Son of Khyber: Thorn of Breland (27 page)

It was still difficult for Thorn to believe Daine’s tale that he had fought in the War of the Mark. But she could hear the conviction in his voice, and the pain. She thought of the things she’d seen on the battlefield. Warforged titans scattering squads of soldiers. Sorcerers raining destruction down from airships. If he was correct and the Twelve planned to turn their weapons against the world, unlikely as it seemed, it was a horrifying thought.

She looked at Daine. “So how did you die?”

He paused, perched on the piece of rubble he’d been scaling. “I don’t recall the moment of my death. The houses were making their final move, driving deep within the city. We’d lost contact with the Dream-breaker, one of the mightiest among us. Halas called the leaders together—his lady, myself, Kalara of the Ten Terrors—to discuss our fate.”

Everyone had heard of Tarkanan and the Lady of
Plague, but the others—the Dreambreaker, Kalara—were new to Thorn. “What was he like? Tarkanan?”

“The greatest man I ever met. Even when we were enemies, I admired him. If people had listened to him sooner, if he could have built his army back before the purge began, he might even have won the war—or at least have created a sanctuary for the aberrants that the others could not touch. As it was, I think he always knew how the struggle would end, but he was determined to give our people hope and to make the houses pay for the blood they spilled.”

“Halas Tarkanan,” Thorn mused. “The Earthshaker.”

Daine nodded. “That was one of his names, yes. He was the first Son of Khyber. Sivis propaganda said he was the Devourer himself, and it was an easy lie to tell, for his mark gave him power over the destructive forces of nature. But his mind was his greatest weapon. If he’d been unmarked, he might have unified the Five Kingdoms centuries before Galifar. And the world would be a different place today.”

“So what happened when he called you together?”

“He knew the end was hours away. He’d always known this time would come. But now, sensing their victory, the houses had fully committed their forces, bringing everything into the city.” He looked away, studying the rubble around them. “Aberrant dragonmarks … they’re tied to our blood, to our life. Sometimes this causes tragedy, madness, or infirmity. But it can also be a source of power. You can learn to channel your lifeforce into your mark, amplifying its power at the cost of personal suffering. Halas was a master of this art. When our defeat drew near, he proposed to bring the battle to an end, to combine our forces and bring the city itself down on top of them. His mark would shatter the walls and bury them in
stone, while the Lady would call the vermin from the depths to devour them, and Kalara would drive any who survived to madness. They would pay for this power with their lives, but at this point, it was a small price to pay.”

“And you?”

“My mark is ill-suited to striking down armies, and I’d never learned to channel my life into it. I couldn’t help. So, Halas asked me to take the few children that were still with us and to try to escape. And I did try. I remember facing a Cannith construct, a soulless beast whose life I could not steal. Two of the children were dead, and I had only my sword. I remember the ground shaking when I charged the beast, and then … then it fades. A forest … a pool of calm water … I see these images, but I don’t remember how they fit together. And then I was trapped in the dragon’s dreams, waiting for over a thousand years.”

“Plucked out of time to do someone else’s dirty work,” Drego said. “Sounds like dragons to me.”

Daine raised an eyebrow. “And what do you know of dragons, my friend?”

Drego raised his hands disarmingly. “Oh, nothing, really. Just all of this business about the Prophecy … it seems like they’re just using you to get what they want.”

“No,” Daine said. “This is my cause. My destiny. I do not know who arranged it or why. But this is the battle I was born to fight. I’ve simply been brought forward to a point where we have the chance to win.”

“I hope so,” Drego said. “I truly do. But I’m from Thrane, and in my land, dragons are symbols of greed.”

They continued on in silence.

While Thorn tried to fight it, it was hard not to feel a sense of despair when faced with the devastation around her and the echoes of Daine’s story. Her thoughts kept drifting back to her own lonely childhood, the feeling of loss whenever her father returned to the war, the unanswered question of why her mother had abandoned her children. Those thoughts were troubling enough, but now they mingled with the horrors around her. She imagined herself as a child, crawling through the wreckage of the fall and looking for her family—searching, already knowing what she would find.

“Stop.”

At first, Thorn didn’t even recognize Drego’s voice. The vision had been so strong that she’d forgotten her quest and companions. As she returned to her senses, she could see that she hadn’t been the only one. Brom’s human eye was full of tears, and even Xu’sasar had drifted away from the group to pull at the remnants of a dress buried in the debris. Daine had a distant look in his eyes, as if he were looking into the past.

“We draw close to our quarry,” Drego said. “By his mere presence, he seeks to pull your hopes away. You must stay focused and resist these visions. Let him sink his claws into your soul, and you will soon be no better than those unfortunate creatures we killed at the tunnel.”

Daine nodded. “Yes. Remember that even in this place, we stand together, and we will succeed. Hold onto your hope, for that will be the most important weapon in the battle that lies ahead.”

Thorn cleared the cobwebs from her mind. Behind her, Brom wiped the tears from his eye then loudly blew his nose.

“And here we are,” Drego said.

There was a door ahead of them. The building had once been a cathedral of the Sovereign Host, and there were images of the Nine carved around the great archway. Considering the devastation all around them, this structure seemed remarkably well preserved. But there was something wrong. The faces of the nine Sovereigns were filled with fear and despair, and their hands were raised as if trying to ward off whatever might emerge from within. The double doors were black oak, bound with bands of silver—a clear sign something was wrong, as scavengers should surely have stripped this precious metal. The doors were slightly ajar—perhaps enough for a halfling to slip through.

“Stay back,” Thorn said. She drew Steel and approached the archway.

There’s strong magic all around you
, Steel said.
Enchantment and illusion, the world itself is being tainted by this angel’s thoughts
.

