The Fading Dream (26 page)

House Vadalis worked with animals, breeding and training all manner of creatures. They were best known for magebreeding—rituals that used the power of the house dragonmark to twist the flesh and blood of an unborn creature, weaving specific strengths into the child. Through the techniques they had produced horses with remarkable speed and strength, hunting dogs that could track the merest trace of a scent, beasts of burden and battle. The house had produced the mighty warbears that Breland had used in the Last War, the Breland coat of arms brought to fierce life. They’d created the “dark eyes,” ravens with an exceptional vocabulary and the
ability to recognize and report on enemy activities; they weren’t truly intelligent, but sometimes it was hard to tell. The Korth Edicts prohibited the house from experimenting on humans or other sentient species, but there were always rumors that they were trying to magebreed a better human. With her angelic appearance, the Vadalis savant was exactly the sort to add fuel to that fire. Her appearance wasn’t truly unnatural but still remarkable for a healer.

The five with her were soldiers; that was plain to see. Whatever that place was, they took security seriously. Even at a glance, Thorn could see scars on their skin and nicks on their chain mail; they’d been through battles and come out alive. Four were common Blademarks, with crossbows slung across their backs and swords sheathed on their belts. The one walking next to the woman was an officer, with a golden chimera pinned to his collar; beyond that, Thorn could see the lines of a dragonmark running along his neck and up to his ear. He was resting a two-handed axe across one shoulder, an ugly weapon with a long blade. He was a muscular man, and if not for the web of scars on almost every inch of his exposed skin, he would have been quite handsome. More to the point, Thorn had no doubt he’d be able to wield the brutal axe with ease.

“Perhaps I am. I still enjoy the dulling of it,” he said with a grin.

Thorn followed them quietly as they continued down the hallway. She traced a cross on Steel’s hilt.

Well equipped for common sentries
, he told her,
though nothing so impressive as our friends in the Mournland. Still, even the two pushing the cart have mystically reinforced armor and enchantments woven into blade and bow alike. Low-grade Cannith work, I’d say. The axe is on par with that of the royal executioner; enchanted to sever a head or a
limb, but drawing on its full might would take time—the sort of thing one would use on a stationary target. And the woman … nothing powerful, no weapons, but a great many minor auras. The tools of a chirurgeon as opposed to an alchemist
.

Thorn moved the blade in a circle, suggesting a study of the hallway.

Quite an impressive array of spells at work. No aggressive defenses, but the two doors ahead are sealed and set with warning enchantments that will be triggered should the wards be broken; I’m sensing a spell of silence as well. Kundarak work, I believe. Aside from that … The walls themselves are reinforced using Cannith hardening techniques, and there’s a broader enchantment maintaining the temperature. It has the flavor of House Ghallanda to it
.

Kundarak, Ghallanda, Orien, Cannith, Vadalis, Deneith … Quite an operation, Thorn thought. Whatever the place was, it had nothing to do with her current assignment. Still, it troubled her. She could still hear the words of the Son of Khyber and the Tarkanan halfling Fileon, warnings about the growing power of the dragonmarked houses.

And with this much magic invested in the place, I imagine there are more than five guards
.

Thorn still had no sense of the size of the place, and she hadn’t seen so much as an arrow slit in the walls. And she had only a minute or two of invisibility left. Still, she needed more information; she wanted to see where they were going.

Luckily for her, the team had reached its destination. There was no handle on the door; the Kundarak seal held it closed. The Vadalis savant placed one hand on her hippogriff brooch and her other palm on the door and pushed it open. It immediately became clear why there was a spell of silence on the room. The instant the door
was opened, the air was filled with growls and snarls, bestial cries of rage and pain.

The guards wheeled the cart into the room, and Thorn slipped in after them. The door clicked shut behind her. Keeping her back against the wall, she stepped to the side and surveyed the situation. Her first impression was that someone had taken one of the healing houses of House Jorasco and merged it with her brother’s ramshackle clinic in Wroat. Shelves were piled high with stacks of bandages and other supplies. Surgical blades gleamed in baths of sterilizing fluids, and the walls were covered with anatomical charts and pages of parchment covered with scrawled notes and diagrams. Then there were things she’d never seen in a Jorasco ward. Alchemical equipment whose purpose she could only guess at—strange contraptions of glass and metal, dark fluid bubbling over low flames and chunks of rubbery, green flesh suspended in clear liquid.

Then there were the prisoners.

There were four beds on one side of the room, though
bed
was a kind word. They were clearly designed for restraint, not comfort; each was a virtual cocoon covered with leather straps and iron chains. At a quick glance, one might think there were four men bound in the beds. But they weren’t men. Each was over ten feet in height and massively muscled. Their hides were rubbery and green, covered with warts and boils. Long, hooked noses hung over mouths filled with needle-sharp teeth. They were trolls. Distant relatives to orcs and ogres, trolls were savage carnivores infamous for eating anything they could tear apart, and the talons of a troll could rend steel. They’d been driven from civilized lands long in the past, but they still lingered in deep caverns and dark woods, in the most desolate peaks of Mror Holds and in the wilds to the west. The last time Thorn had seen a troll in the
flesh had been on her mission to Droaam. The leaders of that land had brought ogres, gnolls, shapeshifters, minotaurs, medusas and more together to build their nation, and Thorn had seen quite a few trolls among the guardians of the Great Crag.

There were handful of halflings and humans scattered around the room, savants wearing the colors of House Vadalis and the healing house, Jorasco. A thin halfling with wispy, white hair nodded to the newcomers. “Take table three. You can have your choice of left or right, and I’d like to see that one taken down a notch. I cut his tongue out yesterday, but you know how they are.”

