The Orb of Xoriat

13 Personal Wars

The lightning rail glided slowly to a halt, wreathed in energy. Steam rose from the coaches, the watery remnants from a brief shower being vaporized by the powerful magical effects of the conductor stones. The mist glowed whenever the slanting mid-afternoon sun broke through the scudding clouds.

The last of the flickering bolts died out as the caravan came to a halt. Stewards stepped up to the carriages and opened the doors, setting wooden steps in place for the convenience of the passengers.

“Daskaran Ferry!” bellowed the conductor. “Debark for Daskaran Ferry, Daskaran, Scions Sound, Flamekeep, and points south! Boarding, eastbound run to Thaliost! One hour to board for Thaliost!”

Jeffers stepped off the coach, down the small wooden bench, and onto the platform. His head swiveled side to side, taking in the entire area. He nodded, and Praxle followed him off the coach, using the handrail to help him take the steps that were uncomfortably large for a gnome. Teron followed the other two off, his straggly cat Flotsam perched on his shoulder.

He walked up to stand beside Praxle and Jeffers, “Where to now?” he asked.

“Not now, monk,” said Praxle quietly, “We’ve got trouble by the conductors hut.”

Turning his head as little as possible, Teron glanced over toward the small outbuilding that served as the conductor’s office. There he saw several Thrane soldiers listening intently to a ragged-looking goblin. The diminutive humanoid gestured to his wrists, shook his fists, and then pointed directly at the threesome. Eight veteran eyes followed the goblin’s finger and studied the travelers like raptors.

“What is your wish, master?” asked Jeffers calmly.

“Lets disperse,” Praxle said. “Some, but not overmuch,” he added, walking casually away from the others and picking up an abandoned broadsheet of the Flamekeep Mirror that lay on a slatted bench.

Jeffers kneeled down to adjust a nonexistent problem with his boots, and Teron simply turned the other direction and sauntered away.

The guards moved briskly over. Two stopped at Praxle, who was the nearest, and one of them used a spear to usher Praxle’s reading aside. “Your papers,” said the guard with no hint of respect in his voice.

Praxle smiled and pulled out the small case holding his forged identity papers. The case was made of lacquered ebony edged with polished silver, a fortunate find when Jeffers went shopping in Passage. The Thrane guard inspected the beautifully calligraphed identity papers and matched the illustration with Praxle’s beatific face.

“May I enquire as to what this is all about, good soldier?” asked Praxle.

The guard grimaced. “We received a report, citizen d’Sivis, that you’d been clapped in irons just the other side of the border. We, uh, we needed to pursue the matter.”

“Folderol!” said Praxle, his eyes wide with surprise and indignity. “Me? In irons?”

“Did you have any difficulties with the Aundairian law, citizen d’Sivis?” pressed the guard.

“Why, no, of course not,” replied the gnome. “I don’t underst—” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Say,” he said, leaning forward, “this … report, did it come from a goblin? About yea high, kind of a, a burgundy coat?” asked Praxle.

Flustered, the guard replied, “We can’t make any—”

“Because if it did,” interrupted Praxle, “that would be the gambler I took to the woodshed over several hands of sovereign setup. See, he’d get this little tic in his left eye when he was bluffing, and I drained his purse until it was as empty as a Karrn’s heart. He said I’d regret it, but I paid him no mind, as I have my domestic with me,” he added, gesturing to Jeffers.

“Right,” said the guard, handing back the papers as he looted past Praxle to his fellows. One was holding Jeffers’ papers, looking back for confirmation. The other had just garnered Teron’s attention. “My apologies for the interruption.”

He placed his hand on the shoulder of his compatriot. “You stay with the gnome,” he said. He strode across the platform. “Stay with him,” he said to the guard with Jeffers.

He broke into a trot after Teron.

“Hold up there,” said the guard as he closed.

The human in the peasant shirt did not slow down, although the cat jumped off his shoulder and scrambled away.

“You there, halt now!” barked the soldier.

The human stopped and slowly turned around.