“Lovely,” Thorn murmured. “Don’t trust your eyes,” she warned the others. “I don’t know how extensive his powers are, but things may not be what they appear.”

She studied the air within the open doors and cast a pinch of powdered silver forward, but there was no indication of any sort of ward. Unless they’re hidden by his illusions, she thought.

“I think it’s safe,” she said at last.

Daine drew his sword, and it gleamed with a pale light. “Brom, take the lead. Thorn, Drego, follow on my mark. Anything that moves should be considered an enemy. We need to press forward as quickly as we can.”

Brom grinned, looking forward to the battle ahead. He strode up to the door, raised his mighty fist—and then paused. He set his hand back on the
ground again and sat there, staring at the gate in front of him.

“Brom!” Daine said. “The door!”

The dwarf shifted his weight slightly, started to raise his hand, and again he stopped.

“What is it?” Thorn asked.

“I … I don’t know how to open it,” he said. His voice was quavering, filled with doubt.

“Just push it.”

“But … what if I can’t? What if I’m not strong enough?” He continued to mutter to himself, seeming not to hear their words.

Psionic attack
, Steel told her.

“Oh, that’s news,” Thorn said.

Drego was talking to Brom, whispering words of encouragement. Thorn had other ideas. Stepping forward, she chose a tender spot and poked the dwarf with Steel. He fell forward with a yelp, staggering into the door with his considerable bulk, and the gates opened wide. Brom looked back at her, puzzled, but it seemed the pain had broken the enchantment.

“Move!” Daine said.

Shaking his head slightly, Brom turned back and charged. Thorn and Drego were next through the door. What lay beyond was so at odds with the rest of Fallen that Thorn knew it couldn’t be real. There was no rubble or dust in the great hall. Candles gleamed on pillars and pedestals—and in the hands of the parishioners. For the hall was filled, in a seeming mockery of a service. Scores of people were inside, staring at the altar. They might have slipped through the crack in the door, small as they were, but she wasn’t looking at a congregation of halflings.

They were children.

Some were clearly denizens of Fallen, filthy urchins
dressed in torn rags. But others must have come from higher districts, somehow drawn down into this hellish place. Whatever force had brought them here held them paralyzed, and there was no reaction as Brom moved among them. Thorn prayed that this was just another illusion, but the answer seemed all too clear. Drego said that Vorlintar fed on innocence, and here was his unfortunate flock.

“Xu!” Daine hissed behind her.

Glancing back, Thorn saw that the dark elf had produced her bone glaive, and that Daine had caught the haft of the weapon as she was readying a swing.

“We do not fight this army?” Xu’sasar seemed truly puzzled by this revelation. “They may be passive now, but surely they will rise to defend their master.”

Thorn tried to push that thought from her mind. The sight of the assembled children was bad enough. The thought of having to cut her way through a clawing mob was a true nightmare.

“Only if necessary,” Daine said.

The dark elf blew out her breath, and her weapon retracted, shifting back into the throwing wheel. “It reflects poorly on the soul when one is killed by children,” she said.

“Silence,” Drego snapped. “He’s here. Focus. Prepare.”

“You cannot prepare for what lies ahead.” The voice filled the hallway, deep and resonant. It was accompanied by the sound of chimes, faint music ringing through the air. “None of you will leave this place. Some few of you may be lucky enough to die. The rest will join my choir.”

Surely some illusion must have hidden him from them earlier. For where there had once been empty space, there now stood an angel. He spread his
mighty wings, and the chains hanging from each feather rattled and chimed. The great doors of the hallway slammed shut. Every candle extinguished. And the laughter of the Keeper of Hopes echoed in the darkness.

Fallen

T
horn’s vision shifted to compensate for the darkness. The first thing she saw were the angel’s wings—outspread and glorious, with long feathers as dark as a moonless night. The source of the chimes became clear, for there were chains attached to every feather. Strange weights were bound to the ends of the chains—weights of many shapes and sizes, engraved with symbols Thorn didn’t recognize. Their purpose was clear: for all his glory, Vorlintar could not rise from the ground.

The raven wings drew Thorn’s attention, but the figure between them was nebulous and enigmatic. Her first impression was of a wraithlike being, cloaked in shadow, with long arms and hungry, grasping hands. No … it was her father, as he had been on the day that he left them for the last time. Or a whirling mass of dragonshards surrounding a great pillar. The sight was overwhelming and disorienting. She turned her eyes away, and not a moment too soon. Confused as she was, Thorn hadn’t even noticed the angel’s approach. Now, guided by the
rattling of the chains, she realized he was almost upon her. She rolled to the side, and while she couldn’t see the angel’s hand, she felt a chill as it passed close to her skin.

Thorn’s companions moved. She heard the whir of Xu’sasar’s bone wheel and a ringing crash as it struck the wings of the chained angel. If Vorlintar felt any pain, he gave no sign of it. But that was just the prelude. Brom ran across the hall, smashing into the Keeper of Hopes with enough force to dent steel and shatter stone. Yet the angel was unmoved by the blow. He caught Brom by the neck and lifted the dwarf into the air. A horrible sound filled the air, a despairing wail torn from Brom’s throat as he flailed in the angel’s grasp.

Thorn moved behind Vorlintar. Steel was in her hand. One thrust could bury the blade in the angel’s spine. But how did she know he even had a spine? How could she hope to succeed when both Brom and Xu’sasar had failed so completely? Brom’s strangled cry was already dying, and she knew there was no way to save him. Her only hope was to flee, to try to save her own life.

No!

These weren’t her thoughts. There was always a way. There was
always
hope.

She wrestled with her doubts, struggling with the terrible malaise and fear—and then the despair broke.