Son of Khyber: Thorn of Breland (19 page)

The mystery was almost as bad as the pain. The dream was as much as she could remember about the conclusion of her mission to the Great Crag—and like a dream, the memories were hazy and hard to focus. Her handlers at the Citadel said it was likely an effect of facing a powerful demon. Such creatures warped reality with their presence, and they could twist memories without even trying. What had truly happened that night? In the dream, she’d become a dragon. And it felt so
real
, so true. Her tail, her wings, the fire in her blood … it was as if these things had always been a part of her, something she had simply forgotten.

Floating in the cocoon of the dreamlily, she replayed the dream in her mind. It was fading again, slipping away. But there was one point she hadn’t seen before. The fire in her blood, the anger that seemed to give her remarkable bursts of strength, the power that she felt when she’d drained the life from Sorghan … she’d felt it in her dream. It was the burning power of the dragon’s blood.

But what did it mean?

And who was the Angel of Flame?

“On your feet, sister Thorn!” It was Brom, leaning on his massive arm. “The time for sleep is done. We will be working together this day, and there are many preparations to make.”

Thorn looked at him. The dreamlily highlighted his unusual features—the reptilian eye, his wildly mismatched hair and teeth, the patches of scales and chitin scattered across his skin. For a moment she was gripped by the thought that she was looking into a mirror reflecting her soul, that she’d suffered psychic injuries as terrible as Brom’s physical afflictions. She
opened her mouth, trying to find the words to explain, but now the dreamlily caught her tongue. “I see myself in your teeth,” she told him.

Brom frowned, puzzled. “Shake off your dreams, little one. There’s a war to be fought.” He scooped her out of bed with his powerful arm and propped her up against the bunk. The pain of the shard was fading, and as usual, it was drawing the dreamlily haze away with it. The dose she’d taken should have kept her sedated for hours, but ever since Far Passage, she’d found that even the strongest narcotics could only affect her for a few minutes. At least they still helped with the pain. She worked through the fading fog, gathering her equipment and following Brom. But she could still hear the words from her dream echoing in her head. This time it wasn’t the demon’s threats that haunted her. It was her own voice.

I am the Angel of Flame
.

What did it mean?

Ashblack

I
thought I was done with sewers,” Thorn muttered. The Cannith forgehold was hidden deep below the foundry district of Ashblack, and the Tarkanan force had spent the better part of an hour trudging through muck and grime. It was fortunate for Thorn that she had a nose clip in her basic kit. Some of the others were still wincing from the stench. But even without the odor, she was still covered with mold and excrement. The glamorous life of the Dark Lantern, she thought.

It was hard to imagine Merrix d’Cannith coming through the sewers, and according to Daine, he didn’t. There was another way to reach the forgehold, but it was infested with wards and guards, and if they were pursued, the Cannith forces would know the lay of the land. Once he knew where the forgehold was, Daine had been able to plot a different route—less scenic, certainly, but safer for what they had in mind. If Daine was right, the gate to the forgehold lay just ahead of them. It was time to set the plan in motion.

Thorn and Xu’sasar took the lead, relying on darkvision as they crept forward through the light-less tunnels. This ability still bothered Thorn. Useful as it was, it was one more power that she couldn’t account for—senses sharper than even her elven mother had possessed. But now was not the time for doubts or questions.

She spotted a series of runes carved into the floor ahead, and she raised her hand. Xu’sasar froze as Thorn examined the sigils. They were painted black, barely visible against the dark stone, but there was no mistaking the purpose or power of these warding runes. Concentrating on them, Thorn could feel the energy surging, waiting to be unleashed.

“Aaren,”
she whispered. For a moment, the runes were outlined in violet flames, and then the fires faded. A part of Thorn was surprised. For all his confidence and charisma, she still couldn’t entirely believe the story of the Son of Khyber. Yet he claimed to have plucked this password from the memories of the Cannith heir, and it had indeed shut down a ward she’d have been hard-pressed to break on her own.

Thorn pulled a piece of chalk from a pouch and made a mark along the floor. She didn’t know how long it would take the runes to recharge, and she wanted to make certain Daine and the others spotted the trap. Gesturing to Xu’sasar, she made her way forward.

The gate lay just ahead. A powerful illusion masked it, and most people would never guess that the cracked wall of the ancient tunnel was a magical facade. Even now, Thorn could feel the magic pressing against her mind, quietly suggesting that she look the other way. Of course, this was exactly what she’d been trained to spot, an illusion that hid the gate.

But the gate wasn’t what she was here for. The warding runes were just the first line of defense. The second was better hidden and far more dangerous. It was pure luck that the Cannith baron had decided to impress his son by revealing it. Thorn paused, closing her eyes. She listened to the sounds around her: the rustle of a rat moving along the dusty stone, the pounding of her own heart, the whisper of Xu’sasar’s movement. Now she listened to the wind, feeling the faint flow of air against her skin and building a picture of her surroundings. The greatest challenge was not trying too hard. This gift was most effective on an instinctive level. It was hard for her to consciously process this information. But if she could just let go of her thoughts and
feel
, she could—

There
.