The guard quickly peeked over his shoulder. His sergeant and one comrade were speaking to the gnome, the other had the half-orc bowing submissively and proffering his papers. Yet somehow he was nervous approaching this one, even if the traveler was unarmed, unarmored, and a good six inches shorter than he.

“Papers. Now,” demanded the guard.

Without any acknowledgment, the young man pulled a very plain leather fold from his satchel and handed it to the guard.

The guard inspected the papers. “From Aundair, huh?” he asked. “Heard there was some trouble on the other side of the border. Heard some of you folks were in irons. Is Queen Aurala throwing out her garbage across our border? What crime did you commit,”—he glanced at the papers—“Tuh-rone?”

“It’s Tehr-ron,” said the man.

“Mind your mouth, Aundairian, if you like all your teeth.” The guard looked Teron up and down. “Did you fight in the War, t’Rone? Huh?”

“Why? Afraid I killed someone you knew?”

“I’m not afraid of any Aundairian. Answer the question.”

“I was not in the army, no,” said Teron. He readdressed his body so that he faced the guard squarely. He steepled his fingertips together and raised his hands to his solar plexus.

“Look me in the eye, Aundairian!” barked the guard.

Teron looked up and the guard took an involuntary step back.

“All right, Aundairian dog,” said the guard as he leveled his spear, “you’re going with me to see the captain. Don’t try anything you might regret.”

“It’s far too late for that,” whispered Teron.

The guard nervously shifted his grip on the spear, then let out a tense breath as he heard his sergeant trot up beside him.

“Trouble, soldier?”

“Aye, sergeant. This Aundairian’s got trouble written all over him,” said the guard. “I think he fought in the Last War. He’s got a killer’s look about him.”

“I was in the Last War myself, soldier,” said the sergeant. “But last I heard, that war is over.”

“That still doesn’t mean I want Aundairian soldiers prowling our countryside, sergeant. Just look at him. He’s all tensed up, like a lurker ready to spring.”

The sergeant crossed his arms. “And look at you, soldier. You’ve got your spear leveled at someone for a routine check of papers. He’s unarmed.”

“That’s right, sergeant,” stammered the guard. “I think he’s one of those monk warriors.”

The sergeant stiffened and looked at Teron anew. He saw the balanced stance, the poised hands, the dead eyes. “I think you may be right,” he said slowly. “The Monastery of … Provincial … oh, what was it?” He thought for a moment, trying to remember. “No matter,” he said suddenly. “I remember the gold altar that my regiment plundered from it well enough.” He smirked. “Do you want to know whether or not this is one of those monks, soldier?”

“Well, yes and no, sergeant, I heard they were pretty treacherous.”

“True enough, but my regiment did all right.” The sergeant drew his swords and smiled mockingly. “Let’s find out, shall we? Repeat after me, Aundairian. ‘Dol Arrah is a rancid whore. All praise the Silver Flame.’”

Teron’s eyes flared, then he snarled, “Dol Arrah is a rancid whore.” He paused, then added, “All praise the Silver Flame,” with a rather confused expression on his face.

The sergeant pushed out his lower lip in frank amazement. “I guess you were wrong,” he said, “Now quit being so skittish and give the man his papers.”

“What do you mean?” asked the guard, still edgy.

The sergeant leaned close and said, “Over the course of the Last War, our inquisitors were able to bring the light to a number of Aundairian captives. But despite their best efforts, they never succeeded in coaxing a single monk from the Monastery of the Provincial Whatever into saying the least positive token about the Silver Flame.” He shrugged. “Just part of their vows or something. Let him go,” he added with a yawn. “He’s no monk. He’s nothing more than a street tough. This is all just an angry goblin gambler getting some petty revenge.”

The soldier tossed Teron’s leather fold back to him and walked away warily.

“Hold on there—what’s this?” asked Praxle under his breath. He nodded his head to a woman who sat by herself on the platform, a look of entranced horror on her face.

