The Orb of Xoriat

20 Meetings

Hunkered against the wall of the Dormitorion, camouflaged against the cobbles and stone wall by his spell, Praxle watched in fear as Teron tumbled from the side of the building. Up above, the guardian statues on the rooftop were lit from below as they leaned over and watched.

Teron hit, hard, grunting with the impact. He struggled to rise, stumbled, and looked up at the statues on the rooftop. Praxle followed his gaze.

One of the statues leapt. And another. And a third, even before the first one hit the street.

The first one landed badly, shattering both legs. Praxle saw its foot and ankle skitter across the cobbles, flung by the force of the impact. The second did not leap far enough, and landed heavily in the ruins of a large shrub. Praxle heard multiple cracks, but couldn’t tell what sort of limbs might have broken. The third, however, took a more daring approach. It fell spread-eagled to the pavement, landing face-first on the cobblestones and dispersing the force of the impact over its entire body. Its greatsword clanged to the ground beside it. It lay motionless for a moment, then stirred and rose, smoothly regaining its feet. In the light of the everbright lanterns, Praxle could see that its stone surface sported multiple chips and cracks, but it acted none the worse for wear. It picked up the sword and moved toward Teron, who half-crawled half-hopped away like a wounded dog. The monk held one arm close to his chest, and one foot lolled to the side, badly broken at the ankle.

Even as Praxle considered what a small gnome like him might be able to do against the towering construct, Jeffers leapt out of the alleyway, swinging his serrated sword. He placed himself between the creature and the wounded Aundairian.

The half-orc engaged the construct, wielding his sword defensively, buying Teron time to make an escape. Praxle started to glide out from concealment to help, but from the alley Teron’s cat hissed, and the sound gave him pause. As he hesitated, a second shadow slid from the alleyway, dressed head to toe in dark gray. Praxle’s eyes went wide as he recognized the unmistakable attire of the Shadow Fox.

Chain kama in hand, the Fox moved with speed and stealthy grace to where Teron struggled to his feet. Seeing the threat, Praxle charged after, drawing his dagger.

The Fox reached Teron, grabbed his vest, and pulled him close, all the while brandishing the weapon. But before the Fox could strike, Praxle yelled, hoping to draw attention away from the wounded monk.

The Fox turned as Praxle lunged with his dagger. The Fox parried, partially turning Praxle’s blade, but taking a long, painful cut along the buttock. The Fox dropped Teron and disarmed Praxle with a quick flourish, then turned and fled down the street.

Praxle checked on Jeffers. The half-orc was holding his own against the statue, but he wouldn’t be able to for much longer. Two more statues had managed to survive the jump from the rooftop in operable condition. Glancing the other way, Praxle saw the Shadow Fox skid to a stop as armed guards turned the corner from the front of the Camat Library. The Cyran thief fled into a nearby alley.

“Run, Jeffers!” yelled Praxle, as he recovered his dagger from the pavement. Jeffers feinted, then disengaged from the statue and sprinted aside. Praxle sidestepped quickly, aligning the statue with the other two that were joining the fracas. He reversed his grip on his dagger, aimed the hilt at the constructs, and raised one hand to shield his squinting eyes.

A heavy bolt of electrical energy spat forth from the back end of the dagger, destroying two of the statues outright and catching a sizeable portion of the third before blasting a crater in the side of the library. A quick turn and Praxle unleashed a second blast at the guards coming from the front of the building. Satisfied that all opposition was dead, cowered, or seeing a blinding afterimage, Praxle ran. “Grab him!” he yelled at Jeffers. “He broke his leg!”

The half-orc heaved one of Teron’s arms around his shoulder, and the threesome made a quick escape into the night, followed closely by the cat.

Praxle opened the door to their room, while Jeffers helped the hobbled monk into the room. As Praxle closed the door, Teron asked, “Who was that, that came up to me right at the end?”

“You don’t know?” asked Praxle. “That was the Shadow Fox!”

