But her death might not be his goal. She still had the deadly touch that might prove useful. Despite the words of dream-Drego, could she have an aberrant dragonmark after all?
At this stage, conjecture served little purpose. “No,” she told him. “We survived. They didn’t.”
Daine chuckled. “I suppose that’s what it always comes down to, yes? And I’m sure there’s worse yet to come. Let’s keep moving.”
“It’s not far,” Drego said. He closed his eyes, searching for whatever spiritual thread he was following. “There. Follow me.”
They’d reached the heart of Fallen. Buildings had shattered, and the walls of different buildings had fallen onto one another, creating an eerie patchwork labyrinth. It was hard to believe the structure could be stable, but the disaster had happened decades ago. Anything that would fall too easily likely already had. Rubble and refuse from the disaster choked the passage. While anything of value had been scavenged long ago, there were still remnants of the past. A wooden comb. The broken wagon of a wandering vendor, with fading paint proclaiming the best pies in Dura. Half of a child’s rattle, protruding from beneath a fallen flagstone. The air was unnaturally still. There were no vermin nor any signs of human habitation. Just the desolation left by the fall.
“It reminds me of the war,” Daine said. “Not the early days, when the streets were filled with those hoping to escape the coming conflict. But the end, during the siege.”
“Where did you fight?” It was difficult for Thorn to identify Daine’s accent, but if she’d had to guess, she’d have said he was Cyran.
“Here,” he replied. “Not your war. The struggle with the houses. It wasn’t a clash of armies as such. Deneith had its troops, but their task was containment, ensuring that we couldn’t escape. It was the others who did the killing. The siege engines of Cannith raining destruction from the sky, and the steel marauders prowling through the alleys. The swarms of predatory birds twisted by House Vadalis, sparrows with venomous spurs and a thirst for blood. Phiarlan assassins skulking through the shadows. Anyone who remained in the city was marked for death, aberrant or not. Those who did flee were cut down by the Deneith guard. This was where the war would end, and both sides knew it.”
It was still difficult for Thorn to believe Daine’s tale that he had fought in the War of the Mark. But she could hear the conviction in his voice, and the pain. She thought of the things she’d seen on the battlefield. Warforged titans scattering squads of soldiers. Sorcerers raining destruction down from airships. If he was correct and the Twelve planned to turn their weapons against the world, unlikely as it seemed, it was a horrifying thought.
She looked at Daine. “So how did you die?”
He paused, perched on the piece of rubble he’d been scaling. “I don’t recall the moment of my death. The houses were making their final move, driving deep within the city. We’d lost contact with the Dream-breaker, one of the mightiest among us. Halas called the leaders together-his lady, myself, Kalara of the Ten Terrors-to discuss our fate.”
Everyone had heard of Tarkanan and the Lady of Plague, but the others-the Dreambreaker, Kalara-were new to Thorn. “What was he like? Tarkanan?”
“The greatest man I ever met. Even when we were enemies, I admired him. If people had listened to him sooner, if he could have built his army back before the purge began, he might even have won the war-or at least have created a sanctuary for the aberrants that the others could not touch. As it was, I think he always knew how the struggle would end, but he was determined to give our people hope and to make the houses pay for the blood they spilled.”
“Halas Tarkanan,” Thorn mused. “The Earthshaker.”
Daine nodded. “That was one of his names, yes. He was the first Son of Khyber. Sivis propaganda said he was the Devourer himself, and it was an easy lie to tell, for his mark gave him power over the destructive forces of nature. But his mind was his greatest weapon. If he’d been unmarked, he might have unified the Five Kingdoms centuries before Galifar. And the world would be a different place today.”
“So what happened when he called you together?”
“He knew the end was hours away. He’d always known this time would come. But now, sensing their victory, the houses had fully committed their forces, bringing everything into the city.” He looked away, studying the rubble around them. “Aberrant dragonmarks… they’re tied to our blood, to our life. Sometimes this causes tragedy, madness, or infirmity. But it can also be a source of power. You can learn to channel your lifeforce into your mark, amplifying its power at the cost of personal suffering. Halas was a master of this art. When our defeat drew near, he proposed to bring the battle to an end, to combine our forces and bring the city itself down on top of them. His mark would shatter the walls and bury them in stone, while the Lady would call the vermin from the depths to devour them, and Kalara would drive any who survived to madness. They would pay for this power with their lives, but at this point, it was a small price to pay.”
“And you?”
“My mark is ill-suited to striking down armies, and I’d never learned to channel my life into it. I couldn’t help. So, Halas asked me to take the few children that were still with us and to try to escape. And I did try. I remember facing a Cannith construct, a soulless beast whose life I could not steal. Two of the children were dead, and I had only my sword. I remember the ground shaking when I charged the beast, and then… then it fades. A forest… a pool of calm water… I see these images, but I don’t remember how they fit together. And then I was trapped in the dragon’s dreams, waiting for over a thousand years.”
“Plucked out of time to do someone else’s dirty work,” Drego said. “Sounds like dragons to me.”
Daine raised an eyebrow. “And what do you know of dragons, my friend?”
Drego raised his hands disarmingly. “Oh, nothing, really. Just all of this business about the Prophecy… it seems like they’re just using you to get what they want.”
“No,” Daine said. “This is my cause. My destiny. I do not know who arranged it or why. But this is the battle I was born to fight. I’ve simply been brought forward to a point where we have the chance to win.”
“I hope so,” Drego said. “I truly do. But I’m from Thrane, and in my land, dragons are symbols of greed.”
They continued on in silence.
While Thorn tried to fight it, it was hard not to feel a sense of despair when faced with the devastation around her and the echoes of Daine’s story. Her thoughts kept drifting back to her own lonely childhood, the feeling of loss whenever her father returned to the war, the unanswered question of why her mother had abandoned her children. Those thoughts were troubling enough, but now they mingled with the horrors around her. She imagined herself as a child, crawling through the wreckage of the fall and looking for her family-searching, already knowing what she would find.
“Stop.”
At first, Thorn didn’t even recognize Drego’s voice. The vision had been so strong that she’d forgotten her quest and companions. As she returned to her senses, she could see that she hadn’t been the only one. Brom’s human eye was full of tears, and even Xu’sasar had drifted away from the group to pull at the remnants of a dress buried in the debris. Daine had a distant look in his eyes, as if he were looking into the past.
“We draw close to our quarry,” Drego said. “By his mere presence, he seeks to pull your hopes away. You must stay focused and resist these visions. Let him sink his claws into your soul, and you will soon be no better than those unfortunate creatures we killed at the tunnel.”
Daine nodded. “Yes. Remember that even in this place, we stand together, and we will succeed. Hold onto your hope, for that will be the most important weapon in the battle that lies ahead.”
Thorn cleared the cobwebs from her mind. Behind her, Brom wiped the tears from his eye then loudly blew his nose.
“And here we are,” Drego said.
There was a door ahead of them. The building had once been a cathedral of the Sovereign Host, and there were images of the Nine carved around the great archway. Considering the devastation all around them, this structure seemed remarkably well preserved. But there was something wrong. The faces of the nine Sovereigns were filled with fear and despair, and their hands were raised as if trying to ward off whatever might emerge from within. The double doors were black oak, bound with bands of silver-a clear sign something was wrong, as scavengers should surely have stripped this precious metal. The doors were slightly ajar-perhaps enough for a halfling to slip through.
“Stay back,” Thorn said. She drew Steel and approached the archway.
