of flight and levitation, and the architects of the city had taken advantage of this. The most dramatic proof of this was Skyway, an entire district suspended above the tallest towers by sheer magical force. But there were a number of smaller, free-floating towers scattered around and above Sharn, home to those nobles who wished to flaunt their wealth. Strange as it seemed, the towers were quite stable. But there was an exception to every rule, especially in Sharn. In the early days of the Last War, one of the floating towers of Sharn ceased to be a floating tower. The spire plummeted thousands of feet, breaking apart as it fell. The fragments of the tower struck the old district of Godsgate, a temple district that had long ago seen its churches converted into tenements. The district was devastated. The council of Sharn had no intention of pouring gold into Lower Dura, and people were left to fend for themselves. Those who could afford to do so left. But others stayed, either out of pride or because they had nowhere else to go. Tales quickly spread around ruined Godsgate, which soon became known as Fallen. Some of these stories said it was haunted by the howling hordes of those who had died in the great collapse. Others said that the heart of the district was inhabited by feral savages, people whose ancestors were driven insane by the disaster-or that the council of Sharn used it as a brutal asylum, driving madmen and those with incurable afflictions into Fallen. Whatever the truth of these tales, the City Watch shunned the district, and it was a haven for deserters, criminals, and the worst dregs of the city.
Thorn had never been to Fallen. But if any place in Sharn was bereft of hope, this was it. Once the buildings around them had been temples to the Sovereigns and lesser faiths. Now the mosaics were shattered, and inscriptions were worn away by time or gouged out by human hands. The smell of rot and urine filled the air, nearly as thick as in the sewers they’d traversed before. There were a few people scattered around the streets, ragged clothes barely covering filthy skin. Most fled at the sight of the outsiders, ducking into alleys or through broken doorways. A few just glared at the strangers. One old woman muttered as Thorn drew close, shaking something within her fist; finally she opened her hand, revealing human teeth marked with strange symbols.
This was just the outer edge of the district. It was only when they moved in deeper that they saw the horror responsible for its name. The spire that had fallen from the sky had been a massive tower built of smoked glass. Huge chunks of mystically hardened glass had smashed into temples and tenements, and the streets were still filled with rubble. Many of the shards still lay where they’d first fallen, and Thorn caught a glimpse of bone through cloudy glass. Where the rubble had been shifted, there were makeshift barricades and shelters.
“This is what comes of reaching for the sky,” Drego said. “Though it seems the Brelish have yet to learn that lesson. That blue and gold tower up there is a recent addition, isn’t it?”
He glanced back at Thorn as he spoke, but Brom answered before she could. “What’s your answer, brother?” he rumbled. “Would you keep your eyes on the ground?”
“If you seek the heavens, faith is a stronger ladder than stone,” Drego said.
“But a hard one to find,” Brom replied. “I was born in this place. It was rubble from the Fall that took my arm when I was a boy. If you wish, I could take you there and we could dig for the bone. I found no solace in flames or gods. They brought me nothing but pain. But at night I could always look up at the lights and imagine the day when I would climb the tower and take my place among the stars.”
“Yet if that glass tower had never been built, you’d still have your original arm,” Drego said.
“The fall brought madness and terror to the district,” Brom said. “But misery always had a home here. The towers are a source of hope. Proof that there is something better, if you have the strength to reach for it.”
“I don’t see much in the way of hope here,” Thorn said.
A pair of gleaming eyes watched them from a nest built from refuse and bloody cloth It was difficult to say if the eyes belonged to a gnome, a halfling, or a human child, but they held only savage fear.
Brom nodded. “Yes. It’s worse now than it was. And if that is the doing of this beast that lies below, I shall enjoy crushing the life from him.”
No one had an answer to that, and the quintet continued on in silence.
The attack came at the heart of the district.