“Is that so?” mused Teron as he sat on his bed. Jeffers helped him maneuver his broken ankle and arm onto soft pillows, “Strange. He asked me to go with him.”

“Did he?” said Praxle. He chuckled, “I think he knew we had the notes. Trying to get them for himself.”

“That makes sense,” said Teron. He adjusted himself and reclined on his bed. The papers crinkled as he lay down, so he reached into his vest, pulled out the sheaf of notes, and handed them to Praxle. “Here you go.”

“Most excellent!” chortled Praxle. He danced around the room with the papers, giggling manically. “After all this time, at last, my moment is at hand!” With a sigh that bordered on the erotic, he sat on his bed and combined Teron’s pages with his own, then started poring over them.

“I can endeavor to fetch a Jorasco healer for you, ma—Teron,” offered Jeffers, “though I doubt that any shall make themselves available before morning.”

“That’s all right, Jeffers,” said Teron, “If we contact one right now, it might cause questions. They might connect my broken bones and the break-in, I think we left no witnesses, but I’d rather be as safe as possible. I’ll just take a tumble down the stairs in the morning to make it look good, and we’ll get a healer then.”

Jeffers drew a blanket over Teron. “You’re sure about this?”

Teron nodded. “I’ve had worse.” He sighed, half in relief and half in pain. “With all the ruckus we’ve caused, we’d better hope that Lady Hathia followed through on her promise soon, wouldn’t you say, Praxle?”

But the gnome, engrossed in the notes, made no reply.

The Shadow Fox limped into the Cyran hideout, finding her mages still hard at work trying to unravel the secrets of the Sphere of Xoriat.

“Fetch me the chirurgeon,” she said.

“No time,” said Rezam. “This is a fascinating problem, and we can’t leave just yet.”

She scowled and looked them over, haggard hair, dark circles under the eyes, yet a feverish look of excitement on their faces. “Haven’t you taken a break? Gotten some rest?”

“No time! We’re close! I can feel it!”

“Listen, you two, I need someone to stitch me up. Now.”

Rezam rounded on her, “No! Get one yourself! You—”

The Fox whipped out her kama and slashed the wizard just above the eye, opening a long cut. Blood started welling from the wound, then dribbled into his eye. He cried out in pain and pressed his hand to the injury.

“Why you vicious little—”

The Fox dropped the tip of her kama to the soft spot between his collarbones, ready to pierce his larynx. “Now we both need a chirurgeon,” she said. “Send your assistant to get one. Now.”

The wizard’s uncovered eye glared at Fox, filled with spite and fear. He gestured with his free hand, and a gecko suddenly skittered along the wall and out a door. “My familiar will bring one to us,” he said coldly.

“Thank you.”

“That was unnecessarily cruel,” said Rezam.

“Cruel? Granted,” said the Fox. “But unnecessary? I believe you have forgotten who is in charge of this operation.”

Rezam did not answer, but his one open eye glanced briefly at the Sphere.

It was approaching noon by the time Teron was able to leave the Jorasco compound and return to the boardinghouse. He savored the feeling of having his arm and ankle hale once more. He walked briskly, enjoying the warm sun that shone through the cool air.

As he passed by the Phiarlander Phaire on the way back to his rooms, he saw a familiar sight: a carriage parked in front of the tavern, blazoned with the crest of the Stalsun family. Intrigued, he entered the Phaire.

The crowd was light, but it was still a bit early for a luncheon. As he stood by the entrance and surveyed the interior—dark by comparison to the noonday sun outside—he overheard snippets from a number of conversations about the incident at the library the night before. Afire the first night and lightning the second bad sparked the curiosity of the populace.

At last he espied Lady Hathia at a tall table with Praxle and Jeffers, and began to approach.

Kelcie reached out for him from behind the service counter, “Teron—”

“Leave me be,” he said absently. “This is important.”

