Son of Khyber_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [80]
Brom grinned, looking forward to the battle ahead. He strode up to the door, raised his mighty fist—and then paused. He set his hand back on the ground again and sat there, staring at the gate in front of him.
“Brom!” Daine said. “The door!”
The dwarf shifted his weight slightly, started to raise his hand, and again he stopped.
“What is it?” Thorn asked.
“I … I don’t know how to open it,” he said. His voice was quavering, filled with doubt.
“Just push it.”
“But … what if I can’t? What if I’m not strong enough?” He continued to mutter to himself, seeming not to hear their words.
Psionic attack, Steel told her.
“Oh, that’s news,” Thorn said.
Drego was talking to Brom, whispering words of encouragement. Thorn had other ideas. Stepping forward, she chose a tender spot and poked the dwarf with Steel. He fell forward with a yelp, staggering into the door with his considerable bulk, and the gates opened wide. Brom looked back at her, puzzled, but it seemed the pain had broken the enchantment.
“Move!” Daine said.
Shaking his head slightly, Brom turned back and charged. Thorn and Drego were next through the door. What lay beyond was so at odds with the rest of Fallen that Thorn knew it couldn’t be real. There was no rubble or dust in the great hall. Candles gleamed on pillars and pedestals—and in the hands of the parishioners. For the hall was filled, in a seeming mockery of a service. Scores of people were inside, staring at the altar. They might have slipped through the crack in the door, small as they were, but she wasn’t looking at a congregation of halflings.
They were children.
Some were clearly denizens of Fallen, filthy urchins dressed in torn rags. But others must have come from higher districts, somehow drawn down into this hellish place. Whatever force had brought them here held them paralyzed, and there was no reaction as Brom moved among them. Thorn prayed that this was just another illusion, but the answer seemed all too clear. Drego said that Vorlintar fed on innocence, and here was his unfortunate flock.
“Xu!” Daine hissed behind her.
Glancing back, Thorn saw that the dark elf had produced her bone glaive, and that Daine had caught the haft of the weapon as she was readying a swing.
“We do not fight this army?” Xu’sasar seemed truly puzzled by this revelation. “They may be passive now, but surely they will rise to defend their master.”
Thorn tried to push that thought from her mind. The sight of the assembled children was bad enough. The thought of having to cut her way through a clawing mob was a true nightmare.
“Only if necessary,” Daine said.
The dark elf blew out her breath, and her weapon retracted, shifting back into the throwing wheel. “It reflects poorly on the soul when one is killed by children,” she said.
“Silence,” Drego snapped. “He’s here. Focus. Prepare.”
“You cannot prepare for what lies ahead.” The voice filled the hallway, deep and resonant. It was accompanied by the sound of chimes, faint music ringing through the air. “None of you will leave this place. Some few of you may be lucky enough to die. The rest will join my choir.”
Surely some illusion must have hidden him from them earlier. For where there had once been empty space, there now stood an angel. He spread his mighty wings, and the chains hanging from each feather rattled and chimed. The great doors of the hallway slammed shut. Every candle extinguished. And the laughter of the Keeper of Hopes echoed in the darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Fallen
Lharvion 22, 999 YK
Thorn’s vision shifted to compensate for the darkness. The first thing she saw were the angel’s wings—outspread and glorious, with long feathers as dark as a moonless night. The source of the chimes became clear, for there were chains attached to every feather. Strange weights were bound to the ends of the chains—weights of many shapes and sizes, engraved