Son of Khyber

CHAPTER NINE

Dragon Towers Lharvion 20, 999 YK

Focus!

The world was a blur, the wall of Torran Spire slipping past and the Dagger River approaching below. Thorn could hear the gale around her and her heart pounding within her chest, but she couldn’t feel anything. She was completely disconnected from her body.

Ledge!

The window ledge protruded from the wall, and Thorn reached out for it-or tried to. Her arms wouldn’t move. Her shoulder struck the ledge, sending her spinning to the side, but she felt nothing-gravity, wind… nothing.

Questions burned in the back of her mind. Why would Fileon do this? Have I been exposed?

But there was no time to analyze the situation. Unless she could do something, her remaining lifespan would be measured in moments. No time for reason. But she found a spark of rage and latched onto it. Anger at Fileon. But there was far more than that. She was still furious at Sorghan, the murderous bigot who’d nearly killed her. Still angry at the Twelve for setting this thrice-damned mission in motion. And there was still the burning pain of uncertainty-the mystery of Sorghan’s death, the question of her own aberrant powers. And in that moment of fury, the stone at the base of her neck came alive, cutting through the numbness and burning against the bone. For once, she welcomed the pain, seizing hold of it and letting it serve as a conduit for her anger. The magic of Fileon’s dragonmark shattered in the face of this rage, and suddenly Thorn could feel everything-the wind, the blood rushing through her veins, the torn skin where her shoulder had struck the ledge. She was in control once more.

But she was still falling.

While it had seemed an eternity, it had only taken seconds for Thorn to break the power of the dragonmark. She was falling past the foundation of Dragon Towers, past one of the so-called flying buttresses, magical supports that kept the towers from collapsing. Stretching out, Thorn managed to set her palms against the stone. A moment’s thought reactivated the spider charm-and suddenly her hands were anchored to the stone. Thorn swung her legs against the wall, bracing for the impact as best she could, but the pain was staggering.

Yet it worked. Her shoulders throbbed, but nothing seemed to be broken or dislocated. She’d survived the fall.

Now it was time for revenge.

Relying on the spider charm, Thorn ran up along the buttress. Torran Spire was far ahead of her, but with magic on her side, she quickly closed the distance. She drew Steel as she leaped the gap between the buttress and the foundation of the spire.

Nicely done, Steel whispered. With his voice as cold and calm as always, it was difficult to tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic.

“I thought I was the traitor,” she said, panting and striding up the wall. “I didn’t expect to be betrayed quite so quickly.”

I’m sure your friends at the Twelve have much to say on the subject of aberrant stability.

“What friends? If Sorghan’s any measure, I don’t think I’ll be turning my back on anyone with a dragonmark any time soon.”

What do you intend to do now?

“I don’t know yet.” She’d reached the window to Torran Spire, and none too soon. The spider charm only lasted for a few minutes, and she’d nearly exhausted the enchantment.

Thorn slipped through the casement. While Fileon had a lead on her, Thorn had one advantage. She knew the path Fileon was taking, and the halfling would have to tread carefully. He’d need to be alert for any wards or traps that could bar the way. Following in his footsteps, Thorn could move with greater speed.

It was clear that Lady Ilena had yet to settle in her new property. The window opened onto a landing in the servants’ quarters. An open door showed a glimpse of a linen closet, with a mere two sheets tucked inside. The walls were bare, the floors devoid of any carpet. The Tarkanan estate was better appointed than this, and one of the leading lights of House Cannith would surely flaunt her wealth. Even the walls were bare white, waiting for the lady of the house to make her wishes known. The last time Thorn had seen a Cannith lord’s home, illusions had been woven into the walls; the lord could shift the shade with but a thought. If Ilena had any such intentions, she had yet to implement them.

More’s the pity, Thorn thought. No carpet to muffle footsteps, bare white walls-hardly ideal for a stealthy approach. Can’t be helped.

She made her way along the corridor, listening for sounds of Fileon or anyone else who might be around. She heard nothing, but as she approached a corner, she caught a familiar scent in the air. Blood.

Sliding up to the corner, she extended Steel out around the edge, tracing a cross on his hilt.

Two bodies, he reported. No motion. Both dead. Blood on the floor. No sign of Fileon or any other threat.

