Son of Khyber: Thorn of Breland (31 page)

“We’re close,” Daine said. He drew his sword, and cold fire gleamed along the silver blade. “As before,
we’ll need to weaken her before I can safely absorb her. Drego, I can’t imagine your flame will be of much use.”

“Not to worry.” Drego drew his wand and twirled it between his fingers. “I have other options.”

“I have a few tricks of my own, courtesy of Lord Merrix.” Daine produced a crystal sphere from a pouch. “This should buy us a little time. Thorn, you handled yourself well before. Are you ready for what lies ahead?”

Thorn nodded. She didn’t have any cunning plans, but she was certainly in a mood to stab something.

Daine paused, then he spoke again. “I know that you both have your own reasons for being here. We do not share blood or mark, and you have your own agendas in this matter. But you have been worthy companions, and whatever follows this battle, I thank you for standing at my side.”

Thorn could see the sorrow in his eyes. He doesn’t think we’ll all make it through this, she realized.

“We may meet as enemies in the future,” she said, “but I’m proud to be your ally today.”

Even as she said it, she realized it was true. Though Daine’s war wasn’t her own, she admired his dedication. He was challenging one of the most powerful forces in Khorvaire, and there was a part of her that thought it was a battle worth fighting.

“Nothing more need be said. Let us go.”

Thorn drew Steel and ran through her weaponry as she followed the others. The bare rock beneath her feet was a strange feeling, but there was no time to consider that mystery further. She had the myrnaxe bound in her glove, and her false dragonmark—though she doubted that mere pain would incapacitate a fallen angel. It seemed foolish to fight such a creature with a
dagger, but they’d managed to defeat the radiant idol already. How hard could the second one be?

They were making their way up a rising slope. A flickering radiance filled the hall above—the light of a bonfire in the chamber above.

“That’s it,” Drego whispered.

“Wait!” Thorn grabbed his arm and pulled him back, almost dragging him off his feet. There was something on the floor ahead. The faintest pattern visible against the black stone. Thorn threw a pinch of silver in the air, and the glyph burst into flame. Even Thorn could feel the heat pouring from the burning sigil. She studied it, and by the time Steel spoke, she’d already come to the same conclusion.

You can’t disperse this with the tools you’re carrying
, he told her.
The power is beyond Kundarak work. Anyone touching the symbol will be incinerated
.

“You’d best let me go first,” Thorn said. “And if you see anything like this … don’t touch.”

The next glyph was hanging in the air—an even more impressive feat. Thorn ducked beneath the flaming brand and crawled along the floor. At last she reached the top of the tunnel and peered into the room that lay beyond.

What she saw was madness.

Once this chamber had been the great hall of a goblin king. The style was reminiscent of the Tarkanan sanctuary, simple and ascetic. Thick pillars supported the high roof, and the remnants of a few tattered banners hung from the walls, bearing the symbol of a skull and battle-axe. Streams of glowing lava snaked across the floor of the room, staying molten even with exposure to the air. And the flaming glyphs were scattered across the room, emblazoned on floor, wall, and pillars alike.

But these were the least of the wonders to be seen. The ceiling of the hall was high above her head, and floating debris filled the space between floor and roof. Some of it was simple stone, chunks of columns or walls that had shattered in Tarkanan’s quake. But there were charred bones drifting through the air, and enormous pieces of armor. No, not armor. An armored leg, larger than that of a troll, was floating past her, and she could see that it was solid—filled not with flesh and bone, but with metal and stone. Not warforged, but some sort of construct. Studying the bones, she spotted a few scorched corpses that still had scraps of identifiable uniforms, and she could see the edge of a gorgon seal.

The seal of House Cannith.

Cannith had been here before, and all evidence suggested that it had been a disaster. It might have been a coincidence that Daine had brought the Cannith weapon here. Or perhaps he was following in the house’s formidable footsteps.

