Son of Khyber: Thorn of Breland (12 page)

“Yes,” Thorn said. “There’re a few things we should talk about.”

Dragon Towers

D
reck knelt next to Fileon, running a hand along the halfling’s warped arm. “Our blessing is a burden, and all too often frail flesh is too weak to bear Khyber’s touch.” He looked up at Thorn, his mismatched eyes gleaming. “Brom, deal with this.”

Thorn’s hand tightened on Steel’s hilt, but Dreck was talking about the cooling corpse. The dwarf produced a large leather sack. He lifted the dead halfling up with his giant hand and deposited him in the bag. There was magic in the sack, as with Thorn’s gloves and satchel. Even after the corpse was dropped in, the bag still seemed to be empty, and Brom folded it up and tucked it away.

“Do you want to know what happened?” Thorn said.

Dreck’s face was a steel mask, impossible to read. “I know what happened, beloved. He tried to kill you. Again.” He raised a hand before she could respond. “The Son of Khyber has long known of the misplaced loyalties of the Shaper of the Young. He was content for our kind to be criminals in the shadows,
waiting for the time when the Twelve would finally move against us. Lady Tavin herself understands the wisdom of Khyber’s Son and has gone to take his words where they are needed. But it seems our shaper could not change his ways.”

“So I was a test?”

“Your eyes see clearly, beloved. There is no place in this family for traitors. Not at this late hour. The shaper would not betray in plain sight, so we needed to see what he would do in the shadows. And I wanted to see how you dealt with him. And so I have. Now let us move swiftly. We have work to do, and the bells of the tower have not stopped.”

Thorn had nothing to say, and Dreck’s cold words were unnerving. But he was not actually accusing her, and she was comforted by the fact that Brom, at least, looked glum. Dreck was more ruthless than she’d thought, but it seemed that some of the Tarkanans still had feelings.

“Take the lead and be wary of wards,” Dreck told her. “I’m certain the chamber where our prize awaits will be guarded with both magic and steel. Brom and I will deal with the living, but it falls to you to silence the alarms.”

Thorn nodded. She reached for Steel, but at the last moment she hesitated, remembering their last debate. He might mean well, but she was getting tired of the dagger telling her what to do. Sorghan d’Deneith’s icy blade was bound within her left gauntlet, and a thought brought it to her hand. She thought, Let’s try a silent weapon for a time.

If there were any servants beyond the two Fileon had killed, they didn’t cross the path of the intruders.
The halls were still and empty, save for sealed crates and furniture still wrapped from moving. Thorn had expected the treasure of the house to be held in a vault, but Dreck’s directions took them to the residential floor.

Brom fascinated Thorn. The weight of his oversized arm was clearly a burden he’d had to adapt to, and he used the arm as if it were a third leg. There were studs on the palm of his spiked gauntlet, which Thorn now realized helped him with traction, like nails in a boot. Beyond this, over time she’d noticed that the dwarf had a host of unusual scars—scars in a variety of colors, some even traced in patterns of scales and what seemed to be chitin. She finally caught a glimpse of his aberrant mark, rising along the back of his neck below his wild mane of hair. Black and bilious green, it looked much like a constrictor snake crawling up his back, and it pulsed along with his heartbeat.

There had been no challenges on the way up to the residential floor, but as she neared the top of the steps, Thorn heard a sound—the faint scrape of metal on metal, an armored figure shifting its weight. She raised her hand, and Brom and Dreck froze behind her. There were no voices, no breathing that she could hear … but there it was again, the harsh scrape of shifting steel.

Thorn crept to the top of the stairway. Her dagger might not talk, but she could use it as a mirror, sliding the blade around the corner and studying the reflection. What awaited them was not human nor even the warforged she’d been expecting. Instead she saw a pair of dogs sitting on either side of a doorway. They were the size and shape of wolfhounds, but these were no living creatures. Even with her limited view, Thorn saw
light glinting off armored skin and long snouts filled with razors.

Iron defenders, she guessed. She’d seen the creatures at other Cannith facilities. Tireless homunculi, heavily armored and able to chew through platemail. While their senses weren’t as keen as hounds of flesh and blood, even a whisper would alert them to her presence. Slipping back to the others, she indicated the position of the defenders.

Dreck nodded. He gestured at her to stay where she was. Then he turned to Brom and pointed to the top of the stairs.

The patchwork dwarf moved with remarkable grace given his bizarre appearance, but he wasn’t made for stealth, and he knew it. A wide grin spread across his face, and he charged up the stairs, mail clanking and his armored fist tearing at the wood. The iron defenders howled as they intercepted him on the landing, an eerie call more like a horn than the voice of a living beast. And then they were upon him. The first raised its hind legs to rake with talon-tipped feet and sank its teeth into the flesh of Brom’s smaller forearm. The second snapped at the dwarf’s ankles and knees. They were trying to pull him down and savage him, and within seconds blood coated their snouts.

“The door,” Dreck said. “Go now.”

