The Orb of Xoriat

19 Inside the Camat Library

Praxle, Teron, and Jeffers stood by a water fountain in uptown Flamekeep. Praxle stood on the rim that surrounded the fountain, placing him at roughly the same height as Teron. Jeffers loomed over the other two, but his deferential posture made him seem smaller. The splashing noise of the fountain helped keep them from being overheard, they covered their mouths to protect against spies who could read lips, and the presence of a large quantity of water lent a feeling of security against fire elementals.

“What did you think of Lady Stalsun?” asked Teron.

“I don’t trust her,” said Praxle. “I think she knew more than she was letting on.”

“But masters,” asked Jeffers, “if she did know for a fact that both of you tried to approach the library a second time last night, why did she not endeavor to catch you in a lie?”

“I don’t pay you to think, Jeffers,” said Praxle.

“But he’s got a point,” retorted Teron.

“She was probably just gauging our honesty and openness,” said Praxle. “Seeing how much she’s drawn us into her web of lies.”

“I don’t agree,” said Teron.

“Regardless,” persisted Praxle, “I don’t like her, I don’t like her, I don’t like this city, I don’t like this country, and i don’t like the way things are going. Anyone we meet might be a spy for the Cyrans. And it’s a sure bet that almost everyone is a spy for the Silver Flame. I say we strike against the Camat Library tonight, while things are still unsettled, and before someone makes another try against us.”

“That, I can’t argue,” said Teron. “But can you find the Thrane notes?”

“If you can get me in, Teron, I can get the notes.”

“I can get you in,” said Teron. “And I can get you out.”

In the dark of night, three shadows moved through the streets of Flamekeep, avoiding the larger avenues and their attendant lanterns. A small, dark cat flitted about them, occasionally meowing in the darkness. Bright Eyre descended toward the horizon, but unfortunately that meant that both Sypheros and Vult ascended the sky, bloated and bright like a pair of eyes. It wasn’t a good night for darkness.

The three slid through an alleyway toward the library, passing the charred wreckage of barrels and other detritus. The stink of ash still lingered in the air.

“Right,” whispered Praxle. “Jeffers? Remain here, watch our escape. You’ll be the most use if you draw away any patrols that threaten to cut us off.”

Jeffers nodded.

“Ready, Praxle?” asked Teron.

“Naturally.”

The monk and the sorcerer scooted across the street and into the ashen remnants of flora that now surrounded the library. Teron moved slowly forward until he felt the air grow taut with the magical effects of the warding spell. Since the brush had largely burned away, he stood up, looked around, and aligned the posture of his body to a narrow angle to the wall. He hyperventilated. As he felt his lips start to tingle, he sealed his lungs, leaned slightly to the right, and clenched his abdomen as hard as he could. The extra pressure and oxygen combined to push his brain over the edge, and he allowed himself to slide into unconsciousness.

His body fell forward, buckling to the right, and he flopped past the warding without incident. He came to a moment later, and sat up, scanning the area for any alarm.

A gnomish whisper slithered out of the darkness. “That can’t be good for your brain, Teron. You need to take care of it, if you intend to practice more magic.”

“I’ll be fine,” said the monk.

“All right. Start your climb. Hopefully the warding ends about twenty or thirty feet up. Otherwise, this could be a real problem.”

“Not at all,” said Teron, “I’ll just chop your neck and roll you through.”

“I’m not particularly fond of the idea of you hitting my neck,” said Praxle.

“I’ve knocked out plenty of people,” said Teron.

“I thought you just killed folks,” hissed Praxle.

“It’s easier when they’re unconscious.”

“Somehow that answer does not make me more inclined to let you knock me unconscious.”

Teron chuckled, a slight hissing noise in the shadows. He gripped one of the ornamental spines of the library and ascended, pausing every five feet or so to extend one hand and check the height of the ward. At the third floor, he found nothing. He tsked twice, getting Praxle’s attention.

Praxle unlimbered a coiled rope. He glided his hand over the thin cord, murmuring under his breath. The rope started to pulse a deep blue as Praxle’s spell worked its way through the fibers. He set the coil down and one end of the rope began to rise like a cobra, slithering upward into the sky. It rose as high as Teron, then looped itself and moved toward the wall of the library. When it reached the wall, it coiled against it, creating a circle of enchanted rope for extra stability.