One of the trolls roared again, a howl of sheer rage. Its fury was no match for its bonds. The guards surrounded it, and three of them worked with its arm. The restraints worked in series; they were able to separate the arm from the main cocoon, and working together, the four soldiers were able to force the creature’s arm down onto the stretcher they’d brought with them, lashing it onto the new restraints.

“Shadow hears me!” The troll’s voice was a guttural roar, as loud as thunder. Thorn vaguely recognized it as the language of the goblins, shaped with a mangled tongue. To her ears, it sounded like the meaningless snarls of a savage beast. But Thorn was wearing the gift she’d received from the Lord of Pylas Pyrial, and she knew the meaning even though she couldn’t understand the words. “Vengeance on he who wields the blade!”

Perhaps the guards didn’t understand the Goblin language; perhaps they’d heard the threat before. Either way, they ignored the beast completely and remained focused on their work.

“Devouring spirit!” it roared. “Vengeful daughters! Punish the one who spills my blood!”

“I thought you said you cut out his tongue,” the Deneith captain said, a mixture of boredom and annoyance in his voice. He took a practice swing with the great axe.

“Yesterday,” the halfling said. “You know how they are.”

“That I do,” the axeman said. His soldiers had finished binding the troll’s arm to the stretcher, and they drew it back, pulling it taut. The captain raised the axe, and the runes carved into the blade glowed as the power within it grew. He took two steps forward then brought the cruel weapon down with all his strength, magic and muscle combining in a deadly arc of steel. The blade cleaved straight through flesh and bone, and the troll howled in pain as his arm was severed from his shoulder.

The troll moaned and muttered foul curses as the captain cleaned thick, green blood off the blade of his axe. The severed arm twitched and struggled in its bonds, but the soldiers had bound it well. The Vadalis woman studied the wound with a critical eye.

“Clean cut,” she acknowledged. “The wound is already healing. Keston, I hope you’re tracking progress.”

“This is hardly my first time, Lalanan,” the old halfling snapped. “Now take your arm and leave us to our work.”

The captain grinned as his men began wheeling the severed limb away. “Where’s your vengeance now?” he said. He chuckled. Then a great, green hand wrapped around his head. For a moment, his laughter turned into a scream; then the crushing fingers ended that along with his life. By that time, there were many other screams filling the air.

T
horn hadn’t stood idly by while the Deneith captain and his crew prepared the amputation. She knew an opportunity when she saw one, and with her invisibility about to expire, she had to act quickly. She traced a circle on Steel’s hilt.

You are not being observed by magical means
, Steel told her.
Although I fail to see what difference that makes at the moment
.

All the difference in the world, she thought. Returning Steel to his sheath, Thorn quickly wove a second spell, one that fortunately required no words of power to invoke. She could feel the tingle across her skin as the mystical disguise took hold. She couldn’t see the results while she was still invisible, but there was nothing for it but to trust to the Sovereigns. As the troll bellowed its rage, she made her way next to one of the other imprisoned brutes.

“Say nothing,” Thorn whispered, trusting the Pyrial amulet to work its magic and translate her words. As she spoke, she worked on its bindings, using her tools to weaken both physical and magical restraints. “The Daughters of Sora Kell have sent me to end your suffering
and grant you your revenge. On my command, you may deal with those here. Free your companions. Then we shall speak further.”

She was finishing her work on the last bond as the captain’s axe fell. The troll’s cry of pain echoed across the room. As the Vadalis savant studied the wound, Thorn felt the familiar tingle of magic fading away—her cloak of invisibility finally running its course. She’d done her best to position herself so the others wouldn’t see her, but there were too many people in the room, and they were moving around; she saw a halfling nurse’s eyes widen as he caught sight of her. There was no more time.

“Now!” she whispered into the troll’s ear.

The troll burst from its bonds before the halfling had a chance to cry out. It moved with astonishing speed for a creature that seemed so large and ungainly, and its hand was wrapped around the captain’s head in the blink of an eye. A moment later and it had torn the man’s head from his shoulders.

What are you
—
?
was all Steel managed to say as she drew him and threw him, one smooth motion burying him in the back of a mercenary’s knee. If the man was smart, he’d stay down; the trolls might ignore a fallen foe. The savants fled for the door, but the troll was more cunning that Thorn could have hoped; it grabbed a heavy table and flung it across the room as if it were a toy. Thorn wasn’t worried about a few healers, but she didn’t want anyone to get out of the room. The remnants of the table blocked the door, and the spell of silence intended to mute the sounds of torture would mask the noise of the battle.

The three surviving soldiers had surrounded the troll and were harrying it from all sides. It was an impressive display of skill; as soon as the beast turned its attention
to one of the three, the other two would redouble their efforts, causing enough pain to let their companion back out of the troll’s reach. Impressive, yes, but futile; the troll’s power of regeneration healed the minor wounds mere seconds after they were made. And sooner or later, the troll would catch one of the men and crush him. Thorn was watching the savants.

Two broke from the panicked mob. The Vadalis woman drew a wand, leveling it at the raging troll. Unfortunately for her, Thorn also had a wand—the weapon she’d taken from the Orien guard. A thought sent the savant tumbling to the ground, every muscle frozen. Still, that gave an opening for an unlikely champion to dart forward—the old Jorasco healer. The gray-haired halfling laid his hand on the troll’s leg, and blue light burned along his palm, the radiance of a dragonmark. The Jorasco bloodlines carried the Mark of Healing, but his touch did anything but help. The effect on the troll was immediate and shocking. The beast dropped to the ground, its howls of rage fading to pitiful whimpers. It tried to push itself up, but it seemed to have lost all strength. Emboldened, the soldiers darted forward, thrusting with their blades. Before, the wounds from their weapons healed mere seconds after they were made, but black pus oozed from the new injuries, which seemed to spread instead of sealing, as if the troll’s regenerative powers were being turned against it.