Then she saw the throne. It had been hidden behind the drifting torso of a steel giant, and now it slowly came into view. The throne of the goblin king, torn from the floor and set loose in the air. And there in the great chair sat Vyrael, the Ashen Sword, Eighth among the Burning Host. Every feather on her wings was an individual flame, and her face was a mask of brass wreathed in fire. Her body was hidden beneath a robe darker than the blackest soot. A sword lay across her lap—a greatsword forged from dark, pitted iron. It was a brutal weapon, one that had seen many battles.

The fallen angel was a majestic and fearsome sight, but it seemed she was not omniscient. If she was aware of Torn, she gave no indication of it. She remained
perfectly still, save for the flickering flames of her wings and her glorious mane. Thorn crept along the wall, slowly making her way behind the angel. The throne was a good ten feet off of the ground, but there was a lot of floating refuse in the air. As long as it would support her weight, she could use the debris as a springboard to reach her enemy.

Vyrael still seemed to be unaware of her presence. Under normal circumstances, it would be a simple task. A quick leap, surprise attack, slash her throat before she had time to raise her blade. But after fighting Vorlintar, Thorn wasn’t even sure these beings had internal organs. Daine had a weapon he’d planned on using, so for now, she’d wait.

It didn’t take long.

Thorn’s attention was locked on the angel, and she didn’t see the others enter. But she saw Vyrael’s reaction. The Ashen Sword spread her burning wings and rose into the air, hovering above her throne. Brilliant flames engulfed her blackened sword, and the train of her robe drifted like smoke. Her angry voice was as harsh as the beaten brass of her mask, and it echoed off the walls.

“Spawn of darkness! You are a fool to come before me. A thousand fiends have fallen to my blade, and I will not suffer your presence in this place. Prepare for battle!”

“You’ve never met a fiend like me before,” Daine said. “Let’s see what you can do.”

Vyrael dived toward him, and battle was joined.

The Depths

V
yrael swooped down on Daine, a blazing raptor with a flaming sword. The Son of Khyber didn’t flinch. He held the crystal orb he’d stolen from Cannith in one hand and his sword in the other. He flung the orb. It smashed into the angel’s mask and shattered, dissolving into a cloud of mist.

No, not mist.

Ice.

Frost coated the Ashen Sword, extinguishing her burning mane and wings. She fell from the air, careening off the arm of a shattered construct before falling to the floor. Steam poured off of her as she rose from the ground, fire battling the mystical ice. Though her flames were extinguished, she was still ready for battle, and she raised her blade to meet Daine’s assault.

But Daine wasn’t the first to strike. Thorn stepped up behind the angel and drove Steel into the back of her skull. Liquid fire flowed out of the wound, burning a path through the ice. If Vyrael were a woman, the blade would have sunk deep into her
brain, but as Thorn feared, her foe lacked the weaknesses of mortals. Nonetheless, the blow caught Vyrael’s attention.

The angel spun, her long blade carving a deadly arc through the air. If not for the ice, she might have finished Thorn then and there. As it was, Thorn was able to raise her vambraces just in time to block the blow, and the blade rang off Thorn’s mithral bracers. While Vyrael had the proportions of a slender woman, her strength was inhuman. The blow sent Thorn staggering back, her arms numb from the impact.

She’d done her job, though. In facing Thorn, Vyrael had turned away from Daine. The Son of Khyber struck. He’d held back in the battle with the Keeper of Hopes, but now he wove a deadly web with his shining sword. His first stroke left a burning gash across the angel’s back.

Vyrael turned to face him, and it seemed impossible that Daine could match her. Her sword was longer, and her strength greater. But he had been one of the finest swordsmen in the War of the Mark, and it seemed that his skill remained. He evaded her powerful swings with apparent ease, and whenever the angel dropped her guard to make an attack, he was there, a quick thrust leaving a burning wound on her chest. And he wasn’t alone. Thorn stayed behind the angel, darting in and striking whenever there was an opening. And while Drego kept his distance, he hurled blasts of dark energy from his wand. Vyrael howled whenever one of these struck home.