Before the fall, the Glass Tower had been a vast structure. There were pieces of the tower larger than the house Thorn had grown up in. Drego had led them into a narrow tunnel formed from the collapsed walls of two buildings, and now he stopped. Closing his eyes, he raised a hand and let his fingers drift through the air, as if he were dragging them through the water of a stream.
“We’re close,” he said quietly.
Thorn didn’t have Drego’s gift for sensing spirits, but ambushes were another matter. Shifting gravel, flesh brushing stone, the faint sound of nervous breathing; there were people at the mouth of the tunnel behind them, preparing to act. Thorn tapped her hand, drawing the attention of the others and gesturing backwards. “We’ve got company,” she whispered.
Xu’sasar clicked her tongue. “Ahead as well,” she said quietly. “Four, spread to the sides.”
Daine considered this. “They’ll attack the first of us to emerge then try to pin the survivors in the tunnel. Luckily we have a surprise of our own. Brom, take point. Draw their attention. Xu’sasar and I will follow.” He glanced at Drego. “I trust you can hold the tunnel?”
Drego smiled. “Certainly.”
“If I may…” Thorn produced two small, round stones from a pocket in her cloak. “These might help.”
Daine nodded and took one of the stones. “Good. Move out. Throw in fifteen.”
The group split up. Drego and Thorn turned around, moving back the way they’d come. Drego flexed his fingers, and silver fire flickered in the darkness. They could see the mouth of the tunnel, but there was still no sign of the enemies lying in wait.
Fourteen.
Fifteen.
Thorn hurled the stone at the mouth of the tunnel.
When the stone struck the ground, a mighty boom rolled down the passageway, echoed by the thunderclap caused by Daine’s stone at the other end of the tunnel. Even at a distance, the sound caused Drego to clutch at his head. Their unknown enemies were at the center of the blast, and the sound should leave them dazed and deafened, crippling their ability to coordinate with one another. Now came the question: would the strangers flee or press the attack?
The answer came soon enough. The strangers might not be able to hear, but they still howled in rage as they rushed into the tunnel. After the suspense of the ambush, the reality was a disappointment. Thorn was half- expecting angelic minions, beings wielding swords of flame or terrifying magic. Instead, the people charging them were men and women, humans and dwarves and a few halflings, with matted hair and filthy skin, dressed in bloodstained rags and armed with chunks of rock and simple clubs. Far from being fearsome warriors, the attackers were sickly and emaciated. Thorn could see ribs beneath the skin of the man in the lead.
This ragged pack didn’t seem like much of a threat, but Drego wasn’t taking any chances. Twin rays of argent fire lit the tunnel. One struck the leader in the chest, and the smell of scorched flesh filled the air. The second bolt struck the woman at his side, catching her full in the face. It was a horrific sight, as skin and hair were burnt away by the blast. Even a strong man would have surely collapsed in shock, yet the strangers didn’t even pause in their charge.
Thorn leaped forward, interposing herself between the strangers and Drego. The scorched man lashed out at her with the chunk of stone. Thorn easily deflected the wild swing, slamming her armored forearm against his wrist, but she was surprised by his strength and speed. There was motion to her right, and she turned to parry the blow, only to find herself eye to eye with the maimed woman, whose hair formed a burning wreath around her ruined face.
For a moment, pure revulsion overcame all rational thought, and in that instant the woman struck. Her club was bare wood, a spar from a fallen roof, but she was just as strong as her companion. The club snapped against Thorn’s left arm, and the bone snapped with it. Thorn screamed. Once again, the crystal shards came to her aid. Ever since the stones had lodged in her back, they’d been a constant source of agony, and she’d had to learn to work around the pain. Now she pushed the torment away, driving it into her cry, letting her scream become the pain, flowing away from her.
Steel was in her right hand, and Thorn focused her thoughts on the dagger. The feel of the hilt in her hand. The reflexive motion of the thrust, as much a part of her as a yawn or a laugh. She was still screaming as Steel’s point pierced the woman’s throat. Thorn jerked the blade to the side, slashing through flesh.
