like he meant it.

“Good.” Thorn drew Steel, hiding the blade against her wrist. “So tell me, how have the last few months changed Drego Sarhain?”

Drego launched into the tale of how his comrades had rescued him from Droaam, and of heroic battles with dark forces in the months between. There was nothing of substance to the story, just as Thorn had expected. It was Steel’s report that she wanted to hear.

I’m afraid nothing has changed
, he whispered.
I sense no active enchantments or sources of magical energy
.

She’d feared as much. It was the same as her first meeting with Drego. It was highly unlikely that he
was operating without any sort of magical tools, which meant that he had a way of blocking divination. Thorn examined him, looking for clues. The belt was new, as was the darkwood wand hanging from a sheath—surely a tool for focusing his sorcerous powers. He wore a locket that she remembered from their last encounter. To her chagrin, she found her thoughts drifting as she studied him. He was a handsome man, quite athletic for someone who relied on magic to solve his problems. And while she knew his banter was just that, there was definitely electricity between them. It was unfortunate that she’d never truly be able to trust him.

His story was suspicious but not impossible. Under Galifar, the champions of the Silver Flame battled supernatural threats across the continent. And there were always tales of corruption within the church, especially in Breland.

Thorn tapped the hilt and quietly sheathed the dagger. They were passing through the Chamber of Bones, Drego lighting the way with a floating ball of argent flame, and it was time to prepare for her next meeting with the Son of Khyber.

Xu’sasar, Daine, and Brom were waiting for them. It seemed that the unorthodox surgery had worked. Brom was hearty as ever, and he’d even taken the time to hammer out the dents in his war gauntlet. Xu’sasar had polished her chitin armor, and the opalescent plates gleamed in the light of the cold fire. Her silver-white hair was a shroud of moonlight drifting around her slender frame. The vicious bone wheel in her hand was a reminder of her deadly talents.

If Daine had made any special preparations for the battle ahead, Thorn couldn’t see them. His boots were still crusted with the muck of the sewers, and there were bloodstains on his armor. The change was in his demeanor. The tension she’d felt earlier had vanished, and he smiled as he saw her.

“Well met, brother and sister,” he said. “I hope you are ready for the challenge that lies ahead.”

Thorn waved a hand. “Any day that goes by without battling an ancient force of evil is a day wasted, that’s what I always say.”

Now Daine’s smile was strained. “There is truth to what you say, but do not think to laugh at what we face. Drego, what we know of our quarry comes through you. Xu’sasar and Thorn know little of the danger. Please, explain.”

All eyes turned to Drego.

“Very well,” he said. “The first thing to understand is that there are worlds beyond the one we know, higher planes of existence and dark realms that lie just beyond the shadows. Potent spirits inhabit these planes, spawned by the sheer magical energies of these realms. There are many such spirits, from the devils of Shavarath to the treacherous rakshasa spawned by Khyber itself in the first age of our world. Angels are born of the highest realms within the Astral Sea. They are not gods, but many claim to serve the gods. And even the least among them wields fearsome power. Every angel embodies a particular concept. An angel of war may be straightforward enough, armed with a blade of fire and deadly skill. But the greater angels hold dominion over less tangible forces—joy, honor, even love. Some sages say that the angels watch over those mortals who embrace their values. Others believe that the angels are a reflection of the influence those
values have in the world, and that if honor leaves the world, its angels will fade.”

“You said this was a fallen angel,” Thorn said. “How’s that different from a devil?”

Drego shook his head. “The two are completely different. Devils are tied to dark concepts—hate, fear, greed. What we’re dealing with is a radiant idol, an angel punished for pride by being imprisoned on Eberron. It still possesses its original appearance, and its powers are still tied to its original dominion.”

“So who are we dropping in on tonight?”

“Do not speak this name casually,” Drego said, and there was no trace of his usual levity. He traced lines in the air as he continued. “You must understand the sheer power of the being we face. He has likely influenced the lives of thousands of your countrymen, Thorn, and just speaking his name could draw unwanted attention to us.” He made a last flourish in the air, and Thorn could just make out a translucent pattern of rippling arcane energy that dulled all sounds beyond and kept Drego’s voice close. “Tonight we shall destroy Vorlintar, the Voice of the Innocent and the Keeper of Hopes, Fifth among the Fallen of Syrania.”

The shimmering glyph burst into flame, burning without substance, and then it was gone.

“Call him by his titles,” Drego said, “But do not speak his name.”

