Keith Baker - Son of Khyber

The words mingled with the cacophony around her, and the noise pulled at her, tugging her down. Dizzy and disoriented, she dropped to her knees. She couldn’t see Drego anymore, but his voice still sounded in her head.

“Thorn?”

She collapsed to the ground, giving in to the frenzy around her. As the darkness overtook her, Drego spoke a third name.

But the word was lost in the madness, and the world faded to black.

“Nyrielle? Are you hurt?”

Thorn was lying on the hard ground. She winced as consciousness returned. Her left arm was bruised but unbroken. It was the shard in her neck that caused her to gasp. It felt as if the shard were a burning dagger pressing into her spine. The words of the dream came back to her, and the memory of the screaming skulls. Prisoners yearning to be free.

“Thorn?” It was Drego, running a hand along her face. “Can you hear me?”

Thorn opened her eyes. The smell of burned flesh and hair were enough to tell her that she was back in Fallen. She was fully dressed, and she could see Steel next to her, still buried in the stranger’s corpse.

She looked at Drego. There was none of the smirking bravado she was used to. He seemed truly concerned. “I’m fine,” she said. “I just… passed out for a moment.”

“You’re sure you’re not hurt? You screamed, and I thought… your arm…”

“It’s nothing,” she said. She raised her left hand and flexed her fingers. “See?”

She rose to her feet. The three people she’d fought were sprawled out just as she remembered, along with a fourth feral man whose burns spoke of Drego’s handiwork. “What were these things?”

“Victims of the Keeper of Hopes,” Drego said. “Left with one single solitary hope: that if they spill enough blood in their master’s name, he will lift his hand from them. They feel no pain, sorrow, or remorse. It’s amazing what a man is capable of, when he’s fully committed to the cause. And killing was all that these poor souls had left to cling to.”

“So this is the touch of an angel.” Thorn pulled Steel free from the corpse. “Very well. I had my doubts before, but if you and Daine can destroy this thing, I’ll be at your side.”

“We’d better find the others,” Drego said. “This way.”

Thorn grabbed his arm before he moved away. “Drego.”

“Yes?”

“When I was unconscious… what did you do?”

Drego looked puzzled for a moment then rolled his eyes. “Please. You were only down for a few moments, and I’m not one to take advantage of a friend.”

So it was a dream. “We’re friends, then?”

“Was that ever in doubt?” Drego asked. He winked. “I may be the only friend you truly have.”

He sprinted down the hall before she could respond.

Fallen Lharvion 21, 999 YK

Why did you question Drego Sarhain? Steel said. It was always difficult to read the emotions behind his psychic whispers, but there was a hint of frustration at being left in the dark. You were unconscious for a brief period of time, and I felt no magical emanations. All I heard was his voice as he tried to rouse you. Of course, my view was limited by the fact that I was left buried in the brains of one of your foes. What did you see?

Thorn tapped the dagger twice. As much as she wanted to talk things through, now was not the time. Daine and the others were waiting just ahead, and as she approached, she saw that they were standing over the corpses of another four feral humans. There were spatters of blood across Xu’sasar’s pale chitin armor, and Brom had a new patch of green scales across his forehead, but none of them was seriously hurt.

“Any troubles, Thorn?” A curious intensity lit Daine’s gaze as he studied her. Crazy as it was, she felt as if he’d been expecting the ambush.

Could this have been some sort of test? What does he know about me?

It seemed ridiculously paranoid. If Daine wanted her dead, he’d had ample opportunities to kill her himself.

But her death might not be his goal. She still had the deadly touch that might prove useful. Despite the words of dream-Drego, could she have an aberrant dragonmark after all?

At this stage, conjecture served little purpose. “No,” she told him. “We survived. They didn’t.”

Daine chuckled. “I suppose that’s what it always comes down to, yes? And I’m sure there’s worse yet to come. Let’s keep moving.”

“It’s not far,” Drego said. He closed his eyes, searching for whatever spiritual thread he was following. “There. Follow me.”

They’d reached the heart of Fallen. Buildings had shattered, and the walls of different buildings had fallen onto one another, creating an eerie patchwork labyrinth. It was hard to believe the structure could be stable, but the disaster had happened decades ago. Anything that would fall too easily likely already had. Rubble and refuse from the disaster choked the passage. While anything of value had been scavenged long ago, there were still remnants of the past. A wooden comb. The broken wagon of a wandering vendor, with fading paint proclaiming the best pies in Dura. Half of a child’s rattle, protruding from beneath a fallen flagstone. The air was unnaturally still. There were no vermin nor any signs of human habitation. Just the desolation left by the fall.

“It reminds me of the war,” Daine said. “Not the early days, when the streets were filled with those hoping to escape the coming conflict. But the end, during the siege.”

“Where did you fight?” It was difficult for Thorn to identify Daine’s accent, but if she’d had to guess, she’d have said he was Cyran.

“Here,” he replied. “Not your war. The struggle with the houses. It wasn’t a clash of armies as such. Deneith had its troops, but their task was containment, ensuring that we couldn’t escape. It was the others who did the killing. The siege engines of Cannith raining destruction from the sky, and the steel marauders prowling through the alleys. The swarms of predatory birds twisted by House Vadalis, sparrows with venomous spurs and a thirst for blood. Phiarlan assassins skulking through the shadows. Anyone who remained in the city was marked for death, aberrant or not. Those who did flee were cut down by the Deneith guard. This was where the war would end, and both sides knew it.”

It was still difficult for Thorn to believe Daine’s tale that he had fought in the War of the Mark. But she could hear the conviction in his voice, and the pain. She thought of the things she’d seen on the battlefield. Warforged titans scattering squads of soldiers. Sorcerers raining destruction down from airships. If he was correct and the Twelve planned to turn their weapons against the world, unlikely as it seemed, it was a horrifying thought.

She looked at Daine. “So how did you die?”

He paused, perched on the piece of rubble he’d been scaling. “I don’t recall the moment of my death. The houses were making their final move, driving deep within the city. We’d lost contact with the Dream-breaker, one of the mightiest among us. Halas called the leaders together-his lady, myself, Kalara of the Ten Terrors-to discuss our fate.”

Everyone had heard of Tarkanan and the Lady of Plague, but the others-the Dreambreaker, Kalara-were new to Thorn. “What was he like? Tarkanan?”

“The greatest man I ever met. Even when we were enemies, I admired him. If people had listened to him sooner, if he could have built his army back before the purge began, he might even have won the war-or at least have created a sanctuary for the aberrants that the others could not touch. As it was, I think he always knew how the struggle would end, but he was determined to give our people hope and to make the houses pay for the blood they spilled.”