The fading dream

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Pit B arrakas 25, 999 YK

House Orien was in the business of transportation. The challenge had been getting the abandoned gate to function without a guide. Once they were through, they should have been welcomed as customers who had just contributed a great deal of gold to the house coffers, not threatened.

It seemed someone had forgotten to tell the woman.

Burdened by Drix, there was no way Thorn could bring Steel to bear before the stranger could unleash the power bound in her wand. “I’ve no time for this,” she snapped. “My companion is a Cannith heir in need of immediate medical assistance. Either help me or get out of my way, unless you’d like to explain things to his parents.”

There was a flicker of doubt in the woman’s eyes. She played a dangerous game, but every moment Thorn was drawing new cards. They were standing on an Orien circle, there could be no doubt about that-a circle that could be used by only a dragonmarked heir. The woman with the wand was dressed in a uniform; while Thorn didn’t recognize it, the matching studs on her wrists and the silver unicorn on her collar suggested rank and hierarchy. Whether she ran an Orien operation or something else, if this woman had a rank, there was surely someone above her, someone she wouldn’t want to upset.

Bluff it might be, but Drix was covered with drying blood and broken glass. Letting a prayer to Olladra pass through her thoughts, Thorn took a step forward. The sentry took a step back, tensing up, and let her wand fall out of line.

That one moment was all Thorn needed. Summoning all her strength, she tossed Drix directly into the other woman. Whatever the sentry might have expected, she wasn’t prepared for a flying tinker. She fell to the ground, Drix on top of her. Thorn was there before the other woman had caught her breath. She kicked the wand from the guardian’s hand and placed Steel against her throat.

Another interesting situation, Steel said.

“I want information,” Thorn snapped. Drix shifted to better pin the sentry to the ground. The action drove shards of glass deeper into his skin, blood smearing across the guard’s uniform, but he didn’t cry out. “Tell me what I want to know, and you’ll survive this. Struggle or lie-and I’ll know if you lie-and this blade goes through your throat. Do you understand?”

“I understand-” she began.

Then she was gone.

Drix struck the floor, and Thorn stumbled forward as her target simply disappeared. First eladrin, now Orien! Thorn cursed. The heirs of House Orien carried the Dragonmark of Passage. Channeled through a focus like the circle, the mark could transport its bearer across a continent, but an unaided heir could still use her mark to leap through space.

Fortunately, she couldn’t go far, and Thorn had a partner who could track teleportation.

The hallway! Steel told her. Just outside this chamber!

There was no time to explain to Drix. Thorn leaped over the tinker and bolted to the door, snatching the wand from the floor as she went. Luck was with her; the sentry was still catching her breath, drawing in air to raise the alarm. Thorn raised the woman’s wand and let her anger flow through it, unleashing the power bound within. The sentry stiffened but didn’t cry out; she didn’t make a sound as she tumbled to the floor.

How did you know it would paralyze her? Steel asked as Thorn sprinted down the hall. You might have unleashed a fireball in here.

“I didn’t know what it would do,” Thorn said. “But she was prepared to use it on me and in a small room. And it only seemed fair to let her suffer whatever she had planned for me.”

The Orien sentry had struck the floor hard, and she had cut open her scalp, but she was still conscious and completely limp, unable to move a muscle. There was no telling how long the effect would last, and Thorn smashed Steel into the side of her head. It wasn’t easy to tell if the blow had any effect, but her eyes seemed to lose focus. Good enough, Thorn thought. She dragged the woman back to the circle chamber. Drix was sitting on the floor, pulling pieces of bloodstained glass from his legs.

“Good catch,” he said.

“Aureon’s name! You’re lucky I don’t have time to slap you right now,” Thorn said. She reached into her pouch, calling a length of silk rope from the extradimensional space within. “I need answers, and she’s not about to give them. Where have you brought us, and why do they have guards ready to strike on sight?”

