Son of Khyber_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [27]
“Very well,” Fileon said. “Let us be about this. But know this, Dreck. I will have words with the Son of Khyber when this is done. I see only darkness on the path ahead, and this is the last time I do his bidding unquestioned.”
“Understood, Shaper,” Dreck said. “I am certain that he will ask nothing further of you, once this night is done. But let us finish this final task as brothers.” He placed his hand against the map, and the emerald lines of his dragonmark pulsed across his face. “Cannith awaits.”
Torran Spire was on the very edge of Dragon Towers, clinging to the vast central column that supported most of the district. Mystical security aside, the doors were reinforced and barred from within. And so Thorn and Fileon made their way to a back window. The challenge soon became clear: the back of the spire projected out and away from Dragon Towers, and it was thousands of feet to the rocky shores of the Dagger River far below.
Despite his complaints, Fileon took point, and he proved surprisingly capable. The halfling made no sound as he slid up along the wall of Torran Spire, finding the slight irregularities in the stone with practiced ease. Even his withered arm proved no handicap, and Thorn guessed that there was magic at work, some spell supplementing his skill. Thorn, dressed in the simple black clothing she favored for silent work, followed at his heels. Thorn’s dark garb was enchanted to draw the shadows to her, helping her hide from sight. Wind whipped around her, tugging at her clothes and whistling in her ears.
Fileon had reached their target: a large window with enough of a ledge for the halfling to stand on. A gargoyle crouched over the casement, its frozen snarl revealing a fierce array of granite teeth. Such decorations were common enough in this city of towers, and Fileon gave it only a cursory glance before producing his tools and setting to work on the window.
Thorn wasn’t so confident. The gargoyle was as still as any statue, its dark skin a perfect match for the frame of the wide window. But there was a chill in the base of her spine—a shiver emanating from the crystal shard that set her on edge.
“Shalitar,” she whispered, in the first tongue ever spoken on Eberron. Spider.
The air resonated with the power of the word, and Thorn let that energy flow through her, along her limbs and into her hands and feet. To this point, it had been strength and skill alone that allowed her to scale the wall. Now the touch of the spider held her fast to the surface, even as she let go with one hand to draw Steel. She couldn’t speak without alerting Fileon, but she didn’t have to. Steel could feel her touch, and they had codes for such situations. She pointed the blade at the gargoyle and traced a cross along the hilt. Threat analysis.
Little of note. A simple arcane lock on the window itself, but your companion seems to have that in hand. If it’s the statue you’re worried about, I sense no magical emanations.
That’s a start, Thorn thought. But she wasn’t about to let her guard down. She studied the statue, imagining what the beast would be like if it spread its wings and took flight, if life came into the granite eyes. What would it take to bring down such a creature? Thorn had been trained in the arts of assassination and knew many ways to cripple a human, dwarf, or elf. But Eberron offered many challenges to the would-be killer. Where would a gargoyle hide its heart? If she couldn’t rely on striking a vital organ with that first blow, what gave the best odds of crippling the creature?
Paranoia and preparation paid off. Thorn heard a faint click as Fileon pulled at one of the casement panels—and then the gargoyle was in motion. It moved with inhuman speed, catching the halfling before Thorn had time to react. The beast drove one palm into Fileon’s forehead, knocking him backward and off the ledge.
He might have been crippled and caught by surprise, but Fileon’s reflexes were remarkable. He spun in midair, reached