The Orb of Xoriat

8 Flight from Aundair

Darkness had fallen when Teron staggered into the outskirts of Ghalt, exhausted. He stumbled into the first guesthouse he saw, falling through the door more than walking through it. He placed his pack on the table then leaned back against the doorframe. Panting heavily, he threw a weary glance over at the proprietor.

“Great Sovereigns,” said the innkeeper, “what is that all over you?”

Teron let his head flop forward so he could look down. He looked back at the innkeeper, and his head fell back against the doorjamb with a thump. “Gnoll blood,” he said between gasps. “They … don’t listen.”

The proprietor thought about this for a moment, then an artificially cheery smile erupted across his face, “What can I bring you, stranger?”

“Broth. Whatever you have. Big bowl.”

The innkeeper hustled for the back. Teron pushed himself off the jamb and opened his satchel. A very woozy-looking cat stumbled out, panting. “Hold on, Flotsam,” said Teron, ruffling the cat’s fur.

Teron staggered around the room to keep his blood flowing as he tried to catch his breath. The place was largely devoid of customers, and those few present had little desire to interact with someone who looked like he had been hit by several buckets of blood. One young couple made a quick exit through the back.

A nervous serving boy arrived, carrying a large bowl of weak chicken broth. Teron sat, picked up the entire bowl, and drained most of it, downing several gulps between each panting breath. Once that was done, he set the rest down for Flotsam, who sniffed at it uncertainly. Teron called the boy back over and handed him a sovereign. “That’s yours if you bring me the innkeeper, a bowl of hot water, a towel, and a new shirt—all right away. And there will be more, if you’re very fast.”

The boy’s eyes grew wide, and he scampered into the kitchen, yelling for his father.

The owner ran out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron as he came. “What else can I do for you, my good man?”

Teron locked gazes with the older man, impaling him upon the intensity of his stare. “A gnome—about this high, wealthy clothes, pale hair and a thin beard about his chin—and a half-orc servant—tall, large, well-dressed, oiled hair—traveled this way. Did they stop here?”

“No. Ain’t seen anyone like that sort at all. No one wealthy here at all tonight, more’s the pity.”

“There’s the ruin of some sort of carriage about four miles east of here. Know anything about it?”

“I heard someone saying something about it earlier, but I didn’t pay no heed, being busy serving dinner as I was.”

The boy arrived with a large basin of hot water and slid it onto the table, spilling only a small amount. Teron stripped off his crusty tunic and started washing his hands and arms as the boy ran across the common room and up the stairs.

“Lightning rail. What’s the schedule?”

“Well, master, I do believe the next southbound run is—”

“No,” interrupted Teron. “Tell me which runs left most recently.”

“Well, let me see. The most recent northbound run would have left about an hour or two ago. The southbound run would have been about an hour past noon, I believe.”

Teron ducked his head and washed his face in the water, then wet his short-cropped black hair. When he raised his head again, he saw that the boy, panting, had placed two lumps of cloth on the table. Teron had to shake them out to figure out which was the shirt and which was the pathetic imitation of a towel. He dried off his chiseled torso and quickly donned the ill-fitting peasant shirt.

“Your boy. Reliable?”

“Aye, he is,” said the innkeeper nervously. The boy nodded, his eyes filled with awe.

“Good. Speaking stone in town?”

“Aye.”

“Paper and quill. Now. I need a message run to the stone station.”

The innkeeper snapped his fingers and turned around to smack the boy, but the lad was already off and sprinting to gather the supplies.

Teron flexed and stretched while the innkeeper fiddled with his apron and kept a fearful eye on the young monk’s routine. Flotsam snuck off into the kitchen.

The boy came back with a few pieces of cheap parchment, a frayed quill, and an inkpot, much of which had spilled onto the boy’s fingers in his haste. The innkeeper rounded on the boy. “Careless wretch! I should—”

“Smack that lad and you’ll be cooking left-handed,” said Teron as he smoothed out the parchment and dipped the quill. Then, as he started writing, he distractedly added, “Treasure your family while you have them.”

He scribbled the ink across the page, occasionally pausing to rewrite words that might have ended up illegible in his haste.

Then, when he finished, he rubbed an impression of the prelate’s seal onto the paper.

“There.” Teron passed the paper to the boy and took the boy’s chin in his hand. “Take this to those who operate the speaking stone. This is for them,” he said, pressing a gold galifar into the boy’s hand, “and this is for you,” giving the lad another sovereign. “I want this in their hands before I finish my last letter. If it is not, you’ll wish it was only your father smacking you. Is that clear?”

The boy, too foolish or too amazed to be fearful, nodded. As soon as Teron released his grip, the lad turned and bolted out the door and up the road.

Teron took another sheet and wrote another letter at a more relaxed pace.

Teron looked over his work then handed it to the innkeeper. “When your boy returns, have him take that to the speaking stone.”

He pulled a third sheet and wrote:

He flipped the paper up and reread it for good measure, then handed it to the proprietor along with a gold coin. “Post this to the Monastery of Pastoral Solitude. This should pay for the services. Keep the rest for your troubles.”

