Son of Khyber_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [23]
“No words.”
Thorn reached out with her thoughts, pulling on the threads of magic surrounding her. There was a tingle as the magic faded, and in that instant Thorn moved. She threw herself backward, slamming her head into his nose. She fell back with him, tumbling to the side before he could regain his balance and cut her throat. She rose to her feet, Steel in her hand.
That went well, Steel said.
Thorn ignored him. “Stop. I’m trying to save your life, you fool!”
Sorghan laughed. “Of course you are. And the one who warned me that a piece of aberrant scum with a stone in her neck would try to kill me … I suppose that was a trick of some sort?” He drew his rapier, and his frigid dagger steamed in the warm air.
“Nothing is what it seems,” she said. “I’m working for the Twelve.”
“Your own flesh proves you a liar,” he snarled. “No one of tainted blood could ever sit at Alder’s table.”
“I’m not an aberrant, you thrice-damned idiot! I’m working to infiltrate the Tark—”
Sorghan’s skills were as good as she’d heard. The dagger struck her before she’d even seen him move. The blade sunk into her chest, but she barely felt any pain. A terrible chill drowned all sensation. Her blood was freezing in her veins, and she could barely find the strength to draw breath.
“I care nothing for the schemes of weaklings,” Sorghan said. “It’s time we destroyed Tarkanan’s brood. Beginning with you.” He lunged, sword glittering in the light of the cold fire. He shouldn’t have gloated. The shock of the icy dagger’s blow had stunned Thorn, and if he’d struck immediately, Sorghan might have finished her. As it was, she had enough presence of mind to stagger backward, staying just out of his reach.
It was hard for Thorn to focus on anything except for the terrible chill, and she had no time to study the wound. At least the cold held any pain at bay.
Sorghan struck again, and this time there was no room to retreat. Instinct took over as Thorn stepped forward, knocking the blade out of line with an armored bracer and charging at Sorghan. Too close for him to bring his rapier to bear, she smashed him to the floor. There was no time for thought or regret. She lashed out with Steel, a blow that should have buried the blade in his throat.
But it didn’t.
It felt as if she’d struck a block of ice, as if the air had solidified before her blade. Sorghan was a warrior of House Deneith, heir to the Mark of Sentinel. And the powers of this mark defended the bearer from harm.
“Your blood is no match for mine!” Sorghan snarled as they wrestled on the floor. At the moment it was true. Thorn’s wound was sapping her strength. Her fingers were numb, her vision fading at the edges. Sorghan spun her to the floor and pulled his icy dagger from her chest, raising the steaming blade for the killing blow.
And in that instant, she hated him. Not for his bigotry, his treacherous attack, or even the fact that he was about to kill her. There was no conscious thought, just pure, primal emotion. And that rage gave her the strength she needed to press her open hand against his chest. For a moment, she felt nothing but fury, then Sorghan collapsed on top of her, his dagger clattering across the floor.
Sorghan was dead weight, and he slumped to the side as Thorn pushed him away. It was then that she realized that both cold and pain were gone. Blood stained her vest along a gash where the dagger had struck her, but the flesh beneath was pure and unmarred.
It had happened again.
Thorn rose to her feet, expecting to feel weak and unsteady. Instead she felt stronger than ever. Filled with energy. Sorghan lay still, and a quick examination confirmed her suspicions. He was dead. His skin was pale and cold, his mouth twisted in a grimace of pain, but there wasn’t a mark on his body.
She picked up Steel. “What happened to him?”
He died. I should think that was obvious.
Thorn nearly threw the dagger at the floor. “This isn’t a joke, Steel! What did you see?”
There was a burst of arcane energy at the moment