Praxle began to climb the rope. As he ascended, the rope wriggled from side to side, always presenting extra coils for Praxle’s hands and feet, creating an ever-shifting ladder to ease his climb. He reached a height that was even with Teron, then shimmied across the five-foot span to reach the wall.

As he reached the wall, he grabbed hold of Teron’s vest. The monk grunted with the extra weight, having only the ornamental spine for support. Praxle whispered to the long strand of rope, and it writhed its way like a serpent for the roof, weaving around the Flamic carvings that adorned the spine. The two intruders waited until at last the tail end of the rope appeared and wove itself into a small step beneath them.

Praxle climbed off Teron’s back, then worked himself to the side so that the monk could ascend first.

With coils of animated rope dangling about the spine, Teron reached the rooftop quickly. He scanned to either side. The sword-bearing statues stood their silent watch to either side, while the rotating towers spun slowly around. Nothing moved in the forest of spears that threatened the stars above.

Teron peered back down at Praxle and waved him up. Once he’d climbed to just below the roof, Praxle coiled the rope beneath him and cast a spell that wrapped around him like a blanket. The spell contracted enough to become a second skin. As it did so, Praxle’s color changed to a shifting dark gray, difficult to see in the night.

“How long will that last?” asked Teron.

“Over an hour.” Praxle climbed up to hunker next to Teron, and took a few moments to help the writhing rope coil itself neatly at the edge of the roof.

Keeping low, the two of them scuttled across to the central tower, then slid into the nook that protected the single door. They could hear the muttering of voices inside, dull, bored. Teron stood, clenched and cocked his fist …

Then Praxle quickly stood in front of him, blocking the way. Teron looked at the gnome quizzically, but Praxle waved him to the latch side of the door. The gnome moved to the hinge side and slowly worked his hands, tying a knot of arcane opalescent energy. His motions completed, he opened his hands and the energies floated for a moment, then they contracted.

“Mew!” a plaintive kitten’s voice sounded in the air.

Teron looked at the gnome, but all he could see in the shadows was the light of the spell reflecting off the gnome’s teeth. The spell pulsed twice more, looking rather like a beating heart. “Mew! Mew!” The small voice whined louder, more insistently.

Praxle leaned forward and scratched at the door with his fingernails, a mischievous grin shining in the darkness. “Meww!”

Inside, Teron heard the voices grumbling among themselves, some confused, some complaining, but one or two sounding reasonable and concerned. He heard a chair scooting back, and approaching footsteps. He braced himself, and shaped one hand into a spear.

Behind the door, someone slid a heavy bar to the side. Praxle’s spell redoubled its crying, and the gnome scratched some more at the door. A key turned in the tumbler, and the latch clicked. The door opened, spilling light in the entryway, and a guard stepped partway out, looking toward the ground.

Teron thrust with his spear hand, striking the guard with the point of his finger right in the voice box. The guards gagged, raising one hand to his throat in surprise, and Teron stepped forward, grabbed the man’s head, and gave it a sharp jerk. A single loud pop resounded in the night.

Holding the dead man up by the head, Teron pulled him away from the door and lowered him quietly to the ground.

Teron moved into the tower, Praxle following. The interior of the tower was a single common room, and five other armored guards stood in surprise as they saw the strangers enter. The nearest lunged for his sword, leaning against his chair, still sheathed. Teron snapped a kick upward, smacking the guard in the face and driving him upright again. The monk spun with the kick, turning a full circle and arcing around with a high spinning heel kick that took the stunned man on the temple, sending him to the floor.

Magic words spilled from Praxle’s mouth, and they were punctuated by a small pop as a thick, billowing cloud of gray erupted from the center of the room and filled the entire interior of the tower with an impenetrable mist. Then Teron heard the door shut as Praxle secured the area. He smiled and stood perfectly still.

Somewhere in the mist Teron heard a guard babbling confused and panicked questions. Relying on his four basilisks training, the monk swept a path to the speaker with kicks and punches; none of them met with any resistance until his foot connected with a knee, breaking it. The speaker cried out, but Teron finished him off without hesitation. As the guard’s last breath escaped, Teron heard the soft jingle of chain mail close at hand. He dropped low and swept his leg at ankle height, dropping another guard. He quickly pinned the guard’s weapon and killed him, as well.

