Son of Khyber: Thorn of Breland (18 page)

“And yet you know that I serve the Citadel. Aren’t you afraid that I’ll kill you?”

He smiled. “Not as simple as you might think, I assure you. And I knew it was a risk.”

“And yet you brought me down here. Why?”

“Two reasons, I suppose. I know that the Twelve have coerced the Citadel into investigating our actions. They know that we have been building our forces, though they don’t realize the danger that they face. I believe that when you learn all the facts, you will do the right thing.”

Thorn considered this. “That’s one. What’s the other?”

“You’ve been sent to kill me. And I think that you could, when the time is right. But not tonight.”

They say madness is the price of an aberrant mark, Thorn thought. “So what are these facts that will stay my hand?”

“Lessons you’ve learned these past few days. You’ve heard of Fileon’s betrayal. In Sorghan d’Deneith you’ve faced the blind hatred of the houses.”

Thorn laughed. “Not much of an argument. One bigot hardly incriminates his entire house, regardless of how vile he is. And Fileon’s tale is just that: a story. From someone I’m surprised you of all people would ask me to trust, I might add.”

“Tell me you don’t believe it. Why are you here now? As a tool of the Twelve. Today they command your service. Tomorrow they might call for your death. Tell me you’re comfortable with these merchants buying your services. I’ve heard that you told Fileon that you wouldn’t kill for gold. Tell me, then: what is it you were about to do?”

Thorn said nothing. These were the same fears she’d already had. He might just as well have been reading her mind.

Daine smiled. “Tomorrow we will destroy a Cannith forgehold.”

“So you’ve said. I fail to see the benefit to Breland.”

“That’s because you’ve never heard of our target. We’re not going to attack the central enclave. The strike will target a facility hidden below Sharn: the personal holding of Merrix d’Cannith.”

Thorn frowned. “So it’s not a public facility. It’s still supplying industrial support to Brela—”

“Nothing done in this forgehold will ever be shared with Breland. This isn’t just a private workshop. Lord Merrix has a creation forge here in Sharn, in direct violation of the Treaty of Thronehold.”

Thorn wrapped her fingers around Steel’s hilt. The dagger’s presence flowed into her mind, and she could feel his surprise. The creation forges were the greatest inventions of House Cannith. They were the engines that produced the warforged, living soldiers of metal and wood. During the Last War, Cannith had produced tens of thousands of warforged, selling them to every nation. When the struggle came to an end, the Treaty of hronehold included the provision that all creation forges would be destroyed—an effort to limit Cannith’s power and prevent an arms race. If Merrix had a working creation forge, he was challenging the direct orders of the sovereigns of Khorvaire. And if he had a creation forge, he could have a warforged army of his own.

What is his proof?
Steel asked.

“How would you know about this?” Thorn asked.

“You’ve seen the boy,” Daine told her. “That … thing in the shape of a child. Tell me that doesn’t concern you, that you don’t see the danger it represents.”

Thorn said nothing, but the image of the corpse flashed through her mind, the body with the socket in its chest.

“Dreck learned of the boy, knew that he’d been made in a secret forge, but he couldn’t find its location.
But the boy knew the place of his birth.” Daine turned up his left palm, and the glowing dragonmark crawled across his skin. “I have power to bind souls within my mark. I can still hear their voices, and with effort I can draw on their memories. Merrix’s son had a semblance of a soul trapped within its shell. I saw the forge itself through that boy’s eyes, and it’s his memories that will lead us to it.”

As before, the lines of the mark began to pull free of Daine’s skin, rising up from his palm. As it did, the stone at the base of her spine grew even colder, and Daine himself winced. He clenched his fist, pressing the mark against his flesh, and the chill in the stone passed.

“Fight at my side tomorrow,” Daine said. “Give me the chance to prove what I have told you. My people are no threat to Breland. It is the ambition of the dragonmarked houses that threatens us all. They are no longer afraid of Galifar. They are using you. And unless something is done, it is only a matter of time before the balance of power fully slips into their grasp.”

Thorn considered it. “And Merrix can hardly complain about the loss of a forge he’s not supposed to possess.”

Daine nodded. “Nor can he seek vengeance against your Breland for an action taken by the criminals of House Tarkanan. Perhaps your king cannot risk angering the Twelve. But let us do what must be done.” He held out his gloved right hand. “I need you for this, Thorn. I need your skills. Will you help me do what must be done?”

I suppose—

Steel’s voice was cut off as Thorn released the dagger and took Daine’s hand. “I will.”

He smiled, his dragonmarked eye gleaming in the torchlight. “I thank you for your trust. Tomorrow you will see that it is a battle worth fighting. For the moment, I suggest you rest. We’ve got a challenging day ahead.” He glanced toward the door. “I think it’s best that you avoid Xu’sasar for the next few hours.”

Thorn nodded and turned to go. She took hold of Steel as she retraced her path through the hallway.

A hidden creation forge
, Steel mused.
I hate to admit it, but he’s right. We’ve always known Merrix was an ambitious man. If he’s hiding such a thing from Boranel, who knows what else he’s been doing? Being able to gather intelligence and destroy the forge while blaming it on the Tarkanans … it’s an invaluable opportunity
.

Thorn knew that tone. “But …?”

We still don’t know that it’s true. And even if it is, he admits to stealing the soul of that child, artificial though it may be. If you believe his claims, he stole his own body from a descendent of his. Be careful. It may be that his goals serve Breland. But how long will that last?