Jeffers stepped over and kneeled in front of her. He noticed papers in her lap, and inspected them. “Three different identities. Neshryk of Darguun, Oargesha of Cyre, and—”

“Oargesha?” said Teron. “That was one of the people I fought in the catacombs.”

“And you let her get away?” goaded Praxle.

“One of them stayed to slow me down while the other two fled,” explained Teron. “They got away. He didn’t.”

“So whatever has happened to her?” asked Jeffers.

“Perhaps she toyed with the Sphere,” offered Teron.

“She sure has the face of one who did,” said Praxle, and chuckled. Intrigued, he placed his palm against her forehead, intending to set her to rocking, but as his hand touched her skin, he gasped and pulled his arm back as if bitten. He cocked his head, curious, and studied the woman more closely.

Praxle felt for Oargesha’s pulse. Then he pulled out his timepiece and held the polished golden ring up to Oargesha’s mouth, shaking his head. “She’s definitely dealt with the Orb of Xoriat,” he said hollowly.

“I guess this proves we’re still on the right trail,” observed Teron.

“Judging by her state,” said Jeffers, “I’m uncertain whether or not ‘right’ ought be applied to this situation.”

Daskaran Ferry was little more than a service hamlet built alongside the venerable chain of conductor stones that marked the lightning rail’s route through northern Thrane. Aside from the platform and office, Daskaran Ferry boasted merely two stores that sold a variety of durable goods, three purveyors of fresh-cooked and/or preserved foods (those sold by the kobolds being of highly questionable quality), a cheap lodge, and the ferry for which the tiny hamlet was named.

A few miles upstream, the Aundair River flowed into a finger of Scions Sound, a writhing hydra of a saltwater inlet that, among other things, separated Thrane from her enemies to the east: Karrnath and Cyre. The ferry had been the only means to cross the sound since Karrnathi sappers destroyed the arching span of the Trader’s Bridge during the Last War. The ferry operated under the auspices of the Thrane government, providing free passage in hopes of improving trade and travel through the area.

Teron, Praxle, and Jeffers walked down the packed-dirt slope to the ferry’s marginal dock. The sun, peering through the dissipating clouds, continued its descent to the horizon, a hazy and colorful display that cast a rich orange hue over everything.

“All right, Praxle,” asked Teron, “what was that?”

The threesome made it to the dock and stepped out. The heavily weathered boards creaked and flexed under their feet. Their brief detention put them among the last of the passengers to board the ferry, but no one paid them any extra attention; the aggressiveness of the Thrane soldiery was well known across Khorvaire.

“Hm?” Praxle said distractedly, inspecting the ferry as they approached.

The ferry was a large barge equipped with weatherworn wooden benches. Tarps lay bundled at the gunwales in case of rain; the barge was definitely not equipped for luxury. But most curious was the gaping circular hole cut in the center of the deck. Next to the hole was a silver paddle, looking rather like a rudder raised up on a pivot and secured out of the water. Within the hole, the sound’s salty waters roiled aggressively, even rising up to a foot in the air, yet none of it spilled out, and, despite the weight of the passengers, the barge did not sink.

“I said, what was that?”

“Oh, that’s a binding seine for a water elemental,” said Praxle. “Very curious design, I admit. There must be something below the hole to afford the elemental a better grip to get this scow across the sound. Perhaps a keel, laid sideways. Very clever.”

“No,” said Teron. “What was that up there? That had to be you.”

“Hm? Oh, indeed it was,” said Praxle with a pompous smile. “You seemed like you were getting ready to spring, monk.”

Teron shrugged. “I could have taken them.”

“I know,” said Praxle. “I saw how you handled my so-called bodyguard. But I didn’t want that kind of trouble. It would be inconvenient, especially since we are liable to remain here for several days at best.” He sat on one of the benches, drawing one leg up and leaving the other dangling. “So, since they were done with me,” he continued, waggling his fingers in the air, “I used my magic to throw my voice into your mouth. Judging by your reaction, monk, it even made you think twice about whether or not you said it.”

A sailor dipped the silver rudder into the roiling water at the center of the boat. The turbulence settled down as the barge accelerated from the shore, gliding smoothly and quickly across the sound toward Daskaran on the far shore.

