Son of Khyber_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [91]
They were making their way up a rising slope. A flickering radiance filled the hall above—the light of a bonfire in the chamber above.
“That’s it,” Drego whispered.
“Wait!” Thorn grabbed his arm and pulled him back, almost dragging him off his feet. There was something on the floor ahead. The faintest pattern visible against the black stone. Thorn threw a pinch of silver in the air, and the glyph burst into flame. Even Thorn could feel the heat pouring from the burning sigil. She studied it, and by the time Steel spoke, she’d already come to the same conclusion.
You can’t disperse this with the tools you’re carrying, he told her. The power is beyond Kundarak work. Anyone touching the symbol will be incinerated.
“You’d best let me go first,” Thorn said. “And if you see anything like this … don’t touch.”
The next glyph was hanging in the air—an even more impressive feat. Thorn ducked beneath the flaming brand and crawled along the floor. At last she reached the top of the tunnel and peered into the room that lay beyond.
What she saw was madness.
Once this chamber had been the great hall of a goblin king. The style was reminiscent of the Tarkanan sanctuary, simple and ascetic. Thick pillars supported the high roof, and the remnants of a few tattered banners hung from the walls, bearing the symbol of a skull and battle-axe. Streams of glowing lava snaked across the floor of the room, staying molten even with exposure to the air. And the flaming glyphs were scattered across the room, emblazoned on floor, wall, and pillars alike.
But these were the least of the wonders to be seen. The ceiling of the hall was high above her head, and floating debris filled the space between floor and roof. Some of it was simple stone, chunks of columns or walls that had shattered in Tarkanan’s quake. But there were charred bones drifting through the air, and enormous pieces of armor. No, not armor. An armored leg, larger than that of a troll, was floating past her, and she could see that it was solid—filled not with flesh and bone, but with metal and stone. Not warforged, but some sort of construct. Studying the bones, she spotted a few scorched corpses that still had scraps of identifiable uniforms, and she could see the edge of a gorgon seal.
The seal of House Cannith.
Cannith had been here before, and all evidence suggested that it had been a disaster. It might have been a coincidence that Daine had brought the Cannith weapon here. Or perhaps he was following in the house’s formidable footsteps.
Then she saw the throne. It had been hidden behind the drifting torso of a steel giant, and now it slowly came into view. The throne of the goblin king, torn from the floor and set loose in the air. And there in the great chair sat Vyrael, the Ashen Sword, Eighth among the Burning Host. Every feather on her wings was an individual flame, and her face was a mask of brass wreathed in fire. Her body was hidden beneath a robe darker than the blackest soot. A sword lay across her lap—a greatsword forged from dark, pitted iron. It was a brutal weapon, one that had seen many battles.
The fallen angel was a majestic and fearsome sight, but it seemed she was not omniscient. If she was aware of Torn, she gave no indication of it. She remained perfectly still, save for the flickering flames of her wings and her glorious mane. Thorn crept along the wall, slowly making her way behind the angel. The throne was a good ten feet off of the ground, but there was a lot of floating refuse in the air. As long as it would support her weight, she could use the debris as a springboard to reach her enemy.
Vyrael still seemed to be unaware of her presence. Under normal circumstances, it would be a simple task. A