He smiled slightly as he approached the table; the elegant and haughty lady had obviously refused to debase her stature by sitting on one of the tall bar stools, and instead stood at the table. As he drew closer, Teron also realized that her posture kept the conversation more formal, which was probably exactly what she wanted.

“Good day, Lady,” said Teron as he pulled out one of the stools and sat himself on it.

“You look well,” she replied.

Teron shrugged. “I am.”

“You’re late, Teron,” said Praxle, “I expected you back an hour ago. I could have been reading more of the notes!”

“Notes?” said Lady Hathia.

“We’ve gathered no small amount of information on the Cyran bandits and their methods, as well as a rota of Cyran expatriates in the city, their location, and employment,” said Jeffers easily. “My master has been endeavoring to discern a pattern in an attempt to deduce who might be involved with the Cyrans, and where their safe house might be.”

Lady Stalsun smiled thinly. “I see,” she said. “My dear gentlemen, you should have saved yourselves the bother. I thought I had made my resources clear to you; I have been tracking all manner of questionable personages for some time.”

“That’s fine,” snapped Praxle, “but—”

“With some selective application of pressure among those my people have been watching, we have pieced together the location of the Cyran hideout. We believe it to be where they are holding this relic you seek.” She looked at each of the three foreigners in turn. “I surmise by your silence that you did not believe me capable of deducing its location, nor to be willing to share same with you.”

“Wonderful!” bellowed Praxle. He hopped down from his stool and unceremoniously pumped Lady Hathia’s hand. “My lady, you have earned my eternal gratitude, and I shall have an eternity in which to bless you for your assistance.” He paused for a moment to regroup, and kissed the lady’s hand. “And the gratitude of the Sivis family, and the University as well, of course. You will be handsomely rewarded for your efforts.”

With a subtle look of disgust, the Thrane lady withdrew her hand from Praxle’s grasp. “Be at my estate at sundown,” she said. “Come prepared. You shall be taken to the location of the Cyrans’ refuge. There, under cover of nightfall, you shall enter and recover your relic. My people cannot assist you; the political standing of my house is tenuous at best. However, I shall deploy them about the vicinity of the Cyrans’ lair to ensure that any city watch patrols that threaten to interrupt your work are instead directed elsewhere. Is that clear?”

The other three nodded.

“Thank you for your assistance. The sooner this dangerous item is out of the hands of the Cyrans and safely away from Thrane, the better.” She turned and started to leave, but stopped and looked askance at them. “I expect that I shall be able to prevail upon the church and the university alike for an equitable consideration in the future,” she said. It was not a question.

Teron nodded. Praxle bowed, and said, “Most assuredly. You will have the favor of the most powerful of … of organizations to be found anywhere in Khorvaire.”

She nodded slightly, eyes half lidded. Then she turned away and walked sedately out the door to her waiting carriage.

Teron sighed contentedly. “Time for me to break my fast,” he said. He turned to the kitchen and called, “Kelcie?”

After a moment, the one-eyed cook appeared. “She done left, masters,” he said. “What can I get for ya?”

“How are you doing, Fox?” Two Cyrans entered the room and closed the door behind them.

“Who’s there?” asked Fox, turning her head on the pillow.

“It’s Dyen.”

The Shadow Fox lay on her stomach on the bed, the bandage over her haunch pink with blood. “I’m not doing very well,” she said.

“This is a nice room,” said Dyen, taking in the comfortable bed, the sunlight streaming in the windows, and the overstuffed chair. “That should help.”

Fox grunted.

“We brought you something to sup on. Thought you might like a tad for your stomach.”

“Thanks,” she said, and took a half a large roll. Her hands trembled as she drew it to her mouth.

“What’s the matter, Fox?” asked Dyen.

She chewed her bread for a moment, then tucked it into one cheek. “I think that bastard little gnome had a poisoned blade,” she muttered.

“Who is he? I’ll kill him for you.”