Slipping around the corner, Thorn took in the scene: a boy in his late teens and a woman who might have been twice his age, both dressed in Cannith livery. A silver tray lay on the floor. A flagon of tribex milk was on its side, spilled milk mingling with blood. While she felt a touch of remorse for the slaughtered, there was little time for sympathy. Instead, Thorn’s eyes were drawn to the clues, reconstructing the battle from the injuries and the way in which the victims had fallen. Fileon had struck swiftly and with no hesitation. The boy never had a chance to defend himself, and Fileon had turned to the matron within seconds. No sign that the halfling had used his dragonmark, but he’d known exactly where to strike to cripple his foes before they could sound the alarm.

Born into House Jorasco, trained by the Citadel, she thought. A master surgeon, using those same skills as an assassin. She’d known his touch was deadly, but she’d never guessed that he would have such skill with a blade.

It was clear that Fileon was following the path Dreck had laid out for them, a route that led her through the servants’ quarters and down to the rear entrance. Soon she came to a set of enormous double doors, darkwood inlaid with brass. One door was slightly ajar, and Thorn spotted a drop of what seemed to be water on the handle-water charged with the essence of Mabar, no doubt, left behind when Fileon had bypassed whatever ward had been set upon the door.

Wasteful, Thorn thought to herself. It’s not as though he has barrels of nightwater in the wine cellar.

All else aside, it would take time to disarm a Cannith seal. And given that he’d stopped to kill the servants, Fileon had to be close.

Thorn slipped through the doorway, both daggers held ready.

Fileon struck in absolute silence, moving with deadly speed. Whether he’d heard Thorn’s approach or whether it was pure chance, the halfling was standing just within the doorway, and his blade was leveled at Thorn’s kidney. Keen senses and pure instinct saved Thorn. Before she even saw Fileon, Thorn felt the motion to her side and swung her mithral vambrace to meet the blow. Enchanted steel struck the bracer, but the mithral held.

“You?” Fileon hissed. Clearly he’d thought his victim would be another servant or a guard. His eyes were wild, and the crimson lines of his dragonmark burned like flames.

That moment of shock was all she needed. Fileon was fast, but not fast enough. Thorn swept his blade from his hand and planted a powerful kick directly in his chest. It was a solid blow, driving the breath from his lungs and sending him tumbling to the ground.

“Stay down!” Thorn flung Steel, and the blackened blade grazed the halfling’s neck before flashing back to her hand. “That’s your only warning. Why did you try to kill me?”

Fileon stared up at her but made no attempt to stand. “You have my sympathies, sister.” There was a hint of actual sorrow in his voice, though it was overshadowed by pain. For all his speed and skill, the halfling was still an old man, and Thorn’s kick might well have shattered a rib. “But this is not the time for revelations.”

“It’s exactly the time for revelations,” she said, crossing the room in three steps.

Fileon reached for her, the dragonmark blazing on his withered arm, but Thorn was prepared for the attack. She grabbed his wrist and activated her false dragonmark.

The tattoo flared around her eye, pain tearing through her nerves. But between the blazing stone in her neck and the agony she’d endured stopping her fall, Thorn barely noticed it. Not so Fileon, who felt Thorn’s pain increased by a factor of ten. The little man shook in Thorn’s grip, but she released him before he passed out.

“Why did you try to kill me?” she asked. She took a step back, making sure she was out of his reach.

“You have learned your lessons well, sister.” The halfling was shaking, gasping for air, yet he still managed to laugh. “I regret my actions.”

“You’ll regret them even more if you don’t tell me what I want to know.”

Fileon leaned back against the wall. “The Son of Khyber. He wants you below. Has need of your skills.”

Thorn frowned. “Why would you betray your leader?” Even as she asked the question, she realized the answer.

“He is not my leader,” Fileon said. “Thora Tavin raised me from the darkness. It was her courage and her cunning that kept me alive in Darguun, her vision that built this house. This Son of Khyber, he changes everything. Sends Tavin away to build forces in other cities. Raises hopes and fears with his words. We were stable. Successful. Now he prepares us for war.”

“War? What do you mean?”

“We’ve always known the struggle would come, sister. A time when the Twelve would move against us. He would strike the first blow, and in so doing, he would bring the war upon us.”

