Keith Baker - Son of Khyber

“Why haven’t I heard about this?” Thorn’s hand slipped down to Steel’s hilt, but the dagger remained silent.

Fileon laughed, and the sound was cold and harsh. “We were an experiment, sister. We were effective, certainly. I assure you, the power that flows through my blood more than makes up for my weakness of limb. I have killed for Breland, as have you.”

Thorn tapped a finger against Steel’s pommel, but there was no voice in her mind. “So what happened?”

“We were discovered by agents of House Phiarlan, revealed to the Twelve. Oh, none of us know precisely what was said, but it’s not difficult to imagine. The barons raging before the king. Threatening to withdraw their support. The Sivis stones silent, no longer carrying word between armies. No more warforged, no siege staves from the Cannith forges. No Deneith troops. Against that, what were we? Useful tools. But not useful enough.”

“So you were disbanded.”

Fileon’s eyes narrowed. “We were betrayed. They sought to use us one last time. We were sent into Darguun. Sent to die. And most of us did. Those who survived found no support waiting, no egress from that hostile land. Lesser folk might have surrendered to the Keeper’s embrace. But Thora Tavin endured, and in her we all found strength. In time we made it to Sharn. By then we’d found proof of the betrayal, of the threats made and gold paid by the Twelve. We could not return to the Citadel. Yet the crown had done its duty to the houses. It abandoned us. There was no reason for them to waste precious resources pursuing us further. Tavin was determined that no others of our kind would be used as we had been used-or threatened by the houses. During the War of the Mark, Halas Tarkanan decided to stop the persecution of his people, and turned frightened fugitives into an army. Here, in this manor, we swore to follow in his footsteps, to become House Tarkanan, to gather our people and protect them from the Twelve.”

Fileon stood, his eyes shining, and he pulled back the sleeve covering his withered arm. Pulses of angry red light flowed across the ugly mark.

“We are killers,” he said, “and we are thieves. That is our destiny, scribed on our flesh by the Prophecy and made possible by the training of your king. But now we kill who we please, and we use that gold for the good of our own, to find the lost and help them control their gifts before they are taken by madness, prejudice… or the treachery of the Twelve.

“And now…” He stared into her eyes. “You stand on the same precipice I found myself upon seven years ago. You served your nation loyally. But because of your blood, they have turned on you. And if you stand on your own, you will find that you have many enemies. Your mark is visible, hard to hide. There will be many among the common folk swayed by centuries of propaganda. They will call you monster. And there are those among the houses of the Twelve who enjoy hunting our kind. I’ve heard some Tharashk hunters and Deneith marshals actually cut the skin from their victims and keep the tanned hide as trophies.”

“Why should I trust you?” Thorn said.

He laughed, cold and hard. “It is I who should ask that question of you, my sister. For I am the only one you can trust. The lies of the Twelve have turned the world against you. And in this moment, you cannot even control your own body. Your gentlest touch could kill those you love, and the pain of that will eventually drive you mad.”

Thorn said nothing.

“I’ll tell you true, Sister Thorn. I don’t trust you. Were it in my hands alone, I would send you to one of our safehouses far from Sharn, let you learn your lessons in safety and solitude. But I have my orders.” He glanced at Dreck and scowled. “There are those who have taken an interest in you, fallen Lantern. And so it is time for you to make a choice. Time for you to embrace your new family-or to turn your back on us and face the world alone.”

“I won’t kill for gold alone.”

Dreck spoke again. “You know nothing, beloved. In days past we have taken gold for our deeds, but that will be the least of your worries in the days that lie ahead. We are your people now. We are your nation. And we have many enemies. Yesterday you killed to defend yourself. Are you willing to do the same tomorrow? Will you fight to protect others like yourself?”

Thorn looked down at the table. She rubbed her fingers across her dragonmark, letting her left hand rest on Steel’s hilt. The dagger remained stubbornly silent.

“Yes,” she said at last.

“At least there is some wisdom within you,” Fileon said. “We shall see if you have the courage to back your words. Now come. Let us see what you can do.”

Dragon Towers Lharvion 19, 999 YK

Thorn tossed a pinch of powdered silver into the air and whispered three words in the language of dragons. The metal vaporized. Glittering smoke drifted across the hallway, and Thorn watched it drift. There. She saw the pattern in the smoke, a ghostly web traced through the mist.

“Pathetic,” Fileon said.

Thorn ignored him, holding fast to her memories of the nebulous grid. She drew out a length of mithral wire and straightened it into a long probe.

“I watched my daughter run this path,” Fileon said. “Half your age and mad as five rats. She reached the door before the quarter mark on the hourglass.”

Thorn knew the halfling was sneering at her. Over the course of the last two days, his disapproval had fixed in Thorn’s mind. Part of it was the typical bluster of the drill sergeant. But the more time she spent around Fileon, the more certain she became that he had been ordered to train her. And for whatever reason, he chafed at the command. Dreck stood silently beside the halfling, his metal face unreadable. His eyes were two different colors-one formed from red crystal, the other as green as the mark on his face.

She pushed Fileon’s criticisms from her mind, focusing on her task. Keeping the image of the ward in her mind, she slowly pushed the wire forward. If she brushed a single strand of the invisible web, she would unleash the power trapped within the ward. It was a deadly game, but one she excelled at. A moment later, the probe penetrated the field. Though Thorn couldn’t see the patterns, she knew that she’d threaded the wire through a nexus of mystical strands.

Thorn reached down with her left hand and picked up a vial filled with water infused with the energies of Mabar. Pulling out the stopper with her teeth, she poured a few drops onto the wire. The glittering liquid flowed along the length of the probe, and the instant it reached the end, Thorn whispered another incantation. There was no change in the air, no visible sign of success, but she felt a faint pressure in her mind as she spoke. She twisted the verse, drawing out syllables in response to this ghostly presence… and then it was gone. All that remained was the lock on the door, and compared to wrestling with the forces of the magic, it was a trivial task.

Fileon wasn’t impressed. “Don’t be so proud of yourself, Sister Thorn. Do you suppose we have barrels of nightwater in the wine cellar? Every drop of that fluid is precious. More precious than your blood.”

Thorn said nothing. Didn’t even shrug. She’d quickly learned that the best way to deal with these jibes was to show no interest at all. For the last three days, she had endured a battery of challenges, a grueling gauntlet designed to test her ability to operate both on the battlefield and in the shadows. And whatever Fileon might say about it, Thorn was confident she’d exceeded expectations. She drew Steel and idly spun the dagger in her hand.

“What’s next?” she asked.

Fileon smiled. An increasingly rare occurrence. He walked up to the door that Thorn had unlocked and opened it. Three beasts waited on the other side-rats the size of wolfhounds, savage creatures from the deep sewers of Sharn. They snarled as they caught sight of Thorn.