The invisible guardian was perfectly still, but Thorn had a clear image of it in her mind. An armored figure. Likely a warforged. Taller than a troll. Long, razor-sharp blades extended from each arm. Merrix had lowered the cloaking magic to show the guardian to his son, and according to Daine both armor and blades were made of adamantine, one of the hardest metals ever produced. A single stroke would cleave through bone, and Steel could never pierce the armored plates. But if she let her senses paint a picture, Thorn could see the gaps in the construct’s armor, the places where joints exposed fibrous bundles. Warforged anatomy was quite different from human, but they still had their weaknesses. And over the last thirty years, the assassins of the Citadel had made sure to learn them. Mouthing a silent prayer to Olladra, Thorn flung Steel.

The dagger flew straight and true, catching the invisible guardian in the neck. The enchantments
woven into Steel pulled him back to Thorn’s hand, and viscous fluid began flowing from the gaping wound. The guardian turned to Thorn, but it was moving slowly, disoriented by the blow. It staggered as it looked for its enemy.

Instead, it found Xu’sasar. The dark elf’s senses weren’t quite as sharp as Thorn’s, but she’d been trained to fight in absolute darkness. Now that her enemy was moving, she could track it by sound alone. Xu’sasar wielded her macabre weapon with its blade like a long, curved tooth set atop a haft of bone. Despite its appearance, Xu’sasar easily parried the blows of the adamantine blades with her strange glaive, and her return strike drove straight through the construct and impaled it against the wall. It struggled, waving its arms and trying to strike at the dark elf, but she danced out of its reach. It was left to Thorn to finish it. She struck with Steel, slashing away at the leathery cords binding its head to its body. Alchemical fluids poured down across its chest, and it finally flickered into view as the magic of its life-force faded.

The battle had taken less than a minute. If they were lucky, the first disorienting blow had kept the guardian from alerting its masters. They’d find out soon enough. As Xu’sasar pulled her weapon free from the metal corpse, Thorn jogged back along the corridor, signaling to the rest of the strike force.
Move up!

Moments later, they were gathered outside the main gate. Thorn would have preferred a stealthy approach, but there were no other options. The forgehold had no windows. Its walls were thick stone hardened by mystical rituals. And if there were any other entrances, their young informant hadn’t been aware of them. There was only one option for the
Tarkanans: the front gate. And this would take more than a simple word to bypass. Safe passage required an enchanted amulet, a form of key. But there were always other alternatives.

Daine gestured at the wall. “Scrapper. Thorn.”

Scrapper was a dwarf, an excoriate of House Kundarak. As Thorn had guessed, she was the one who maintained the wards protecting the Tarkanan fortress. Her aberrant mark helped her shatter spells—a potent gift, though it took a toll on her body. A touch of her hand was all it took to disperse the illusionary wall, revealing the adamantine door that lay beyond. Warding runes covered the gate, and the air around it rippled with mystical power.

“Sister?” Scrapper whispered. Her voice was raspy and dry, as if there was something unfinished in her throat.

Thorn stepped up to the gate, and the two set to work on the overlapping layers of defensive magic. Thorn was impressed by the quality. It was mostly Kundarak work, but clever dragonshard focusing lenses amplified the energies. If Thorn was reading the runes correctly, the wards would completely disintegrate anyone who triggered the trap. Apparently Lord Merrix was perfectly willing to sacrifice innocents to preserve his privacy. Fortunately Thorn and Scrapper were quite good at what they did. Runes began to glow, a flickering pattern of words blazing along the rim of the double doors. The runes blinked and burned and flared into brilliant light—then faded completely.

Scrapper nodded, and the two of them stepped back. It was time for others to take the lead. Brom took his place in the center as the door began to slide open. He was wearing his massive battle gauntlet and
grinning as he prepared for his charge. To his left, the gnome Ash smirked and flexed his fingers. Black flames rippled along his scarred skin. Dreck stood to Brom’s right, and emerald energy flickered around his metal fingers as his mark glowed.

Guards stood just within the hall—six identical warforged, slender soldiers carrying silvered halberds. But it seemed that no alarms had been sounded. The guards weren’t even looking at the Tarkanans as the gates opened. They certainly weren’t prepared for the brutal attack that followed. Dreck shattered his victims with bolts of green light. Ash cackled maniacally as he sprayed streams of fire across two more guardians, metal melting and leather burning beneath his mystical flames. Brom took the direct approach, loping across the floor and slamming into the first of his targets with such astonishing force that he knocked its head and right arm from its body. The last of the sentries tried to respond, but their efforts were too little and far too late. Brom swatted the halberd aside with a casual blow, then grabbed hold of the guardian with his huge hand and dashed the warforged to the ground, again and again. Within seconds, the room was silent and still.

Daine strode into the room. His sword gleamed in the light of the cold fire lanterns, while his dragonmark crackled and burned around his left arm. “Break into your teams, brothers and sisters. You know your tasks. Be swift, and show your enemies no mercy—for they will show none to you. To work!”

Dreck took point with Thorn’s team. The aberrant warforged had memorized the plans of the building. He knew the path to the creation forge. Their
task was to destroy the forge itself. Daine had taken Xu’sasar, Scrapper, and four of the others and had headed elsewhere in the base. Thorn didn’t know what he was up to.

“Be not afraid,” Dreck said. “The greatest dangers are past. This is a workshop, a place for research. It might have been hidden and hard to enter, but there should be no deadly traps within.”