Teron rose silently and stalked the cottony fog like a panther. Betrayed by the noises of their armor and their hissing attempts at communication, the other three Thrane guards fell just as quickly as the others.

As the last of them fell, Teron turned a full circle, listening for any noise from his companion, but the gnome was utterly silent. “Praxle!” he hissed. “Praxle!”

There was no answer for a short while, but then Teron heard hinges creak as the door swung open again. A small tenor voice murmured in the mist. “Are they all dead?”

“Indeed,” whispered Teron. “Now get rid of this mist!”

“Let it run its course,” suggested Praxle. “I’d rather not waste energy dispelling it. We may have greater need later.”

Teron heard Praxle step across the floor, then a clatter and a curse as the gnome tripped over a Thrane corpse.

A few moments later, the mist cleared away, vaporizing into nonexistence in a complicated series of intertwining tendrils, stirred into that chaos by the passage of Teron and the guards.

Praxle whistled. “Your body is impressive, Teron,” he said. “Now we just have to whet your soul to be as fine, and you can be as powerful as I.”

Teron ignored the comment. “Where now?” he asked.

Praxle pointed to the trap door of the tower. “There, first of all,” he said. “I’ve spent many long, bitter years memorizing the architecture of this library and the location of the notes, all in preparation for this day.”

Teron gripped the ring of the trap door and pulled. “It’s locked from the other side,” he said.

“I know,” said Praxle. “But they designed the door with the hinges on this side.”

Teron looked at the other end of the trapdoor. “Well, that was foolhardy,” he said.

Praxle just smiled as he drew a dagger and worked the pins from the hinges. His gray skin shifted as he worked.

The mismatched pair worked their way down the central stairwell of the library. Praxle pointed to a certain door marked with a sign reading, Artifice. Teron opened it, finding an open reading area with tables and chairs. No one was present. Three separate aisles led away from the area. Praxle pointed down the left-hand passage.

The two moved quietly through the magically lit aisle. Rows and rows of shelves lined each side, each covered with tomes, scrolls, and boxes, carefully catalogued and arranged. Signs describing the contents of the shelves adorned the ends of the cases.

“The library’s quiet,” said Praxle. “Aside from the guards up top, and they were too spooked by the mist to do anything.” A brief pause. “Think our luck will hold?”

“Not a chance,” said Teron.

“Over there,” pointed Praxle. “That’s where they keep the records.”

Praxle ushered Teron over to a large, dark densewood door set into a thick wall of stone, “There it is. That’s where they keep the research records for artifacts and relics that predate Galifar.”

Teron appraised the area. “Looks like the walls seal a large room,” he said.

“Indeed they do,” said Praxle.

“Are there that many ancient relics they study?”

“Host, no,” said Praxle, “They just wanted to ensure they had enough space. Many of the shelves within are empty, and much of what they have has been copied from records in other libraries.”

“Is this the only door?” asked Teron.

“Yes, it is. And it’s magically sealed. Give me a moment, let me handle it.” Praxle cast a spell on himself, closed his eyes, and began to murmur under his breath. His voice gradually increased in volume until Teron could make out the words. It was a chant to build courage, used by the Church of the Silver Flame. Praxle flexed his fingers, and his skin sparkled, trailing tiny motes. At last, he reached down and grasped the door’s handle. Behind the densewood, several bolts were thrown with metallic clicks, then the door vibrated as a heavy wooden beam glided out of the way. When the noise stopped, Praxle pushed the heavy wooden door open. It glided noiselessly on beautifully wrought and well-oiled hinges and revealed a large room, well lit from an indefinable source. Half-full shelves rimmed the majority of the perimeter; overstuffed chairs and large tables adorned with large magnifying glasses and bookstands filled the roomy center.

“How’d you do that?” asked Teron as the two of them stepped into the room.

“The seal is designed to open only to members of the Church,” answered Praxle as he shut the door. “I had to replicate the aura.”

“But how could you do that?”

“Teron,” said Praxle with a smile, “I am an illusionist. It’s child’s play to deceive myself into thinking what I want me to think.”

“But your soul is what it is.”

Praxle stopped, turned, and gave Teron a pointed look. “No, that is never the case, Teron. Free yourself from such a thought, lest it be your death.” He closed the door and looked around the room. “Over in that corner,” he said. “I suppose now we’ll find out how good our agent was.”