“I know,” said Teron, a steely tone entering his voice. “I am very displeased to have been associated with such words.”

“Drop it in the river, monk,” said Praxle. “You should know by now that all Thranes are religious zealots beholden to the Silver Flame and itching for the next Great Missionary War. You’ll hear a lot worse during the next few days, so count this as your first lesson in accepting an insult to stay out of trouble.”

“I don’t need a les—”

“Yes, you do, monk,” snapped Praxle, “You’re the most hotheaded, fight-focused, cold-hearted, socially inept mendicant I’ve ever laid eyes on. Everything you do, you do with fists and fierceness. You barge your own way through everything like it’s a war and you’re a warforged juggernaut. If you had the discipline of magical training, you might be great. As it is, you’re a pair of fists looking for a face to punch.” He exhaled explosively. “You’ve shown that you’re smart, monk,” he admitted, more softly now, “but you have to learn to relax, as well. The war ended, you know.”

Teron raised one hand, fingers tensed somewhere between a gesture and a strike. He tried to say something, but his seething anger kept his lips pressed together, so instead he steepled his hands in front of his solar plexus and walked slowly to the side of the barge to look out at the setting sun reflecting off the rippling waters of the sound.

Jeffers looked over at the sullen monk and shrugged. “That could have progressed more congenially,” he commented.

“He needed it,” said Praxle. “He’s far too suppressed. I hit the mark dead-on. If I hadn’t he’d have been able to respond.”

“I must confess, master, that I was thoroughly impressed with your ability to replicate his voice.”

Praxle waved a hand dismissively. “All I had to do was speak in a flat tone through clenched teeth. It was easy.”

In the darkness of midnight, a cloaked figure debarked from a carriage, laden with two bags. The moon Vult shone its scarred face on the city, casting ghastly shadows in the streets.

The figure sauntered toward a doorway, then darted down a narrow alley. The high walls concealed the figure from the moons and Ring of Siberys, casting shadows that meshed with the dark cloak and wrapped all within the alley’s narrow, inky embrace.

Somewhere in the night a rat scuttled for shelter, the scratchy sound of its claws upon the cobbles sounding like a small hail of bone shards.

The cloaked figure stumbled, looked around, and slid down another alley, a thin canyon between large stone edifices. The figure looked once more to ensure that no other soul was in sight. A hand reached out, touched a miscolored stone, the knot in a large timber, and then pushed on a rusty spike embedded in the wall. The spike slid in, clicked, then slid back out. The figure stepped to the side and pushed up on a windowsill. It gave way, moving up an inch before settling back into place. After a moment there was a soft grating sound as a section of the stone wall backed into the building, revealing a short, narrow hallway.

The figure entered, and the secret door slid shut again.

Utterly fatigued, the Shadow Fox pulled back her hood and slumped to the floor. She sat in the claustrophobic darkness, her head leaning back against the wall, and cried tears of relief and exhaustion. At last the awkward position made her lungs and stomach ache, so she roused herself once more. She abandoned her shoulder bag there in the hall, bringing only the large black leather bag.

Navigating by touch, she staggered down the hall, trying to keep the bag as far from her as possible in the tiny space the passage allowed. At last she entered a larger, open chamber illuminated by an everbright lantern.

Her team’s secret den. Then she realized that that label no longer applied. It was just her secret den, now.

She moved over to the side wall, opened a well-concealed hatch in the paneling, and placed the bag containing the Sphere of Xoriat behind the wall. Closing the hatch, she moved over to the bunk farthest from the concealed compartment.

She sat heavily on the bed and kicked off her boots.

Safe at last, she thought.

She glanced at the secret panel. Or am I? she wondered.

Not even bothering to strip off her sticky travel clothes, she flopped onto the bed. The pillow still smelled of Rander, but she was too weary to move. The smell permeating her senses, she cried herself to sleep.

Praxle, whistling happily, led the quiet Jeffers and sullen Teron through the quiet Daskaran streets. Teron cradled his cat in his arms, idly scratching Flotsam’s head.