“Yes, of course,” said the innkeeper. “Thank you.”

Teron stepped closer to the old man. “And tell no one I was here.”

“Yes, absolutely. Have no fear of that at all.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to come back.”

The lightning rail station outside of Ghalt was, as usual, quite slow between runs. The local merchants, beggars, and thieves had by and large dispersed, as had most of the debarking passengers. A few travelers remained, one pacing back and forth, waiting for those he was to meet, the rest lingering in the café and savoring their Aundairian wine. Outside the depot building scattered clots of locals exchanged goods, monies, and stories.

Teron moved among the stragglers, scanning for a gnome paired with a half-orc and listening for the voices of the thieves he’d encountered in the catacombs. He doubted the latter two would be foolish enough to stand around together, although he also hoped they’d never believe someone was capable of running all the way from the Monastery of Pastoral Solitude, and therefore that they might be a little lax in their circumspection.

He satisfied himself that none of his suspects were present and headed to the building. It was a small structure, set well back from the trail of conductor stones to avoid the potential of a strike of elemental energy as the caravan moved past. It was a new building, the Ghalt stop being one that had seen much use during the Last War. The structure had been built with military efficiency and therefore military ugliness. Unlike most buildings in Aundair, it was strictly utilitarian and devoid of ornamentation.

One end housed the offices and the counter at which passage was purchased. The center was a large, open waiting area, ideally suited for marshalling small units of troops but too loud and open for a crowd of civilian passengers to pass the time peacefully. The far end held a small kitchen and restaurant, mercifully separated from the waiting area by a solid, noise-dampening wall.

Teron stepped up onto the building’s porch. The cuffs on the innkeeper’s peasant shirt hung annoyingly low on his wrists, and he pulled back one sleeve as he opened the door to the waiting area. He walked across the open room to the counter where a solitary clerk fiddled with a small skinning knife.

Teron laced his hands and leaned his wrists against the counter.

The clerk looked up. “May I help you, traveler?” he asked, his voice as limp as his half-lidded eyes.

“I seek information,” said Teron. He tried to fix the clerk with his steely gaze, but the clerk was more interested in the way his blade was spinning on the countertop. “The most recent northbound run,” said Teron, pressing forward, “did a gnome and his half-orc servant book passage?”

The clerk favored him with a brief, weary look. “We do not give out information on our other passengers. House Orien bylaws.”

Teron proffered the prelate’s seal, “This is very important. Church business. I need an answer.”

“Look, friend,” said the clerk, almost looking at Teron, “I work for House Orien, not the church. And House Orien says, ‘Don’t give out information on our passengers.’”

“You don’t underst—”

“No, you don’t understand. I can’t tell you anything.”

“Actually, you can.”

“Actually, not a kobold’s chance,” said the clerk. “If there is a problem with this, take it up with House Orien.”

“All right,” said Teron, “I will. Let me speak to your supervisor.”

The clerk gave Teron a brief, long-suffering glare. “He’s not here.”

Teron raised one eyebrow. “You’re the most senior employee here?”

The clerk nodded.

“I’ll go check, shall I?” said Teron, and he placed his hands on the counter, preparing to vault over.

“No! No, wait right there,” said the clerk. “I’ll fetch him and send him around to speak with you. Maybe he can make you understand.”

The clerk shuffled away from the counter to the door to the rear office. He knocked, cracked the door open, and stuck his head through. Teron heard him speak to someone else, and then, after a moment, a well-dressed elf appeared. He walked around the counter and approached Teron, looking the monk up and down as he closed. Teron smiled grimly—the only smile he was capable of generating on command—and extended a hand.

The elf took Teron’s hand to shake it, but Teron shifted his grip at the last instant. He pressed the elf’s middle knuckle in with his thumb and squeezed his hand, flexing the elf’s slender hand backward. The elf drew a sharp breath in through his nose, but to his credit he held his composure.

“I’m here on official church business,” repeated Teron. With his left hand he pulled his satchel around to the front and fished through it to find the portraits. “I need to know whether this gnome and this half-orc boarded the northbound run a few hours ago.”

The elf pressed his lips together. “House Orien policy is not to provide any information on the itineraries of our passengers.”

Teron squeezed the elf’s hand more lightly, and he felt the elf’s tendons creaking under the strain.

“However,” added the elf through clenched teeth, “perhaps we can make an exception. For the church.”

“Thank you,” said Teron, bowing slightly. He released his grip and clapped a friendly hand on the elf’s shoulder so that it rested at the base of his neck. One finger probed the weak point between the elf’s neck and clavicle, and Teron felt the elf tense up again. “Why don’t we look through your books?”

“I didn’t see no passengers like he’s looking for, master,” said the clerk, the boredom utterly wiped from his face. “But I can check the other ledgers, if you like.”

The elf supervisor nodded quickly.

“Praxle d’Sivis,” said Teron. “Look for that name.”

After a several minutes’ search, the clerk returned with a ledger. “Here you are,” he said. “D’Sivis, party of two, booked passage to Thaliost, Thrane.”

“When will that run reach Fairhaven?” ask Teron.