“Keeper of Hopes?” Brom asked, and his chuckle echoed off the walls. “He doesn’t sound so terrible.”

“And he wasn’t, when he was a force for light. Now he holds to his dominions, but he has become a force for darkness. He is indeed the Keeper of Hopes—the hopes that he has stolen from all those who fall under his sway. He devours innocence, leaving pain and
despair. As we draw closer to his throne, you will feel his talons tearing at your mind. You must be strong and hold him at bay, for a clean death is far better than a life without hope.”

Daine spoke. “And when blades are drawn?”

“He is a creature of pure spiritual energy, not a being of flesh and blood. Iron will serve as a distraction but nothing more. He cannot be killed by it. He cannot be killed at all. Even if you tear him apart, his essence will reform.”

“And that is why I am here,” Daine said. He raised his left hand, and the lines of the mark roiled along his palm. “My mark can bind any soul, be it human, demon, or angel.”

“So why am I here?” Thorn asked. “Drego, you’re the tracker and exorcist. Lord Daine, you’re the binder of spirits. Brom brings brute force if it’s required. What do you need me for?”

Daine’s left eye gleamed as he looked at her. “We may face many challenges before we ever see the Keeper of Hopes. And my gift has its limits. Before I can take such a powerful spirit, we will need to weaken his resolve, distracting him with pain and battle. Beyond that …” Whatever he was going to say caught in his throat, and he fell silent for a moment. “You’ll know when the time comes. Until then, I’m charging you with the safety of your brother Drego. If we are to succeed in the tasks that lie ahead, we will need his skills. Xu’sasar is my shield. You will serve as Drego’s.”

Thorn glanced over at Drego. He winked at her.

“I’m sure that my lovely sister would never allow any harm to befall me,” he said. “Now if you’re all ready, let’s bring down an angel.”

Fallen

F
allen.” Thorn said. “It’s obvious, really. Where else would you find a fallen angel in Sharn?”

Lower Dura was one of the most miserable wards of Sharn. Dura was the oldest quarter of the city, and time had taken its toll on the lowest sections of the towers. Lower Dura was a wretched collection of slums and ghettoes, and Fallen was the worst of it. The same magic that empowered the flying buttresses enhanced all forms of flight and levitation, and the architects of the city had taken advantage of this. The most dramatic proof of this was Skyway, an entire district suspended above the tallest towers by sheer magical force. But there were a number of smaller, free-floating towers scattered around and above Sharn, home to those nobles who wished to flaunt their wealth. Strange as it seemed, the towers were quite stable. But there was an exception to every rule, especially in Sharn. In the early days of the Last War, one of the floating towers of Sharn ceased to be a floating tower. The spire plummeted thousands of feet, breaking apart as it fell.
The fragments of the tower struck the old district of Godsgate, a temple district that had long ago seen its churches converted into tenements. The district was devastated. The council of Sharn had no intention of pouring gold into Lower Dura, and people were left to fend for themselves. Those who could afford to do so left. But others stayed, either out of pride or because they had nowhere else to go. Tales quickly spread around ruined Godsgate, which soon became known as Fallen. Some of these stories said it was haunted by the howling hordes of those who had died in the great collapse. Others said that the heart of the district was inhabited by feral savages, people whose ancestors were driven insane by the disaster—or that the council of Sharn used it as a brutal asylum, driving madmen and those with incurable afflictions into Fallen. Whatever the truth of these tales, the City Watch shunned the district, and it was a haven for deserters, criminals, and the worst dregs of the city.

Thorn had never been to Fallen. But if any place in Sharn was bereft of hope, this was it. Once the buildings around them had been temples to the Sovereigns and lesser faiths. Now the mosaics were shattered, and inscriptions were worn away by time or gouged out by human hands. The smell of rot and urine filled the air, nearly as thick as in the sewers they’d traversed before. There were a few people scattered around the streets, ragged clothes barely covering filthy skin. Most fled at the sight of the outsiders, ducking into alleys or through broken doorways. A few just glared at the strangers. One old woman muttered as Thorn drew close, shaking something within her fist; finally she opened her hand, revealing human teeth marked with strange symbols.

This was just the outer edge of the district. It was only when they moved in deeper that they saw the horror responsible for its name. The spire that had fallen from the sky had been a massive tower built of smoked glass. Huge chunks of mystically hardened glass had smashed into temples and tenements, and the streets were still filled with rubble. Many of the shards still lay where they’d first fallen, and Thorn caught a glimpse of bone through cloudy glass. Where the rubble had been shifted, there were makeshift barricades and shelters.