The two of them moved to the designated shelf and began opening books and scrolls, flipping through the contents in search of telltale illustrations or notes.

“Is this it?” asked Teron. He pulled a leather-bound tome from the shelf. A chain rattled along behind the book as he lowered it to the gnome.

Praxle grunted as he took the book from Teron. “Dark six, this is a heavy thing! Did they wrap leather over byeshk for the covers?”

“And it’s chained to the wall,” said Teron. “Those are heavy links, too. They don’t even want this book to go to the tables.”

“This is it,” said Praxle. He cradled the book in one arm, leaning it against a shelf for additional support, and flipped through the thick parchment pages rapidly. “Oohh yes, this is it,” he crooned. “After all this time, I have it at last.”

“You should not be here,” croaked a small voice. Teron and Praxle spun and saw a small creature that sat atop the shelving next to the door. Its body was about the size of a human head, and similarly arranged. Four long, lanky limbs extended from near the back of the head, each sporting three joints and ending with a delicate, long-fingered hand. One hand rested on the latch of the door.

“But of course we should,” said Praxle. “Otherwise the door would not have opened for us.”

“I heard you talk,” accused the creation. It smiled hideously. “You should have been quiet in the library.”

Teron charged the creature, leaping up onto one of the tables that barred his path and flying through the air toward it, but it scuttled quick as a spider, opening the door a mere hand’s span and spilling through, then pulling it shut just as Teron reached it. Latches threw and the heavy wooden bar began to slide back into place.

Teron thrust the bar to the side, grabbed the door handle, and yanked, but the door did not budge.

The monk rounded on the gnome. “What was that?”

“An arcane aide,” said Praxle. “A magewrought creature to help fetch books and the like. They’re built smart, agile and quiet, so as not to disturb mages during an experiment.” Praxle glanced at the book, then looked back at Teron. “Listen, we have a few minutes at best before that thing raises a ruckus. You break this chain, I’ll open the door.”

Teron stalked back over to the book, and inspected the chain, as well as where it was set into the wall and attached to the spine of the tome. He gripped the chain and gave a few experimental tugs. He shook his head and chewed on his lip.

Across the room, Praxle cast his spell and focused, rapidly reciting the Silver Flame’s chant. He reached for the door and boldly grasped the handle.

Nothing happened.

“Damnation!” he cursed. “I can’t do it! I’m too upset about the notes! Get them loose, so I know we can go!”

Teron looked at the book again. He flipped it open, gripped a handful of pages, and gave a strong steady pull, tearing the pages from the binding with a loud rip.

“What in Khyber are you doing?” gasped Praxle. “That’s priceless research!”

“And I’m taking it,” responded Teron. He folded the parchments in half and stuffed them into his tunic. “Do you want the notes, or the cover?” He grabbed some more of the pages and tore them from the binding. He looked at them, then handed the majority of them to Praxle. “Here,” he said. “This way, if one of us dies, they won’t recover all the notes.” Praxle took the proffered pages, rolled them up, and thrust them through his belt. Teron took the remainder and slid them into the back of his waistband, pulling his vest down over them. “The rest of the book looks blank,” he said. “Open the door.”

Praxle, bewildered and still horrified at Teron’s cavalier attitude, shook his head to clear it. He turned back to the door, recast his spell, and started to chant. He interrupted his chanting to take a deep breath, then laid one hand on the notes that stuck out from his belt. He resumed his chant, calmer and more confident than before. He reached for the door’s handle gracefully and gripped it.

The heavy wooden bar slid to one side, and the metal clack of dwarf-made bolts resounded. The door swung open easily, and as it did, the sound of a magical klaxon spilled into the room.

Teron vaulted over Praxle into the library. “Move!” he hissed.

The two ran for the main stairwell. As they approached, the door to the stairwell opened and a pair of Thrane mages stepped through. One pointed. “There!”

The first mage stepped forward, brandishing a staff, while the second stepped to the side and began casting a spell. However, Teron was moving faster then either had anticipated. The mage with the staff aimed it at the charging monk. Teron somersaulted, diving beneath a blast of intense cold.

Icy shards flew past Praxle. The gnome grabbed a handful of scrolls from the shelf next to him and flung them at the second mage. Three of them unfurled in flight, creating a fluttering flock of parchment distraction. The mage’s spell fired a spray of energy pellets that flew at the scrolls instead of the small gray illusionist, hitting several of them and setting them ablaze.