“Don’t,” said the Fox. “He’s from the University. Pretty high up, I understand. We don’t want gnomes chasing after his killers, prying into our business, right?” She looked at them and saw assent, if not agreement. “There is, however, something you can do to hurt them,” she said. “I know they’ve been chasing the Sphere ever since we found it. And it appears that they, too, know about the Thrane notes.”

“What notes are those?”

“Ah,” said Fox. “Apologies; I forgot you didn’t know. During the Last War, one of our agents discovered that the Thranes had an ancient relic borrowed from Zilargo. We believed it had been used against Aundair and subsequently lost. We also had strong indications that the Congress had extensive notes on the relic locked up in its library.” She propped herself up on her elbows to get a better angle at which to look at her compatriots. “When we chanced upon the fact that the Black Globe might have been found, we pounced on it, and managed to grab it. Since I’ve been back, I’ve been trying to figure a way into the library to find those notes.”

“But the library is battened down as tight as a Mrorian iron vault!”

“I know. It’s been very frustrating. But I think finding a way in is no longer necessary. I think they—the gnome and his friends—I think they stole the notes from the library last night.”

“Do you mean the instructions on how to use that relic you took?”

“Precisely,” said the Fox. Her face paled, and she laid herself back down gingerly. She drew and exhaled a trembling breath. “Now we don’t need to break into the Congress Library,” she continued. “Thank the Host, too, because there’s no chance on Eberron that I’d be able to do it, not with these stitches in my hindquarters and that poison in my blood.”

Dyen reached out one hand and pulled a stray strand of hair away from Fox’s face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m as well as can be. The time for antidotes is long past, friends, and the treasury was utterly depleted by our trips to Breland and Aundair. I’ll weather this storm, but it will be a while.”

“So what can we do?”

“There are three of them,” answered Fox, “staying at the boardinghouse on Fletcher Square, two blocks and a half from the Phiarlander Phaire. A human named Teron, a gnome named Praxle, and a half-orc named Jeffers.”

“How’d you get all that?”

“I followed them to the lodge. The names came from Squints at the Phaire. Now shut up and let me talk.” She paused to marshal her thoughts. “Second floor. I don’t know their room. Find out exactly where they’re staying. Squints said they’ve been eating at the Phaire, so break into their rooms when they’re dining. Do it after dark, just in case you get caught. Bring one or two of the mages, and look for anything that seems arcane and take it. Are we clear on this?”

“Yes, Fox,” the Cyrans said in unison.

“Good. Because now I want you both to leave,” she mumbled as she turned her head away. “I’ll kill anyone who disturbs me for any reason, I’m going to sleep to morning.”

By the time the two visitors left the room, the Fox’s breathing was deep and even.

Squints looked up as seven people entered the Phaire. Each carried a weapon—sheathed, thankfully—and several wore light armor. They entered with purpose, striding boldly in, not sauntering like regulars or hesitantly entering like those unfamiliar with the establishment.

They moved immediately for the serving counter, where Squints stood. He subtly grabbed the haft of the brutal spiked mace he kept behind the counter as insurance against bandits and the like.

“You must be Squints,” said their leader, holding out one hand. “My name is Dyen. I hear you have some visitors frequenting this establishment.”

“This is an inn,” he said. “I get visitors.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dyen. He leaned closer, accidentally revealing the chainmail he wore beneath his tunic. “The Fox sent me.”

At the mention of her name, the look in Squints’ one eye eased considerably, and he gently set the mace back to its resting place.

“We’re after a group of three: a human, a gnome, and a half-orc.”

“I know them,” said Squints.

“Great! We hear they’re renting a room just down the street; do you happen to know which room is theirs?”

“No, I don’t,” said Squints. “But Kelcie over there, she helped them get back to their room the other day. She knows.”

One of the Cyrans clawed his hand, and arcane power arced from fingertip to fingertip. “Let’s go find out, shall we?”

Squints snapped his hand out and grabbed the mage’s wrist. He leaned forward, his one eye flaring menacingly. “Don’t none of you lay a hand on her,” he demanded. “Do you hear?”