Thorn’s instinct was to help Brom. The guardians were tearing him apart, and blood was spreading across the floor. Yet the dwarf had not cried in pain. He was chuckling. A blow of his powerful arm sent one of the hounds sprawling. It rose to its feet and darted back at Brom, but one of its forelegs was bent out of shape, and it moved awkwardly.

For a moment, Brom met her gaze. Bloody spittle
was dripping from his mouth, but he just laughed. “Go, little sister! Do your part!” He seized a defender in his massive hand and dashed it against the floor. It twisted in his grip and tore at his fingers, piercing the armored gauntlet.

Thorn darted up the stairs and leaped over the melee. She caught a glimpse of raw entrails dangling from a guardian’s snout and wondered how Brom could still be laughing. Dreck followed her, but as she jumped over the blood, he joined the fray, his blade striking with deadly precision and catching the guardians in the gaps between their armor.

Thorn pushed aside the sounds of battle and focused on the task before her. The door was a work of art in its own right. The frame made from Aereni livewood. Fresh ivy clung to the wood. The door itself was darkwood etched with the emblem of a tree beneath a starry sky, inlaid with gold and silver. It was fine work, but Thorn was concerned with the enchantments woven into it. The wards were stronger than those she’d dealt with at the entrance. This was more than a simple seal and alarm. If triggered, it would release a blast of energy that would flow down the hallway. A few drops of nightwater weakened the enchantment, but taken alone the waters of Mabar weren’t strong enough to counter the magic. Thorn whispered a word of power and watched the ripples in the air. This mystical echo was a critical tool, helping her gauge the response time of the ward.

Behind her, the sounds of battle raged on. Brom’s laughter faded with ominous swiftness, and Thorn hoped that the dwarf was still alive. But she couldn’t take her eyes off the ward. If she slipped and unleashed its power, they’d all be dead. She
held a probe in each hand, silver needles tipped with Khyber shards, each extended into the weakened ward. She traced a pattern in the air, letting the faint ripples around the shards guide her motions. The Khyber shards could absorb and disrupt patterns of magical energy. But if she slipped out of the pattern, she’d trigger the explosion.

There was a thunderous
clang
as a metal object struck the ground next to her—the head of an iron defender, torn free from the body. The sound was a shock, but it didn’t break her focus. One final pass …

She felt a tingle along her skin, the energies of the ward dissipating harmlessly.

“Done?” Blood stained Dreck’s robes, along with the alchemical fluids found inside the defenders. But there were no tears in the robe itself, no signs of serious injury other than the bitten forearm. He held his long knife in his good hand.

“It’s safe to pass.”

Dreck looked over his shoulder. “Mighty Brom, your strength must serve once more.”

Brom was a ghastly sight. His chain mail was in tatters, and armor and clothes alike were caked with blood. One of his cheeks had been torn free from the bone, and it looked as if there was a deep gouge in his neck where a defender had caught him by the throat. It was difficult to see how he could still stand, let alone fight. Yet somehow he remained on his feet, leaning heavily on his oversized arm. He made his way to the door, and a strange huffing sound came from the gap in his throat.

He’s laughing, Thorn realized.

Brom raised his arm and slammed it into the door. One blow was all it took. Darkwood splintered as the
door fell off its frame, falling into the room beyond. Brom charged into the room, with Dreck and Thorn close on his heels.

It was dark in the windowless chamber, and Thorn’s sight shifted into darkvision to compensate. Compared to the barren halls and chambers of the rest of the manor, this room was positively cluttered. The soft fur of a giant steelbone bear, a vast and expensive carpet, covered the floor. A four-poster bed sat against the far wall, and this was the source of the dim light in the room. An illusion had been bound into the canopy over the bed, an image of the night sky complete with stars, moons, and the golden Ring of Siberys. Glancing around the room, Thorn saw a miniature castle, a perfect model complete with tiny soldiers walking the walls. There was a pile of books, a map of Khorvaire pinned to the wall, a warforged about the size of a halfling—a warforged that was now darting toward her, with gleaming blades extending from its wrists. It was quick, but not swift enough to close the distance before Thorn could react. She kicked it squarely in the face, and the little warforged staggered back. Before it could regain its balance, Brom’s massive fist came crashing down. Quick as it might be, the warforged wasn’t as durable as iron defenders, and the one blow was enough to crack joints and leave it twitching on the floor; Brom continued to pound until it fell still.

“So what are we looking for?” Thorn asked.

“I would have thought that was obvious,” Dreck replied. “We have come for the greatest treasure of Ilena and Merrix d’Cannith.”

He gestured at the bed, and Brom pulled the comforter from the frame with a mighty tug. A child
was hidden beneath the blanket, a boy of perhaps eight years of age, curled into a ball and staring with wide eyes.

“And now we have found him,” Dreck said.

Dragon Towers

Y
ou’ve used your mark to stun before,” Dreck said, looking down at the quivering boy. “Do so now. Incapacitate the child for travel.”