“You know as much as I do,” Drix said, plucking a long blade of glass from his forearm. “The gate… it was buried. Hidden, even from most Orien heirs who might use the podium. All I knew was that it was in the Whitepine Forest.”

“Lovely. A hidden gate, and far from civilization.” Thorn plucked the silver unicorn, the symbol of House Orien, from the sentry’s uniform. “This is a house operation. So what are they working on that they don’t want the world to see?”

“Do you think it’s important?” Drix said. He stood up gingerly, testing the strength of his legs.

“Everything’s important to someone. I’d love to know more about what’s going on. But this isn’t the mission. We need to get out of here and on our way as quickly as possible, preferably without dying in the process. What can you tell me?”

“Nothing?” Drix said, puzzled.

Steel’s answer was the one Thorn was waiting for. The unicorn pin has a faint aura. It’s likely protection against whatever wards are in this place.

“Define ‘likely,’ ” Thorn said. “Are we safe or aren’t we?”

I can’t be certain, but I can’t see any other explanation for the aura. If I had anything to bet on it, I would.

“And you’d also bet on the minotaur instead of the ogre,” Thorn muttered.

“You’re talking to your dagger, aren’t you?” Drix said. “What’s his name? Can you introduce us?”

“Not now,” Thorn said. “Guards could be here at any moment. We’ve got to figure out a way out of here, and we just don’t have enough information. And-” she stopped short. “How did you know he was a ‘he’?”

“He’s a dagger,” Drix said as if that explained everything.

Thorn shook her head and looked around the chamber: no windows, only the one door, the podium, the map studded with dragonshards. “See what you can do with that,” she said to Drix. “If I don’t come back soon, you may want to get that gate working and get back home.”

“I never had a home,” Drix said, more thoughtful than sad.

“That’s fascinating,” Thorn said. “Now see what you can find out.”

Thorn pinned the unicorn amulet to her collar. Closing her eyes, she pictured still water. She imagined her body settling into the pool, surrounded by water, becoming the water. Clear as glass. Invisible. “Shalassa,” she whispered, and the word was a lever, a bucket she lowered into the well of magical energy. She pulled, sinking her thoughts into the well of energy and pulling it over her, making her vision real.

The whole process took only seconds. She opened her eyes, raised a hand before herself, and saw nothing. She was invisible.

She moved quietly into the hall. The spell would last for only a few minutes, so she had to be as quick as possible. The corridor was fashioned from bare, white stone, lit with cold-fire globes. There were no windows, no other doors nearby, but the hallway merged with another corridor, and she could hear voices moving toward her-people in that corridor.

“I’m telling you, we should be working on the blood. The director is wasting time. Mark my words, a month from now, we’ll be working on the blood.” It was a woman’s voice, colored with annoyance. There was something else… a creak, the sound of metal on stone-a cart, perhaps.

“I’m just the axeman, Lady.” The voice was male, cheerful. “Such matters are beyond my simple understanding.”

Thorn peered around the corner. There were one woman and five men, two of whom were indeed wheeling a cart between them. She saw the glint of steel in the cold light, armor and the blade of a weapon, and slipped back around the corner. They shouldn’t be able to see her, but there was no point in taking chances. They were almost on top of her; better to let them pass and continue to observe.

A moment later they passed by her. Fortunately they kept going; whatever their destination, they weren’t going to the teleportation chamber.

“And you’re dulling your axe to no good purpose, I tell you.” The woman was quite striking; she had smooth skin; silky, black hair; brown eyes with flecks of gold that caught the light of the cold fire as Thorn studied her. She could have been an artist’s model or an actress, but she wore a leather harness loaded with vials, short wands, and thin blades-the tools of an alchemist or medical savant. She wore a brown robe with green trim, and the gold pin over her left breast was carved in the shape of a griffon. They were the colors of House Vadalis, and the griffon was its sigil; the three men accompanying her were dressed in the uniform armor of House Deneith mercenaries. And we’ve already seen Orien, Thorn thought. A house operation, it seems, but doing what?