“Easy, Squints,” said Dyen. “Just talk. Nothing else.”

The magician rounded on Dyen, “Just talk? Is that all we do? Talk and wait? No! We find out where they are and we do this now!”

Dyen held up his hands placatingly. “Easy, Rezam. First things first. We can’t do anything until we know which room is theirs.” He glanced over to Squints, who gave him a meaningful glare. He nodded. “So you all just let me go and ask her, right?”

Dyen walked across the mostly empty dining room to the young woman. “Excuse me,” he said, “your name is Kelcie, right?”

She nodded, pulling her hair behind one ear. “Please, have a seat,” she said. “What can I bring for you?”

“I just need some answers,” he said, placing a sovereign next to the dirty flatware on her tray. “Are you acquainted with a threesome visiting the city, I believe them named Teron, Jeffers, and Praxle?”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Why?”

He dropped his head for a moment, then looked back up. “It’s embarrassing to say, but they have something of mine, and I intend to recover it before they exit the city.”

“You?” Kelcie chuckled. “I sure hope you have a lot of friends.” She turned away and headed for another dirty table. Without looking back, she added, “You’re going to need them.”

Teron finished stretching with a satisfied sigh. He stood, walked over to the nightstand, and splashed his face with some water from the tarnished copper bowl, then ran his wet hands through his short-cropped hair.

He went back over to his bed and carefully picked up his vest. “It’s closing on sundown,” he said, “do either of you want to get yourselves something to eat before we go?”

“I’m too excited,” said Praxle. “I can’t eat. And neither can you, Jeffers.” He paused to giggle. “Oh, to be this close, after all this time. I can feel the power!”

“What do you mean?” asked Teron pointedly, as he adjusted the waistband of his trousers and then pulled on his vest.

“Excuse me?”

“Power?”

Praxle walked over to Teron. “Do you have any idea what sort of power this will give me among my people, to recover this artifact? Right now I report to the doyen of the College of History and Archaeology. Next week, she’ll be reporting to me! And that’s just the beginning!”

“We may be working together,” said Teron cautiously, “but we haven’t yet settled the ultimate fate of the Sphere.”

“Ah, but I am sure we will,” said Praxle, “You’re reasonable. Especially when you understand the Orb of Xoriat better, you’ll be perfectly agreeable, I’m sure. For that matter, we can share.”

Teron raised his eyebrows. He started to say something, but Praxle cut him off. “Pack it all, Jeffers,” he said. “Don’t leave anything. I want to be out of this town as soon as we have it back in our possession.”

“That’s wise,” said Teron, “I was thinking much the same. Shall we leave by land or sea?”

“I arranged for a private carriage on the midnight run of the lightning rail,” said Praxle with a touch of a gloat. “Jeffers, see to it that the staff here knows to deliver our bags to the rail tonight.”

Teron was taken aback. “And here I thought you didn’t have much coin,” he said.

Praxle shrugged. “I didn’t, especially alter evading your friend the prelate,” he explained. “But I was able to draw from the University and House Sivis accounts. It gave me some needed funds to shop for essentials. Like this.” He picked up a long dagger from the dresser, flipped it in his hand, and slipped it into its sheath. “I rather like it. Creation and destruction, and a nice balanced blade, to boot. Noisy, though.”

Teron shrugged noncommittally.

“Well, it sure beats your fists,” said Praxle.

“Perhaps,” said Teron, “but I can never be disarmed.”

“Sure you can,” laughed Praxle, “if your arms get chopped off!” He laughed uproariously at his joke, while Jeffers gave Teron a long-suffering look.

The gnome’s hilarity was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Teron?” called a familiar voice. “Teron, it’s Kelcie! Are you there?”

“Kelcie?” Teron started walking over to the door. “What’s the matter?”

“There’s some strangers at the Phaire; I think they’re after you!”

“Who?” asked Teron, opening the door.

Kelcie smirked. “I brought them over to meet you, you bastard.”