Keith Baker - Son of Khyber

One tap.

A dangerous decision. Do you believe the child is in danger?

Thorn tapped the hilt twice, but then thought better of it and moved her thumb in a circle. I don’t know. Why did the Tarkanans want the child? If it was just a retaliatory murder, they would likely have killed him in the manor. Ransom seemed the more likely answer, and ransom would give her time to save the child once her mission was done. But it seemed that they were taking the child directly to this Son of Khyber, the leader she’d been sent to find. This seemed like a bold move, unless they truly had a foolproof way to avoid Tharashk trackers and Phiarlan scrying; Merrix d’Cannith would surely spare no expense to find his only irreplaceable creation.

Sovereigns and Flame, Steel whispered. It was the first time Thorn had ever heard the dagger swear. I suppose there’s no simple way for Cannith to connect you to the kidnapping, but if the child dies and the Tarkanans expose your role in this… I know little of Ilena d’Cannith, but Merrix will want vengeance. Even if the boy survives, Merrix will want you punished for this.

She tapped the blade. He was right, of course. And that was surely the point. An agent of House Cannith would never have agreed to the kidnapping, and Dreck knew that.

I don’t approve of your actions, Lantern Thorn. I know you are doing what you think is best for Breland. You were sent to find the leader of the Tarkanans and what the house is working toward. We can only hope that you are about to do just that. But I advise you to plan your retreat. Gather what information you can, especially the location of their sanctum. Then be ready to take the child and flee. Let the Citadel deal with the threat.

“Explain.” Dreck’s voice was cold and sharp.

Thorn started, releasing Steel. The lift shook beneath her feet, and the warforged was standing next to her. “Explain what?” she asked.

He watched her closely. “You are troubled. Lost in your thoughts. Explain, that I may guide you.”

“It’s nothing,” she said. “I just don’t like the idea of killing a child.”

“His death would serve no purpose,” Dreck said, and she felt a surge of relief. His next words were less comforting. “But you must steel yourself to do far worse, if it becomes necessary. The last time our kind clashed with the houses, they showed us no mercy. I know it is difficult, but our path leads to war, sister. You must prepare for dark times and dark deeds.”

“I understand,” Thorn said. And she did. The Twelve may have led Thorn to this place, but if their war posed a threat to Breland, that was her concern. She’d save the child if she could, but Breland had to come first.

The lift shuddered and came to a halt. “Come,” Dreck said, hopping off of the platform.

They’d come to the bottom of Central Plateau, but Dreck’s goal was deeper still. The warforged led Thorn through a maze of alleys between warehouses. Centuries of slogans, curses, and gang symbols festooned the walls. It seemed the street cleaners never took this path. At last they reached a spiral staircase that circled a deep well. The air rising from the shaft was hot and foul, filled with the scent of body odor and feces.

“Pull back your hood,” Dreck told her.

“We want to be recognized?”

“Those who lie ahead will not aid house or watch. But they must see you for what you are.” As he spoke, he pulled back his hood, displaying the lurid green tangle of lines across his steel cheek. “Pull back your hood. Show the touch of Khyber.”

Thorn realized where they were going, just as they emerged from the stairwell and into chaos.

Khyber’s Gate.

An ogre snarled as Thorn walked into the subterranean plaza. Remembering Dreck’s words, Thorn met the beast’s gaze, running a finger along the mark around an eye. The creature stared for a moment then looked away.

The ogre was far from the only monster around them. A pack of goblins were chattering, clustered around some sort of game. Three orcs engaged in a loud debate with a hyena-like gnoll, shouting in a language Thorn didn’t know. A shifter with matted hair and long claws was wrestling with a bugbear, hissing and spitting as he grappled with the larger creature. At a glance, it was hard to tell if it was sport or a crime in progress.

Thorn had never been here, but she’d heard of it. Khyber’s Gate, the slum below the city. Where those unwelcome in even the lower wards made their homes. Humans mixed among the monsters, but they were an unsavory lot, with the look of deserters or worse. Thorn had heard that you could not buy a room in Khyber’s Gate. Everyone was a squatter in this place, and you held your property with tooth and blade. The crowd around her supported that tale. Knives and clubs were everywhere she looked, and the faint scent of blood mingled with the foul smells she’d noticed earlier.

As grim as the crowd was, they made way for Dreck. Whether it was fear of the mark itself or the connection to Tarkanan, the people of Khyber’s Gate knew to leave the aberrants alone. They were only challenged once, by a drunken orc with a rusty axe. Dreck’s mark flashed in the dim light, and the drunkard’s companions quickly pulled him away.

Deeper and deeper they went. They scrambled over rubble and through vast cracks in the thick foundations of the tower above. Finally they reached a small chamber, and Dreck took Thorn’s arm, pulling her to a halt.

There was a crack in the floor of the room, a jagged chasm just narrow enough that Thorn felt she could jump it without fear. The walls of the chasm glistened and shifted, and Thorn realized that they were covered with beetles. A few were scurrying around the walls and the floor of the room, but there were thousands crawling around the edge of the gap.

The beetles were the first thing to catch her attention, but Thorn quickly realized that they weren’t alone. She turned to find two strangers standing in the corner. Dreck showed no fear, so Thorn resisted the urge to draw her weapon.

The first one she noticed was the elf-though she was like no elf Thorn had ever seen. Her long ears and fine features were unmistakably elven, but her skin was jet black, and traced with patterns of pale white scars. Her silver-white hair was pulled back in a single braid, and it almost matched the unusual armor she wore-vambraces, shin guards, and a small breastplate formed of pale, glistening white material. Strangest of all was the weapon in her hand-a triangular object that seemed to be formed from three long, curved talons, joined by bone. A throwing wheel, but unlike anything Thorn had encountered.

Drow, she realized. She’d heard of the dark elves of Xen’drik, but it was rare to see one in Khorvaire.

As intriguing as the drow was, it was the man who drew her attention. The moment she saw him, Thorn thought of King Boranel, the one time she’d met the great king. There was no physical resemblance, but the stranger had the same sense of confidence, of authority. Some men became leaders, but others were born to lead-and this man was one of the latter. He was tall, strong, and clean shaven-likely a handsome man at one point in his life.

But then there was his mark.

Until that moment, the largest aberrant dragonmark Thorn had ever seen had been the one on Fileon’s arm. Most aberrant marks were fairly small, like the false mark around her eye. What she saw before her was something else entirely. He wore no glove on his left hand, and the sleeve of his black shirt was pulled back. As far as Thorn could see, the mark covered every inch of skin on his arm and hand, a twisting pattern of red lines that alternated between the color of wet blood and a burning, luminescent crimson. Yet this was only the beginning. The mark rose up from his collar, covering the left side of his neck and head, spreading out across his left cheek and up to his forehead. It covered his left eye, and unlike any dragonmark she’d ever seen, it had actually marked the eye itself. The white and the iris were black and glistening red, pulsing with ruby light as he looked at her.