House Vadalis worked with animals, breeding and training all manner of creatures. They were best known for magebreeding-rituals that used the power of the house dragonmark to twist the flesh and blood of an unborn creature, weaving specific strengths into the child. Through the techniques they had produced horses with remarkable speed and strength, hunting dogs that could track the merest trace of a scent, beasts of burden and battle. The house had produced the mighty warbears that Breland had used in the Last War, the Breland coat of arms brought to fierce life. They’d created the “dark eyes,” ravens with an exceptional vocabulary and the ability to recognize and report on enemy activities; they weren’t truly intelligent, but sometimes it was hard to tell. The Korth Edicts prohibited the house from experimenting on humans or other sentient species, but there were always rumors that they were trying to magebreed a better human. With her angelic appearance, the Vadalis savant was exactly the sort to add fuel to that fire. Her appearance wasn’t truly unnatural but still remarkable for a healer.

The five with her were soldiers; that was plain to see. Whatever that place was, they took security seriously. Even at a glance, Thorn could see scars on their skin and nicks on their chain mail; they’d been through battles and come out alive. Four were common Blademarks, with crossbows slung across their backs and swords sheathed on their belts. The one walking next to the woman was an officer, with a golden chimera pinned to his collar; beyond that, Thorn could see the lines of a dragonmark running along his neck and up to his ear. He was resting a two-handed axe across one shoulder, an ugly weapon with a long blade. He was a muscular man, and if not for the web of scars on almost every inch of his exposed skin, he would have been quite handsome. More to the point, Thorn had no doubt he’d be able to wield the brutal axe with ease.

“Perhaps I am. I still enjoy the dulling of it,” he said with a grin.

Thorn followed them quietly as they continued down the hallway. She traced a cross on Steel’s hilt.

Well equipped for common sentries, he told her, though nothing so impressive as our friends in the Mournland. Still, even the two pushing the cart have mystically reinforced armor and enchantments woven into blade and bow alike. Low-grade Cannith work, I’d say. The axe is on par with that of the royal executioner; enchanted to sever a head or a limb, but drawing on its full might would take time-the sort of thing one would use on a stationary target. And the woman… nothing powerful, no weapons, but a great many minor auras. The tools of a chirurgeon as opposed to an alchemist.

Thorn moved the blade in a circle, suggesting a study of the hallway.

Quite an impressive array of spells at work. No aggressive defenses, but the two doors ahead are sealed and set with warning enchantments that will be triggered should the wards be broken; I’m sensing a spell of silence as well. Kundarak work, I believe. Aside from that… The walls themselves are reinforced using Cannith hardening techniques, and there’s a broader enchantment maintaining the temperature. It has the flavor of House Ghallanda to it.

Kundarak, Ghallanda, Orien, Cannith, Vadalis, Deneith… Quite an operation, Thorn thought. Whatever the place was, it had nothing to do with her current assignment. Still, it troubled her. She could still hear the words of the Son of Khyber and the Tarkanan halfling Fileon, warnings about the growing power of the dragonmarked houses.

And with this much magic invested in the place, I imagine there are more than five guards.

Thorn still had no sense of the size of the place, and she hadn’t seen so much as an arrow slit in the walls. And she had only a minute or two of invisibility left. Still, she needed more information; she wanted to see where they were going.

Luckily for her, the team had reached its destination. There was no handle on the door; the Kundarak seal held it closed. The Vadalis savant placed one hand on her hippogriff brooch and her other palm on the door and pushed it open. It immediately became clear why there was a spell of silence on the room. The instant the door was opened, the air was filled with growls and snarls, bestial cries of rage and pain.