Teron’s roll brought him to the feet of the lead mage. He kicked up with his feet, catching the front end of the staff and knocking it toward the ceiling. The surprised mage staggered with the force of the unexpected blow, so he didn’t see Teron’s hand snake out and snag the bottom end of the staff. Teron yanked the staff toward him. The mage fought him, trying to pull it back. Teron obliged, thrusting the staff toward the mage, and their combined strength drove the tip of the magic staff squarely into the mage’s teeth. He raised one hand to his face, leaving one hand holding the staff.

The second mage stepped forward, hands held in front of him, glowing with an icy blue the color of dead flesh. He scooted over the burning scrolls, looking for the gnome that had been there but a moment before.

Still on his back, Teron swung one lag up and hooked his heel over the top end of the staff. He drove his leg down, stripping the wooden staff from the Thrane. At the same time he snapped up a kick with his other leg and struck the mage in the side, knocking him down.

Startled by the cry of his companion, the second mage turned to check what kind of threat Teron posed. Teron rolled to his feet and spun the staff in a circle. He looked at the approaching mage, and the unnatural hue to his hands. Then he saw a shadow move from the shadows of the bookshelves, and Praxle lunged forward and planted a dagger into the Thrane mage’s kidney.

The man stiffened, arcing his back against the assault, leaving himself open. Teron thrust with the staff, landing a brutal strike at the soft spot right below the breastbone, and following up with a spinning overhand blow that hit the mage on the back of the head as he doubled over. There was a loud crack as the man’s skull broke.

Teron turned back to the owner of the staff. He was holding his face and crab-walking backward. Teron leaped forward, wielding the staff like a spear. He struck the mage in the gut, and then swung around and planted a heel kick squarely on the temple. The mage flopped dead.

Praxle wiped his dagger on the dead mage’s robe. “We need to get going,” he said. “Any chance of fighting our way through the lobby?”

“Never,” said Teron. “Not with wizards and the guardian elemental. We’re going up.”

Behind them, near the door to the restricted research, a small explosion billowed forth as a Thrane wizard teleported in. “Hold!” she yelled.

Praxle aimed the hilt of his dagger at the new arrival and a blast of lightning split the air.

Teron turned, shocked. “Where did that come from?” he yelled.

“I went shopping,” yelled Praxle. “Let’s go!” The pair burst into the stairwell and ran for the rooftop. Below them, they heard the sound of multiple footsteps racing up behind. Teron moved quickly and easily, but Praxle, having to leap up stairs that were far larger than his body could easily handle, started to flag.

Teron burst into the guard tower, populated only by the cooling corpses of Thrane guards. He ran out the covered door and ran across the roof, weaving between the wicked weapons that defied the heavens. He made for the edge of the roof and grabbed the end of the coiled rope, looking for a good location to secure the line. He’d hoped Praxle’s enchantment would still hold, but the rope lay limp and lifeless in his hands.

Then he saw the shadows move.

A dozen or more figures stalked across the roof, starlight reflecting off their huge naked blades. Teron grabbed the rope and ran back toward the central tower. He saw a shifting patch of gray in the darkness, faintly visible. “Take the rope!” he hissed. “The tower by the Dormitorion!”

“What?” Praxle whispered back. “What’s the matter?”

“The statues,” explained Teron, “they’re animate! I’ll distract them, you run to the corner tower, and pray your disguise holds!”

Praxle scuttled off, low and quiet, his shifting gray coloration making him all but invisible atop the unlit roof.

Teron turned and appraised the approaching constructs. Their anatomy had no nerves, thus incapacitating them with debilitating pain was not possible. Instead, Teron had to rely on striking weak locations to cause structural damage; no small feat for creations that were, in all likelihood, perambulating stone.

He hopped to the side, striking one of the upraised pole arms with the full weight of his body. The long weapon creaked, then snapped under the pressure, and Teron hefted it. It had a wide blade, covered with barbs and jutting spikes, a perfect weapon for use against unarmored targets, but against armored foes, it was less than ideal: the wide cutting edge dispersed the energy too much.