The clerk fumbled about for a schedule, traced his finger across the grids, and said, “It reaches Passage a few hours before dawn, leaves again about an hour after sunrise, then reaches Fairhaven just after sundown.”

“Wait—did you say it remains in Passage for … three or four hours?” asked Teron.

“Indeed it does,” replied the elf stiffly. “We depart after dawn for the convenience of our passengers.” He paused and looked at Teron with a pinched expression. “Speaking of convenience, master, would the church mind terribly if you removed your hand from my shoulder? I find it inconvenient.”

Teron mumbled something incoherent and let go his grip. The elf immediately began massaging his neck with his left hand.

“Passage is about a hundred miles away, maybe a bit more,” said Teron.

“Rather more like 140 miles, I believe,” said the clerk helpfully.

“Understood. I have five or six hours to get there. I need something fast to take me there. Or to Fairhaven; I should be able to intercept them there. A Lyrandar airship, perhaps. Suggestions, either of you?”

The clerk and supervisor looked at each other. “Well, we don’t ever get airships in here,” said the clerk. “At least, not often. I mean, every month or two maybe one will drop by for provisions or trading, but there’s no telling when that’ll happen. Maybe you could buy yourself one of those magebred horses …”

“Ten miles an hour at best, buffoon,” snapped the elf. “He’d never reach Passage in time. There’s no animal that …” The elf’s voice trailed off as a sudden realization dawned on him. “You want Hatch Vadalis. He’ll get you there.”

“Who?”

“Hatch Vadalis. He has a fast service that crosses all of southern Aundair,” said the elf, nodding in approval at his own idea. “He flies everywhere from Arcanix to Tower Valiant to Marketplace, and every little farm on the way.”

“He has an airship?”

“Of course not,” said the elf. Then he backed away slightly, just to be safe. “Hatch rides a bird.”

“That’s right!” piped in the clerk. “It’s a beauty too, it is. Some kind of giant dire magebred dragonhawk or something along those lines there. Real big. Moves like the wind. Shepherds don’t much like it, though, and sometimes when he takes off… well, some people around here don’t fancy it a whole lot, but they’ll always take the gold be spends.”

“Where is he?”

“Head toward the west end of Ghalt,” said the elf. “Look for the three-story house. It’s the only one around. You can’t miss the coop smell, either.”

“Thank you,” said Teron, bowing his head.

The elf simply gave a pained smile as he massaged his right hand.

Lying on the top bunk, Praxle stared out the window of his private room, trying to reconcile the idyllic countryside with the horrific torture he’d endured at the hands of the locals. Could the blight that lay upon the Crying Fields have twisted the minds of those who lived there?

Praxle snorted. How could it not?

Technically, the room was not private. It had three berths in it, but since Praxle no longer had enough money handy to pay for a first-class room, he’d opted to pay for an extra bed in one of the second-class coaches. He dreaded the coming of night, for he feared that Jeffers might snore. The very thought gave him chills.

“Done, master,” said Jeffers.

Praxle peered over the edge of the bed. Below him, Jeffers had laid out the varied supplies that he’d managed to gather before their escape from the monastery. It was nowhere near everything they had arrived with; just a few items left in the room when the monks pilfered it, another few items quickly gathered in the outbuilding where Praxle had been interrogated. The blade that, for a brief moment, was the most beautiful thing that Praxle had ever seen.

“Olladra’s outhouse,” cursed Praxle. “Those monastic bastards still have our papers.”

“Yes, master, they do.”

“You couldn’t have managed to, shall we say, pick them back up, you half-moron?” snapped Praxle.

“I had quickly to choose between following the papers and following you, master,” said Jeffers unapologetically. “Had I known you’d be making so much noise, I—”

“Shut up, Jeffers,” snarled Praxle, bitter at the memory of his screaming and begging, a weakness that had eclipsed his discipline until, at last, he had lost all hope and simultaneously recaptured the ability to resist. He tried to force the memories out of his mind but couldn’t, and his stomach began to churn.

“How shall we cross the border, then?” asked Jeffers. “We could perhaps claim that our papers were stolen. It is not entirely untrue.”

Praxle’s mind seized on Jeffers’ question like a drowning man grasping a rope. “We must make new ones,” he said. “We must have papers, or else the Thranes will turn us back. If we get turned back, the Aundairians will take notice of us, and I cannot allow that. I need folders, nice ones. High-quality paper. Quill, and ink. I can forge a reasonable facsimile of our papers, then cast a durable glamer upon them as we approach the border.” He chuckled. “Thank the gods I’m a son of House Sivis,” he said. “Otherwise I seriously doubt I could create a good enough forgery, even enhanced with my best illusions.”

“As you wish, master,” said Jeffers, “I shall undertake to acquire these necessities when we arrive in Passage. The conductor led me to understand that we’ll have a several-hour wayside stop at that location.”

“Several hours?” Praxle groaned and rolled onto his back. “Several hours, wasted sitting in some gods-forsaken station.”

“Problem, master?”

“The monks are looking for us. They now have several more hours to alert the soldiers at the border crossings.” Praxle slammed his fists into the bedding at his sides. “I don’t think we’re going to make it.”