The guards wheeled the cart into the room, and Thorn slipped in after them. The door clicked shut behind her. Keeping her back against the wall, she stepped to the side and surveyed the situation. Her first impression was that someone had taken one of the healing houses of House Jorasco and merged it with her brother’s ramshackle clinic in Wroat. Shelves were piled high with stacks of bandages and other supplies. Surgical blades gleamed in baths of sterilizing fluids, and the walls were covered with anatomical charts and pages of parchment covered with scrawled notes and diagrams. Then there were things she’d never seen in a Jorasco ward. Alchemical equipment whose purpose she could only guess at-strange contraptions of glass and metal, dark fluid bubbling over low flames and chunks of rubbery, green flesh suspended in clear liquid.

Then there were the prisoners.

There were four beds on one side of the room, though bed was a kind word. They were clearly designed for restraint, not comfort; each was a virtual cocoon covered with leather straps and iron chains. At a quick glance, one might think there were four men bound in the beds. But they weren’t men. Each was over ten feet in height and massively muscled. Their hides were rubbery and green, covered with warts and boils. Long, hooked noses hung over mouths filled with needle-sharp teeth. They were trolls. Distant relatives to orcs and ogres, trolls were savage carnivores infamous for eating anything they could tear apart, and the talons of a troll could rend steel. They’d been driven from civilized lands long in the past, but they still lingered in deep caverns and dark woods, in the most desolate peaks of Mror Holds and in the wilds to the west. The last time Thorn had seen a troll in the flesh had been on her mission to Droaam. The leaders of that land had brought ogres, gnolls, shapeshifters, minotaurs, medusas and more together to build their nation, and Thorn had seen quite a few trolls among the guardians of the Great Crag.

There were handful of halflings and humans scattered around the room, savants wearing the colors of House Vadalis and the healing house, Jorasco. A thin halfling with wispy, white hair nodded to the newcomers. “Take table three. You can have your choice of left or right, and I’d like to see that one taken down a notch. I cut his tongue out yesterday, but you know how they are.”

One of the trolls roared again, a howl of sheer rage. Its fury was no match for its bonds. The guards surrounded it, and three of them worked with its arm. The restraints worked in series; they were able to separate the arm from the main cocoon, and working together, the four soldiers were able to force the creature’s arm down onto the stretcher they’d brought with them, lashing it onto the new restraints.

“Shadow hears me!” The troll’s voice was a guttural roar, as loud as thunder. Thorn vaguely recognized it as the language of the goblins, shaped with a mangled tongue. To her ears, it sounded like the meaningless snarls of a savage beast. But Thorn was wearing the gift she’d received from the Lord of Pylas Pyrial, and she knew the meaning even though she couldn’t understand the words. “Vengeance on he who wields the blade!”

Perhaps the guards didn’t understand the Goblin language; perhaps they’d heard the threat before. Either way, they ignored the beast completely and remained focused on their work.

“Devouring spirit!” it roared. “Vengeful daughters! Punish the one who spills my blood!”

“I thought you said you cut out his tongue,” the Deneith captain said, a mixture of boredom and annoyance in his voice. He took a practice swing with the great axe.

“Yesterday,” the halfling said. “You know how they are.”

“That I do,” the axeman said. His soldiers had finished binding the troll’s arm to the stretcher, and they drew it back, pulling it taut. The captain raised the axe, and the runes carved into the blade glowed as the power within it grew. He took two steps forward then brought the cruel weapon down with all his strength, magic and muscle combining in a deadly arc of steel. The blade cleaved straight through flesh and bone, and the troll howled in pain as his arm was severed from his shoulder.

The troll moaned and muttered foul curses as the captain cleaned thick, green blood off the blade of his axe. The severed arm twitched and struggled in its bonds, but the soldiers had bound it well. The Vadalis woman studied the wound with a critical eye.

“Clean cut,” she acknowledged. “The wound is already healing. Keston, I hope you’re tracking progress.”

“This is hardly my first time, Lalanan,” the old halfling snapped. “Now take your arm and leave us to our work.”

The captain grinned as his men began wheeling the severed limb away. “Where’s your vengeance now?” he said. He chuckled. Then a great, green hand wrapped around his head. For a moment, his laughter turned into a scream; then the crushing fingers ended that along with his life. By that time, there were many other screams filling the air.