Two statues drew close, raising their greatswords for lethal strikes. He turned the pole in his hands, spinning the head of his weapon. He stepped in to one approaching statue, striking lightly to the face with the construct, and leaving his left side open to the second. The first statue balked as the razor-sharp spikes threatened its eyes. The second statue took advantage of the easy strike, swinging its heavy two-handed sword down to cut the monk in half. Teron sensed the approaching attack, and hopped into the air, bringing the head of his pole arm down and ushering the blade beneath him.

In the darkness, the construct warrior did not see the move in time to react. Teron guided the full force of the attack into the second, and the huge blade amputated the animate statue’s leg at the knee. The injured carving collapsed silently, then made a weak swing at Teron’s legs with its weapon. The monk hopped back and looked toward the tower where Praxle had run. He could see nothing, and decided to buy the gnome a few more moments before making his break.

The downed statue hurled its giant sword at Teron. The monk easily dodged, but the attack distracted him for a split second. In that time, the other warrior swiped its blade hard in a low, lateral stroke, cutting through the shafts of several of the upraised pole arms. They began to fall like timber, their sharpened edges arcing toward Teron. As they fell, the statue charged in.

Faced with so many attacks, and well knowing that the Thrane Congress was capable of using his blood to send magical attacks, Teron backpedaled rapidly, using his bulky weapon to deflect several of the falling shafts.

More statues closed in. He gave ground, but it became clear that the assembled creatures would wait until they had overwhelming force before attacking. Teron moved toward the central tower, but a statue blocked the way, whirling its sword in a defensive circle.

Knowing his time was almost up, Teron forced himself to press his energy lower into his body, pushing it uncomfortably into one leg. His stomach churned at the effort, complaining against the unnatural activity.

As he felt the energy start to course out of his body, Teron made his move. He used the pole arm to vault himself forward, snapping a kick out toward the face of the blocking statue. His kick was well short of the mark, but as his leg snapped to a full extension, the energy flew from the sole of his foot and struck the statue in the face. The creature staggered back with the arcane impact, and Teron took the opportunity to move. He tossed the pole arm right at the manufactured guardian while he himself dived to a roll, tumbling just past the creature’s knee while its attention was drawn upward to the spiraling spear.

Several other statues were too close now; he had to flee. Teron tumbled back to his feet and leapt for the roof of the guard tower. He grabbed the edge and pulled himself up with one strong motion. He grabbed the shafts of two of the spears that jutted from the tower’s roof and pulled himself forward, his feet clearing the edge of the roof just as three greatswords rang against the stone, spitting sparks and chips of rock with the ferocity of their strikes.

Teron ran across the turret’s rooftop and jumped down the other side, sprinting for the corner tower that was closest to the Dormitorion. He heard the tread of two score feet in hot pursuit, nearly two dozen statue guardians chasing wordlessly after him.

He approached the corner tower, and Praxle was nowhere to be seen. The tower was swinging around toward the library building; in but a few moments the staircase would start to swing over the rooftop, and the means of escape would turn into a trap.

As he closed, he saw the rope knotted over one of the ornamental Flamic spikes that adorned the side of the soaring staircase. He vaulted over the side of the staircase and grabbed the rope as he fell. Several floors below him, he saw Praxle descending the rope as rapidly as he could.

Teron followed suit, glancing both up, for threats, and down, to follow Praxle’s progress.

Above, the rotating tower started to pass over the rooftop, and as Praxle had tied the rope to the leading edge of the staircase, the rope started getting drawn up. Teron looked up and saw the silhouettes of two statues looking down at him. Just as he realized what they intended to do, he heard a metal clang and the rope went slack. He fell.

A mere five feet later, the rope stopped again, and Teron realized that the knot had, against all probability, hung up on one of the ornamental carvings that decorated the eaves. He glanced down. Below him, Praxle had reached the approximate location of the warding spell. As he watched, the gnome leapt out from the wall, hands gesticulating wildly. The gnome’s clothes flapped as he fell, but Teron realized that he was falling slowly, buoyed by strong, magically manipulated winds.

Teron glanced back up just in time to see that one of the statues had thrown its greatsword at him, hoping to slash him as he hung all but helpless on the rope. Teron kicked off from the wall, swinging himself out of the way like a great pendulum, but as he swung as far as his momentum would carry him, he heard another clang from above, and he saw the end of the rope fling itself out from the rooftop. The knot had been cut away.