“You said this was a fallen angel,” Thorn said. “How’s that different from a devil?”
Drego shook his head. “The two are completely different. Devils are tied to dark concepts-hate, fear, greed. What we’re dealing with is a radiant idol, an angel punished for pride by being imprisoned on Eberron. It still possesses its original appearance, and its powers are still tied to its original dominion.”
“So who are we dropping in on tonight?”
“Do not speak this name casually,” Drego said, and there was no trace of his usual levity. He traced lines in the air as he continued. “You must understand the sheer power of the being we face. He has likely influenced the lives of thousands of your countrymen, Thorn, and just speaking his name could draw unwanted attention to us.” He made a last flourish in the air, and Thorn could just make out a translucent pattern of rippling arcane energy that dulled all sounds beyond and kept Drego’s voice close. “Tonight we shall destroy Vorlintar, the Voice of the Innocent and the Keeper of Hopes, Fifth among the Fallen of Syrania.”
The shimmering glyph burst into flame, burning without substance, and then it was gone.
“Call him by his titles,” Drego said, “But do not speak his name.”
“Keeper of Hopes?” Brom asked, and his chuckle echoed off the walls. “He doesn’t sound so terrible.”
“And he wasn’t, when he was a force for light. Now he holds to his dominions, but he has become a force for darkness. He is indeed the Keeper of Hopes-the hopes that he has stolen from all those who fall under his sway. He devours innocence, leaving pain and despair. As we draw closer to his throne, you will feel his talons tearing at your mind. You must be strong and hold him at bay, for a clean death is far better than a life without hope.”
Daine spoke. “And when blades are drawn?”
“He is a creature of pure spiritual energy, not a being of flesh and blood. Iron will serve as a distraction but nothing more. He cannot be killed by it. He cannot be killed at all. Even if you tear him apart, his essence will reform.”
“And that is why I am here,” Daine said. He raised his left hand, and the lines of the mark roiled along his palm. “My mark can bind any soul, be it human, demon, or angel.”
“So why am I here?” Thorn asked. “Drego, you’re the tracker and exorcist. Lord Daine, you’re the binder of spirits. Brom brings brute force if it’s required. What do you need me for?”
Daine’s left eye gleamed as he looked at her. “We may face many challenges before we ever see the Keeper of Hopes. And my gift has its limits. Before I can take such a powerful spirit, we will need to weaken his resolve, distracting him with pain and battle. Beyond that…” Whatever he was going to say caught in his throat, and he fell silent for a moment. “You’ll know when the time comes. Until then, I’m charging you with the safety of your brother Drego. If we are to succeed in the tasks that lie ahead, we will need his skills. Xu’sasar is my shield. You will serve as Drego’s.”
Thorn glanced over at Drego. He winked at her.
“I’m sure that my lovely sister would never allow any harm to befall me,” he said. “Now if you’re all ready, let’s bring down an angel.”
CHAPTER TWENTY — THREE
Fallen Lharvion 21, 999 YK
Fallen.” Thorn said. “It’s obvious, really. Where else would you find a fallen angel in Sharn?”
Lower Dura was one of the most miserable wards of Sharn. Dura was the oldest quarter of the city, and time had taken its toll on the lowest sections of the towers. Lower Dura was a wretched collection of slums and ghettoes, and Fallen was the worst of it. The same magic that empowered the flying buttresses enhanced all forms of flight and levitation, and the architects of the city had taken advantage of this. The most dramatic proof of this was Skyway, an entire district suspended above the tallest towers by sheer magical force. But there were a number of smaller, free-floating towers scattered around and above Sharn, home to those nobles who wished to flaunt their wealth. Strange as it seemed, the towers were quite stable. But there was an exception to every rule, especially in Sharn. In the early days of the Last War, one of the floating towers of Sharn ceased to be a floating tower. The spire plummeted thousands of feet, breaking apart as it fell. The fragments of the tower struck the old district of Godsgate, a temple district that had long ago seen its churches converted into tenements. The district was devastated. The council of Sharn had no intention of pouring gold into Lower Dura, and people were left to fend for themselves. Those who could afford to do so left. But others stayed, either out of pride or because they had nowhere else to go. Tales quickly spread around ruined Godsgate, which soon became known as Fallen. Some of these stories said it was haunted by the howling hordes of those who had died in the great collapse. Others said that the heart of the district was inhabited by feral savages, people whose ancestors were driven insane by the disaster-or that the council of Sharn used it as a brutal asylum, driving madmen and those with incurable afflictions into Fallen. Whatever the truth of these tales, the City Watch shunned the district, and it was a haven for deserters, criminals, and the worst dregs of the city.
Thorn had never been to Fallen. But if any place in Sharn was bereft of hope, this was it. Once the buildings around them had been temples to the Sovereigns and lesser faiths. Now the mosaics were shattered, and inscriptions were worn away by time or gouged out by human hands. The smell of rot and urine filled the air, nearly as thick as in the sewers they’d traversed before. There were a few people scattered around the streets, ragged clothes barely covering filthy skin. Most fled at the sight of the outsiders, ducking into alleys or through broken doorways. A few just glared at the strangers. One old woman muttered as Thorn drew close, shaking something within her fist; finally she opened her hand, revealing human teeth marked with strange symbols.
This was just the outer edge of the district. It was only when they moved in deeper that they saw the horror responsible for its name. The spire that had fallen from the sky had been a massive tower built of smoked glass. Huge chunks of mystically hardened glass had smashed into temples and tenements, and the streets were still filled with rubble. Many of the shards still lay where they’d first fallen, and Thorn caught a glimpse of bone through cloudy glass. Where the rubble had been shifted, there were makeshift barricades and shelters.
“This is what comes of reaching for the sky,” Drego said. “Though it seems the Brelish have yet to learn that lesson. That blue and gold tower up there is a recent addition, isn’t it?”
He glanced back at Thorn as he spoke, but Brom answered before she could. “What’s your answer, brother?” he rumbled. “Would you keep your eyes on the ground?”
“If you seek the heavens, faith is a stronger ladder than stone,” Drego said.
“But a hard one to find,” Brom replied. “I was born in this place. It was rubble from the Fall that took my arm when I was a boy. If you wish, I could take you there and we could dig for the bone. I found no solace in flames or gods. They brought me nothing but pain. But at night I could always look up at the lights and imagine the day when I would climb the tower and take my place among the stars.”