Son of Khyber: Thorn of Breland Read Free

forgiveness, and when I reached out to touch her—”
    “No,” Thorn whispered.
    “Yes. I was driven from the house, and I fled to the wilds. I could not bring myself to take my own life, but I couldn’t trust myself around the living. I spent years alone in the plains, hunting with no weapon save my deadly touch. Then a woman found me and showed me that I was not a monster. That I could control this gift. That I need not be alone.”
    Thorn touched the mark surrounding her right eye, the twisted red lines mirroring the designs on Fileon’s withered arm. “You mean—”
    “Yes, sister. We can help you. We can show you that this power is a blessing, not a curse. But there is much I would know before I will take you to our great hall. Surely you are carrying weapons and tools, remnants of your last mission for the Citadel. Remove each article of clothing and each object of value that you possess. Place it on the floor and tell me its function.”
    It was a strange mirror of the way her missions typically began, with the Citadel quartermaster cataloguing and demonstrating her equipment. Now it was her turn to sort through her tools.
    “Intrusion.” She had dozens of picks and similar tools concealed in her cloak and various pouches. She spread her cloak on the floor and laid the collection on top of it. Skeleton keys, wires for threading a simple lock, powders and stranger substances needed to detect and bypass magical wards.
    The halfling smiled. “Good. Such skills will prove useful in the days to come. I will need to evaluate you further. But continue. What else do you carry?”
    “Arcana.” A few more objects from hidden pouches. Spiders in tiny vials, scraps of wool, other items that were seemingly useless but played a vital role in performing various spells.
    Fileon studied each object. “The spider’s walk will prove most useful. Invisibility… disguise … What about levitation?”
    Thorn shook her head.
    “A pity. Continue.”
    “Concealed defense,” she said, holding up the silver bracelets she’d been wearing. She clicked them together, and the metal shifted and unfolded, each bracelet expanding into a vambrace of blackened mithral that covered most of a forearm. “Spellforged for enhanced durability and an increse in reaction time.”
    Fileon nodded as she returned the bracers to their smaller size. “Continue.”
    She held a bracelet in her left hand. She concentrated, and the silver band vanished. “There’s an extraplanar pocket bound to each glove,” she explained. With a thought, she called the bracelet back. “Each one is capable of holding a single object at a time.”
    “And what do you have within your right glove?” he asked.
    He’s a sharp one, she thought. Setting the bracelets down, she brought her hands together, bracing herself for the weight of the weapon she called forth. It was an axe, with a haft of gnarled darkwood and deadly metal on either end. The axehead was a broad, curved blade, nicked and scarred from generations of conflict. The other end bore a double-edged spearhead. It was a brutal tool, the weapon of a butcher.
    Fileon raised an eyebrow. “Strange design. And this is the work of the Citadel?”
    “No. It’s called a myrnaxe, forged by the gnolls of Droaam. A trophy from a previous mission.” She set it on the floor, running a finger along the edge of the spearhead. “The lower blade is alloyed with silver and byeshk—there’re a lot of strange creatures in Droaam, creatures who can only be harmed by such metals.” The axe had been a gift from a mercenary warrior after she’d saved his life, and the silver spear had saved her when she’d been hunted by werewolves.
    “Yes. A useful tool, to be certain. A thing one might use when fighting a massive foe. An ogre, perhaps.”
    Dolurrh! He
was
sharp. Thorn hadn’t used the axe in that battle precisely because she’d known Fileon was watching—and she needed him to see her use her aberrant mark. “I