Teron, unable to seethe in silence any longer, spat out a question. “Where are we going?”

“To the Daskaran docks,” said Praxle. “Hire ourselves a small ship or a berth to Flamekeep.”

“Why by sea?”

Praxle snorted. “Because it’s faster. Monk.”

“We should go overland,” said Teron.

Praxle stopped in his tracks, then turned around wearily. “That would be slower. Monk.”

Teron put his cat down and rested his hands on his hips. “If the Cyrans went by ship, we won’t beat them to Flamekeep,” he said. “If they went overland, we might overtake them on the road, all alone and away from Thrane sentries. If we get good transportation and travel fast. Given the choice, I’d rather take a small chance than no chance.”

Praxle drummed his fingers on his chin as he considered this. “Well, then, that’s a very good point,” he said. “In fact, that makes a lot of sense. You killed, what, two Cyrans in the catacombs? Then there’s that frozen one we saw on the platform across the way, and I dropped one when we were bushwhacked back in Wroat. So that’s four Cyrans dead. I’d wager there are naught but two or three left. They wouldn’t have the strength or courage to try to prize the notes from the Thranes until they had more support from their fellow Cyrans. But if we caught them on the open road when their numbers were so depleted, that would make life ever so much easier.”

He reached out and clapped Teron on the hip. “You’re still pretty smart, monk. At least about things that involve killing. Let’s see what we can find, shall we?”

Praxle looked about and spotted a cluster of Thrane soldiers a few blocks away, lazing underneath an everbright lantern, leaning against the wall and chatting. One of them puffed on a pipe, and the smoke rose up like an ethereal serpent in the cool nighttime air.

The trio walked over to the guards. “Excuse me, my good fellows,” said Praxle sweeping his hat as they drew close, his tenor voice resonating in the street, “we were hoping you could direct us to where we might be able to hire some overland transport to Flamekeep.”

One of the guards stood, scratching at his unshaven cheek. “Who’s asking?”

Praxle, ahead of Jeffers and Teron, stepped into the circle of light cast by the everbright lantern. “Praxle Arrant d’Sivis, of the University of Korranberg,” he said with a bow.

The guard straightened. “At your service, friend gnome,” he said. “You’ll want to go three more streets that way, then turn right. That’s Procession Road; you can’t miss it, it’s very wide and well cobbled. Go maybe a half mile, and you’ll see a sign pointing you toward Caravan Square. There’s caravaneers, drovers and the like looking for hirelings and passengers, House Orien has an outpost there, and such like. You should be able to find something that’ll leave in the morning.”

Jeffers and Teron stepped up beside Praxle. “Would there perchance be a representative of House Vadalis there as well?” asked Jeffers.

The guard’s answer was interrupted by one of his companions, who suddenly stood bolt upright and confronted Teron with wide, accusatory eyes. His mouth worked fiercely, but the only noise that came was an airy whisper punctuated by sharp sibilants and plosives.

“Is he ill?” asked Praxle, backing up. Jeffers stepped forward between the gnome and the apoplectic guard.

Hissing, Flotsam darted out of Teron’s arms and scooted for the protection of the wall.

The guard, seeing the confusion in the eyes of his compatriots, whipped out his sword with startling speed and, in one continuous motion, slashed at Teron’s neck. Teron leaned backward, taking a grazing slash across the cheek. He tried to back up, but his heel caught a jutting cobble and he flopped to his back.

The guard brought his sword around, up, and down, intent on splitting Teron’s belly open, but Teron used the velocity of his fall to propel him into a backward roll. The sword sparked on the street, and Teron continued his somersault to land back on his feet at a safer distance.

The guard was big, and the way the everbright lantern illuminated the sneer of hatred that smeared across his face made him seem larger still. He stepped forward with his sword extended aggressively.

Praxle and Jeffers backed up as the other guards unlimbered their various weapons. “Hold it right there,” barked one of the guards, pointing at the twosome. Jeffers paused, standing with poise and dignity as the scene unfolded. Praxle cowered somewhat less proudly close behind the large half-orc.

