never heard of such a fortress.
Perhaps with good reason, Thorn thought. She couldn’t talk to Steel without Xu’sasar hearing, but she could always speak to both of them at once. “Some of the rubble in the last hallway-that was recent demolition, wasn’t it? You had to dig to find this place.”
Xu’sasar blew out her breath but said nothing more. But Thorn felt Steel’s approval.
Yes. Most of the damage to the tunnels above is ancient, likely dating to the War of the Mark. But the broken wall in the shrine of the Nine, that was recent work. Which begs the question of how they knew where to look- though I don’t expect your drow friend to answer that.
The hallway was narrow and sparse. Torches set into the walls shed pale cold fire light, and Thorn slipped Fileon’s glowing stone into a pouch on her belt. In truth, she hadn’t needed the light, but there had been no reason to let Xu’sasar or any of the others know of her ability to see in the shadows.
Thorn expected to get a tour of the place, perhaps to be shown to quarters. But it seemed Xu’sasar had little interest in prolonging their journey. Sound and smell revealed the nature of their destination before Thorn actually saw it. Laughter and voices raised in conversation echoed off the walls, and the smell of broth and ale filled the air. It was the canteen, and as they entered the room, Thorn saw a score of people spread among six long tables. Elves, humans, and halflings rubbed shoulders with dwarves, gnomes, and others, and accents and clothing suggested the diverse lands from which they hailed. There were a few who seemed to have suffered from their marks, much like Fileon-a man with rotting skin, a woman whose dragonmarked hands lacked fingers-but most seemed physically sound. The strangest figure in the common room was also the most familiar-the dwarf Brom, who sat on the end of a bench with his massive arm resting against the floor.
“Thorn!” he called to her. He’d changed out of his bloody clothes and seemed to have completely recovered from his ghastly injuries. “Come meet the wretches you’ll be bunking with. And the rest of you, give our youngest sister a fair welcome! The last man to cross her is feeding the beetles now, or I miss my guess.”
Thorn turned to ask Xu’sasar if she had other plans, but the dark elf had already slipped away. The crowd quickly engulfed Thorn. The ale was warm and weak, the bread and soup no match for the delicacies she’d had in the manor in Dragon Towers. But the company was certainly interesting. The woman missing her fingers was called Palmer, and she proved to be remarkably adept at manipulating objects despite her warped hands. Shrew was a halfling, who chose not to shake hands due to his poisonous touch. The most unusual was Whisper, an elf whose mark absorbed almost all sound in his immediate vicinity. He had to shout to be heard at all, and even then his voice was little more than a murmur.
It was Brom who stayed by her side, and the dwarf soon showed her around the fortress. It was smaller than she’d thought. Her guess was that there were a hundred people garrisoned in the subterranean keep. Barracks, armory, infirmary, storeroom, training hall. There was little of interest in any of these places. But there was one place Brom didn’t take her. Two guards stood at the top of a narrow stairwell leading down to a lower level of the citadel.
“What’s down there?” Thorn asked. She’d already guessed the answer, and Brom’s words confirmed it.
“The Son of Khyber takes his rest in the chamber below,” Brom told her. “Some say he sleeps on a bed of Khyber shards. Others say he has gathered the bones of dragons. Whatever the truth may be, dark Xu is the only one allowed in his chambers.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
Brom laughed. “The stories say that it’s for our own good. Have you seen the way his mark reaches out from his skin? There’s those who swear that while Lord Daine sleeps, his mark can reach out of its own will and strike a man dead.”
“Not exactly an inspiring trait for a leader.”
The dwarf slapped the floor with his mighty palm. “Wait until you hear him speak, little Thorn. Wait until you see him in battle. He is a troubled one, yes, but he is not alone in that, not in this place. But there is a force within him. He walks the path of the Prophecy, or I miss my guess.”
“What about that Xu’sasar? She doesn’t even have a dragonmark, does she?”
Brom shrugged. “She was at Daine’s side when he came to us in Dragon Towers. I don’t know what binds the two of them together, but she never leaves his side unless he orders it.”
“Were you there? When he first arrived?”
Brom nodded. “Lady Tavin was our leader then. Daine walked into the hall as though he owned it, asked to see the ‘eldest child of Tarkanan.’ None of us had ever seen a mark of such size before, and he has such confidence. Lady Tavin came to the hall, and he said…” The dwarf tugged at his ragged beard, mismatched eyes closed in thought. “‘You have done your work well. You have prepared our people for the war that lies ahead. But it is I who must lead them in that struggle.’ Tavin took him to her quarters, and darkness fell before they emerged again. But when they returned, she ceded her role to him. It was he who led us to this place, who diverted funds from our business as a guild to establish these hidden fortresses.”
“How did he even know about this place?”
Brom pulled at his beard again. “That is a twisted knot. As I see it-” He broke off as the sound of a bell echoed throughout the hall. “Assembly,” he said, taking her wrist and pulling her back toward the common room. “Quickly now.”
Moments later they were in the main hall. Dozens of Tarkanans squeezed into the chamber. All eyes were on the front of the hall, where the Son of Khyber stood. Xu’sasar stood behind him, a silent shadow. His mark pulsed with ruddy light as he spoke.
“Brothers and sisters!” he called out. His voice was deep and strong, reverberating off the walls of the chamber. “Children of Tarkanan. The time has come to seize our destiny. Tomorrow we go to war. Let the heirs of Cannith sleep soundly tonight, for tomorrow we will strike a blow they’ll never forget.”
Thorn’s hand was resting on Steel’s hilt, and the dagger whispered into her mind. It sounds like you’re going to have a busy night, he said.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Undercity Lharvion 20, 999 YK
The crimson mark of the Son of Khyber rippled along his skin, reminding Thorn of a flickering flame. His personality was a palpable force in the room. Absolute silence held the room as the assembled Tarkanans waited for his next word, and Thorn found that she was holding her breath.
Daine was silent for a moment, as he gazed over his assembled forces. His eyes met Thorn’s, and at that moment the shard in her lower back sent an icy chill through her nerves. Then he spoke.
“We stand on the eve of war. Those who fight at my side tomorrow may not survive the battle. I want you all to understand the nature of this struggle, to know why it is worth the sacrifice.”
A murmur passed through the hall, and a few people nodded.
“You all know the myth,” Daine continued. “How at the dawn of time, three dragons fought for dominance. Khyber tore Siberys to pieces and scattered him across the sky. Eberron bound Khyber. All natural life comes from Eberron, but the most remarkable creatures are those touched by one of the other Progenitors-the dragons born of the blood of Siberys, the demons that rose from the depths to rule the newborn world, and the other wonders and terrors that share our world.”
An interesting time for a fable, Steel whispered.
Thorn was equally puzzled. At the same time, she was entranced. Daine was a master storyteller, and it was hard not to be swept away with the fable.
“The Progenitors stand above the gods. They are the architects of reality, aware of all the paths the future might take. And for whatever reason, they chose to share these mysteries with mortals. The answers lie in symbols left by the fissures of earthquakes, the motion of the moons, glyphs traced out by lava flows and hurricanes. These are the pieces of the great Prophecy. And three thousand years ago, the Progenitors chose a new canvas for the Prophecy. The dragonmark, traced across living flesh.
“It took time for people to understand the meaning of the marks, the powers they possessed. But it soon became clear that there were two sorts of marks. The true-breeding marks of the Twelve could be passed from