It sounds as though the Twelve were right to be concerned, Steel said. You know your orders, Lantern Thorn. Evaluate the situation, and if this Son of Khyber proves a threat, eliminate him. The time for evaluation is done. Extract his location from this one. Kill the others. Complete your mission.

“That’s one way of looking at it,” she said. A time when the Twelve would move against us… meaning me.

Her anger stirred again. The thought of a merchant prince using the Citadel as a tool…

She was no paid assassin. She’d joined the Citadel to serve Breland, and she still didn’t see a threat to the crown. “Tell me more about this war.”

Fileon sagged against the wall. His strength was clearly fading, and now Thorn could see bloody spittle on his lips.

I hit him too hard, she thought. Whatever skills he might possess, he was still an old man and a cripple. She felt a pang of guilt, and she knelt down next to him. “Fileon,” she said. “Let me help you-”

Old he might be, and crippled-but he moved like a viper, his hand wrapping around her wrist as light flowed from his dragonmark. A wave of vertigo swept over Thorn, that terrible numbness she’d felt on the ledge. But this time Thorn refused to surrender to it. Her anger swelled within her, and the fire from the shard in her neck spread throughout her veins, the pain drowning out the aberrant chill. Fileon’s eyes were wild, and the lines of his mark blindingly bright. She could feel his power growing stronger, but she would not submit. Every nerve was on fire And then it was over.

Fileon released her, and he fell to the ground. The light faded from his dragonmark, its lines pure black. The smell of seared flesh filled the air, and Thorn could see the burns surrounding the mark. His tongue lolled from his mouth with his last breath.

He bit his tongue, Thorn realized. The bloody spit… it wasn’t from internal injuries. He was just trying to get me close. Part of her felt a fool for falling prey to the trick, but she also found herself feeling some sympathy for the little man. He probably learned that trick serving the Citadel. There was a time when he fought for Breland-it was the Twelve that forced him into the shadows, that tore his loyalty away.

This time it was no trick. Fileon was dead.

Your mission is clear. Steel’s voice pulled her back from her reverie. The others will not be expecting betrayal. Kill one of them. Interrogate the other. Learn the location of the Son of Khyber and eliminate him.

“I’m sick of this argument.” Thorn was still angry, and it was all too easy to turn this against Steel. “My mission is to evaluate the threat. I still don’t know a thing about it. I don’t know who the Son of Khyber is. I don’t know where he is, what he’s capable of, or what the consequences of his death would be. You’re the historian. You tell me how many times an assassination meant to end a war has ended up starting one.”

There was no response, so she continued.

“I’m still not convinced there is a threat to Breland. You’re very concerned with the needs of the Twelve, Steel. But right now I’d like to hear what this Son of Khyber has to say for himself.”

This is madness, Steel told her. You’ve nearly been killed three times.

“Not by the Son of Khyber. Besides, what do you expect?” She touched her eye. “Everyone knows we aberrants go mad.”

You’re not one of them.

Perhaps, she thought. She could still see Sorghan’s face as he died. And although the details were fading, the dream of Mayne dying at her touch still haunted her. “It’s not your decision to make, Steel.”

I cannot approve of this. You are threatening one of Breland’s strategic allies. If this goes wrong, I’ll have no choice but to report your actions to Zane-

“Then do it,” she said, sheathing the blade. The shard in her neck burned in answer to her growing anger. “But stop trying to tell me what to do.”

Taking a deep breath, she hefted the halfling across her shoulders. Fileon weighed little more than a child. It took her less than a minute to reach the rear gate, and another to break the ward protecting it. With that done, she raised the heavy bar and pulled open the doors.

Dreck and Brom were waiting. The warforged was dressed in brown rags, a deep hood hiding his aberrant mark. At a glance, only his long, metal hands revealed his true nature, and he’d draw little attention on the back streets of Sharn. Brom was another story. The patchwork dwarf was dressed in battered chain mail that had clearly seen many battles. Steel sheathed his ogre’s arm, culminating in a massive spiked gauntlet. Dreck scanned the hallway, his gaze dropping to take in Fileon’s corpse.

“Yes,” Thorn said. “There’re a few things we should talk about.”