Try as she might, the Ashen Sword seemed unable to counter them. She couldn’t match their combined talents. Yet at the same time, they seemed to be making
little actual progress. For every blow they landed, a previous wound melted away.

And then she exploded.

“Fools!”

The word echoed across the hall as she spread her wings. The frost had finally melted, and a blast of fire rolled out from her wings, engulfing Daine and Torn. Torn felt only the faintest warmth as the flames licked around her, but she had to look away from the brilliant light, and she heard Daine cry out in pain.

“Fools!”
the angel called again, rising into the air. “You think to match my might with your petty magics? I am of the Burning Host, forged from eternal fire to battle shadow and fiend. I am the guardian of this gate, and no little tiger shall challenge me.”

Her sword blazed again, and when she swung it toward the ground, a gout of flame flowed down at Drego. The Trane threw himself out of the path of the blast—

And onto one of the burning glyphs scattered across the floor. He screamed as the sigil exploded, disappearing in the burst of fire and smoke. Thorn was surprised by the shiver that gripped her heart, but there was no time to go to him.

“You can’t win this battle,” Daine said. His dragonmark was glowing, and there were familiar veins of shadow running along the crimson path of the mark. There was a new weight in the air—the echo of the despair she’d felt when fighting Vorlintar.

He’s drawing on his power, Torn realized.

“No!” Vyrael cried. Her flames increased in intensity, until it was nearly painful just to look at her. Thorn couldn’t feel the heat, but it was clear that the others could. Daine staggered back a few steps. But he
continued speaking, and Thorn could feel the growing misery in the air.

“You are no guardian,” he cried. “You are a prisoner, forsaken by those above you, cast out of Shavarath and Syrania to sit beneath this miserable city. You are no eternal flame. You’re guttering candle, burning away your last moments.”

“No!”
the angel roared, and another wave of fire exploded from her outstretched wings. “I
am
eternal! I am the glorious flame, the light that stands against the darkness, the fire that cannot be extinguished. My glory shall be your doom!”

Vyrael raised her blade above her head, and it glowed with a light as intense as the sun itself. Somehow, Thorn knew Vyrael was preparing a blast even more powerful that what she’d flung at Drego, a burst that would incinerate bone itself. Yet even as the angel raised her blade, Thorn was in motion.

She bounded onto a floating chunk of rock and leaped atop the head of a Cannith construct, a massive metal mask slowly spinning in the air. As Vyrael pronounced their doom, Thorn leaped on her from behind. Calling on her own unnatural strength, she grabbed hold of the angel’s burning wings and crushed them in her grip, pinning them to Vyrael’s body. Despite her apparent resistance to heat, she could feel these flames. Yet it was enough. Vyrael tumbled back to the ground, the two of them striking hard. The angel twisted and squirmed against her, but Thorn caught hold of her arms, pinning her to the ground.

“You cannot do this!” Vyrael cried. “No mortal can survive my fires! I—”

“You may be part of the Burning Host,” Thorn said, silencing her enemy’s complaints with a knee to the back. “But
I’m
the Angel of Flame.”

Vyrael raged and screamed, but she couldn’t break free. And though the searing heat pained her, it didn’t actually burn Thorn’s skin. The angel thrashed and howled, but slowly her fires began to diminish.

And Daine was there. He set his hand against her mask, and Thorn could hear it sear his flesh. Daine didn’t flinch. The brilliant tendrils of his dragonmark wrapped around Vyrael’s head, and the angel screamed again, even louder than before. The temperature dropped sharply, and the brilliant flames of Vyrael’s wings flickered out, one by one. Now the angel’s dark robe
was
smoke, and her body collapsed into mist, flowing into Daine’s fist. Moments later, all that was left was the mask and the battered blade, which fell to the ground.