Son of Khyber_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [78]
“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