“I don’t know,” Thorn said. “All I know for certain is that I could use a good night’s sleep.”

Very well then
, Steel whispered.
I trust you’ll have pleasant dreams
.

The dagger never laughed, but Thorn could feel his mirth as she released him.

The Undercity

H
ad I the appetite, I would feast on your flesh, little half-elf. But instead I will give you to the storm.”

The voice was as loud as thunder, and Thorn could feel the vibrations through the floor. Impressive as it was, it was nothing next to the speaker. Drulkalatar Atesh was a lord of the first age of Eberron, a giant with the head of a tiger and vast leathery wings painted in black and crimson. Lightning crackled around his hooked talons, and as he raised his arms, a howling wind whirled around him, pressing Thorn against the floor.

Memories rushed back to her. Droaam. The Stormblade mission. She’d tracked down the architect of disaster, only to find that he was a demon in disguise.

Drulkalatar raised his hands, and arcs of lightning surrounded Thorn, crackling around her. She dropped to her knees, howling in agony. Pain tore through every muscle, and she could feel bones breaking under the pressure. Her body was
twisting
, joints coming apart, blood burning in her veins. And
then the pain was gone. Her blood still burned, but now this felt right. The fire was a source of power and comfort, the same energy she’d used to fight Fileon. She spread her wings and glared down at the little demon.

She’d become a dragon, with scales the color of fresh blood and long, black talons.

“Storm?” she snarled, and now it was her voice that shook the room. “I prefer fire.”

She could feel the fear of the tiger-headed fiend. But that surprise was mingled with familiarity. He
knew
her.

He spoke a name.
Her
name. But it slipped from her mind the moment that she heard it. “Begone from this place!”

She laughed at him, and her angry words took the form of fire, scorching his flesh and burning holes in his shielding wings. He called the winds to fight her, throwing her back with a hurricane blast. She stumbled but still lashed out with her tail, smashing him to the floor.

“Why are you doing this?” he cried when the tide of battle calmed for an instant. “You know what I want. Leave me be, and together we will revel in the savage time that lies ahead.”

She laughed, and they clashed again. He struck at her with bolts and blades of lightning, but the raw magic in her blood was so powerful that the blasts shattered without touching her. He summoned hosts of feral beasts to his aid and laughed as they swarmed toward her.

“I know what I am,” she told him. “I am the Angel of Flame. And your plans end here.”

Fire flowed from her mouth, engulfing the oncoming horde. When the flames settled, Drulkalatar’s
minions were ash, and the fiend himself was scorched, the flesh nearly flayed from his bones. Before he could cast another spell, Thorn pounced, her massive fore-paws pinning him to the floor.

“Why?” he asked, staring up at her. “Why would you do this?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “But I will.”

“I cannot die,” he said. “You of all creatures should know that. I will return. And you will pay for this.” He spoke that name again, and as before, it slipped away from her ears.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “And my name’s Thorn.”

Reaching down, she caught the crippled demon between her jaws. She raised him up in the air, slowly crushing him. And then, as she felt his resistance fading, she unleashed her anger. Fire flowed through her teeth, and Drulkalatar was at the heart of the flames. His bones melted away, his body vaporizing in the intense heat. But she could still feel the last trace of his presence, the essence of his evil. His spirit. And before he could slip away, she swallowed him. She felt a flash of pure hatred, surprise, and fear. And then he was gone.

Thorn’s eyes snapped open. She was lying in her bunk. The crystal shard in her neck burned against her flesh, and for a moment she felt Drulkalatar’s presence at the heart of it, as if the demon lord were driving a red-hot dagger into her spine. She staggered off the bunk and made her way to the infirmary, clutching at her neck.

“Dreamlily,” she told the halfling minding the stores. The narcotic was one of the few things she’d
found that could ease the pain of the shards when it reached this level. And she still felt Drulkalatar’s gaze weighing on her, the gleaming eyes of the predator.

The halfling hadn’t seen Thorn before and was readying his stock to tend to any Tarkanans who might be injured in the attack on the forgehold. Even before he opened his mouth, Thorn knew that he wasn’t going to help her. “What seems to be the probl—”

She gripped the front of his shirt and lifted him off the ground. Her pain and anger must have triggered the mysterious power within her, for he felt all but weightless as he rose in her grip. “Dreamlily,” she snarled. She tossed him back against a pile of bandages, harder than she’d intended. “Now!”

The halfling rose to his feet and scampered over to a chest of drawers, producing a small clay vial from within. He tried to find his voice and to protest as he turned around, but Thorn’s fierce gaze silenced him, and he handed her the vial. She stood there, glaring at him, and he reluctantly gave her a second vial.

Thorn swallowed the acrid liquid as she strode from the room, and a chilling numbness spread across her nerves. The stone still burned, but the pain was a distant thing, something she’d heard about but forgotten. She made her way back to her bunk and collapsed on the plank. Around her, Tarkanans were beginning to stir, some arming and preparing for the morning meal. Thorn simply pulled Steel to her and lay on the bed, wrapping her arms around the dagger.

Not such a good night, then
.

Thorn said nothing. The dreamlily held the physical pain at bay, and the memories of the dream began to fade. But painful pieces remained. The agony as the lightning took her, and the lingering sensation of Drulkalatar’s eyes watching her. She’d had the same
dream at least once a month since she’d left Droaam, each time more vivid and painful than the last.