The guards fanned out, two warily watching Praxle and Jeffers, the other two moving to assist the guard facing Teron.

Seeing three guards facing him, Teron straightened up and tentatively raised his hands in surrender, shaking his head ever so slightly. The mute guard moved in, his face held somewhere between a grin and a snarl. He prodded Teron in the sternum with the tip of his broadsword, and the monk flashed into action. His hands, held to the side, jerked in, striking the mute guard’s sword arm and hand, and suddenly Teron, his arms crossed in an X before him, held the broadsword in his left hand. The guard looked in shock at his empty hand, then up at Teron’s calm eyes.

“Nobody move!” boomed a voice. Nine more Thrane guards stepped out of the night and into the shadowy periphery of the everbright lantern’s glow.

Frozen in position, Teron looked at them, gauging the odds. Jeffers raised his chin defiantly, but left his serrated sword sheathed, Praxle hid himself beneath the tail of Jeffers’ overcoat.

With the appearance of reinforcements, the guards’ surprise and wariness were replaced by a cold, gloating superiority. One of the guards facing Jeffers stepped in closer. “I dare you to draw now, orc-thing,” he mocked, his face so close that Jeffers turned his head.

The reinforcements spread out to surround the group, their steely arms and armor glimmering in the darkness, reflecting stray shards of light.

Teron slowly lowered his arms, still holding the sword and keeping his hands defensively crossed at the wrists.

“Well, now,” said the newly arrived officer with a dark chuckle. “It seems we have some people here who think they’re dangerous. Ludicrous, don’t you think, that they dare take on the followers of the Silver Flame?” The soldiers laughed. “You three are under arrest,” continued the officer in his bold tenor voice. “And don’t even think of resisting. You’ll find my guards to be rather more of a challenge than a group of spelunking Cyran thieves or handful of overzealous border guards, wouldn’t you say … monk?”

Even as the officer finished speaking, Jeffers acted. He turned his cultured gaze on the guard facing him, and headbutted him in the face. The guard staggered back, hand rising to his broken nose. Jeffers snatched the guard’s spear away and struck him on the side of the neck with the shaft, cracking it. The guard went down.

Teron reversed his grip on the broadsword and gave a backhand thrust, swinging his arm low and guiding the point of the sword upward, to pierce the mute guard’s abdomen below his cuirass.

Startled by the sudden revolt, the patrol sergeant looked to the officer and the other eight reinforcements for assistance. To his amazement, they faded from sight. He glanced about, saw the human engaged with three guards, the half-orc fighting one as well, and the gnome pointing a small wand at him. There was a magical flare of red, and the sergeant saw no more.

Teron ripped the bloodied blade back out of his mute victim and tossed it handle first to another of the guards facing him. As the guard’s eyes rose to follow the weapon through the air, Teron jumped forward. His leg snapped up and delivered a debilitating kick between the legs. As the guard doubled over, Teron lanced his fingers at the guard’s throat. The guard’s head dropped, and Teron reached out and grabbed the guard’s head. Holding the guard’s neck secure, Teron spun around him, interposing the hapless soldier’s body between him and the rest of the melee.

The third guard that faced Teron stepped forward, hefting a large double-bitted axe. Teron shifted his position, keeping the incapacitated guard between them. With a rip, he twisted his captive’s head sharply and broke his neck, looking to goad the axe-wielding guard into a reckless attack.

The attack never materialized, however, as a serrated blade decapitated the guard before he charged. Teron dodged aside as blood gushed from the wound.

“That could have proceeded more auspiciously,” said Jeffers, slinging blood from his blade. “We’d best get our transport quickly.”

“What was that all about, monk?” asked Praxle.

“Did you see his throat?” said Teron. “I think I must have crushed his voice box during the war.”

“Strange that he’d remember your face,” said Praxle.

“I must have been in a hurry,” said Teron, scooping up Flotsam unceremoniously under one arm, “I usually don’t leave survivors.”