The Orb of Xoriat

21 A Nest of Cyrans

A mallet flew around the corner of the doorjamb. Teron had a split second to react, and ducked just enough that the blow took him on the brow rather than square on the nose.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor. He looked to the door, but Kelcie had already vanished. In her stead he saw two burly humans stepping through the door. One had a mallet, the other a small axe.

Instinct took hold, focused by years of intensive training. The man with the axe closed in, stepping between Teron’s legs and raising his weapon for a killing blow. Teron hooked his right foot behind the man’s ankle and drove his left foot into the man’s knee as hard as he could. The angle was a little bit off, the man too close for Teron’s kick to get the momentum needed to snap the axeman’s knee, but the leverage of Teron’s kick shoved the man to the ground. He fell into the mallet-wielding man and landed hard on his posterior.

Teron did a reverse somersault and rolled to his feet, his arms raised defensively.

Praxle grabbed the satchel that contained the Thrane notes. “Jeffers!” he yelled. “Get me out of here!”

Jeffers glanced at the door, now filled with three or four intruders. Two tried to push their way over their fallen comrade, while the third tried to help him to his feet. Trusting Teron to delay them for a few moments at least, Jeffers grabbed a chair and swung it into one of the latticed windows. It smashed through the wood and glass, sending shards toppling to the pavement a story below. Jeffers placed the chair right by the window.

“What the Six are you doing?” yelled Praxle, as his hands started flying through the motions for an illusion.

Jeffers declined to answer. Instead, he grabbed Teron’s mattress and, with a growl of effort, heaved it around and thrust it through the window. It hung up on the shards and splinters, but Jeffers leaned into it with a roar. Glass creaked, wood cracked, and fabric tore in multiple places, but the half-orc forced it through. It fell to the cobbled street below, landing with a dull thump.

“Jump, master!” yelled Jeffers, “Before they notice!”

Praxle unleashed his illusory couatl, a feathery rainbow of serpentine danger, then turned and ran. Clutching tightly to his satchel, he leapt onto the chair and jumped headlong through the shattered window, passing cleanly between the shreds of fabric that hung on the jagged glass.

“Teron!” yelled Jeffers. “Follow!” He turned to the window as well, climbing out more slowly to ensure that in his haste he didn’t land on his employer. He jumped, flopped onto the mattress and rolled immediately to the side.

A moment later, Teron burst through the window, lead leg extended as he hurdled the broken pane. He overshot the mattress, but landed into an easy tumble and rolled to his feet. “Flotsam!” he gasped, casting a glance at the broken window. “Did you—”

“Forget the cat!” said Praxle. “If it’s your familiar, it’ll find its way home.” He grabbed Teron by the arm and pulled him away from the lodging. Jeffers added his weight, impelling the monk before any fireballs started dropping on them.

“If not,” muttered Praxle as they ran, “then you won’t have to worry about its smell any more.”

“They’re getting away!”

“Dyen, take two and follow them,” bellowed Rezam. “The rest of you, leave nothing unturned! I want those notes!”

Dyen grabbed two other Cyrans and ran downstairs, while the mage and the remaining Cyrans tore the room apart. Two broke open the packed luggage and tore the contents apart, while another overturned all the furniture, slitting cushions in her desperation.

Rezam stood in the center of the room, chanting quietly and turning a slow circle. As he did so, his anger and impatience grew rapidly.

“Nothing here,” reported one of the Cyrans.

“WHAT?” bellowed Rezam.

“They must have taken the papers with them. But we’d better make ourselves scarce before the Crown Knights show up.”

The Cyran mage growled. “Come!” He stormed downstairs with the others close at his heels. In the streets, he saw Dyen and the others scattered about, “Dyen!” he bellowed, arms wide in disbelief. “Where are they? Did you let them escape?”

“There’s a number of people who saw what happened,” answered Dyen. “They say the three of them ran to the end of the block and hailed a hansom. But no one here saw where they went after that.”

Rezam roared in frustration. “How dare you hold out on us!” he bellowed to the crowd in general. “Where are they?”

“Easy, now,” said Dyen. “Even if they had seen, there’s no way we’d have any prayer of finding them. They have too much of a lead. They could have turned any number of ways a block from here. And now that we’ve tipped our hand, we need to go about this carefully.”

The elf wizard turned about with a snarl, then suddenly his voice turned sweet. “Of course we will,” he said. “Anything for the Glo—anything for the cause, that is.”

“Good,” said Dyen nervously. “Because I did leave one of us down here, and the people say that he hired a trap and may have followed them. He’ll tip us off later on, once he figures where they went.”

Rezam sighed. “Then we shall wait a while longer.” He looked at the gathered commoners that milled about the scene, staring, watching, muttering among themselves. He moved his hands, uttering foul words, and abruptly clouds of poisonous gases erupted at each end of the street. The noxious green clouds quickly billowed through the onlookers, obscuring them even as their voices choked and cried out in agony.

“What are you doing?” asked Dyen.

“No witnesses for the Crown Knights,” whispered the mage conspiratorially. Then his expression buoyed up again, becoming positively jovial. “Come, everyone, let’s depart through the rear of the building. Oargesha is waiting to show our enemies the secrets of the Black Globe. Soon we let everyone in, and the whole of Galifar shall pay the debt for its perfidy to Cyre.”

Darkness was starting to devour the sky to the east when Teron, Praxle, and Jeffers reached the Stalsun estate. They found a squad of three Thranes in House Stalsun livery, one of whom jumped aboard. He led them to a lower-class part of town and ordered the carriage driver to stop at a nondescript intersection. “Down the boulevard,” said the guard, “then turn into that side street there. She’s waiting for you.”

They followed the guard’s instructions, and found themselves on a little-used street with small service shops, all closed for the night. Lady Hathia Stalsun awaited them at the corner of the street and another small avenue, beneath the sole operative everbright in the area.

“Good evening, my lady,” said Praxle eagerly.

“What happened to your eye, Teron?” she asked. “That’s a nasty bruise.”

“We had some trouble back at the lodge,” said Teron.

“Which is to say,” added Jeffers, “that a passel of ruffians chose to assail us in our room.”

Lady Hathia narrowed her eyes and canted her head. “The Cyran thieves, perhaps?”

“Either that or friends of the serving wench,” said Praxle, cutting in. “It seems our dear Teron doesn’t have a way with women. I’m telling you, Teron, you should have ridden that filly when you had the chance. Made her feel like she mattered. Illusions are the first step in creation, you know.”

Teron flushed and turned his head, but Hathia cut in. “You may have charm, d’Sivis,” she said, “but you are a fool with regard to the female heart. Teron did the right thing by declining to take advantage.”

“Can we quit this talk?” asked Teron, annoyance tinting his voice, “We’re here on business.”

“Indeed,” said Lady Hathia. She gestured to an alley down the way. “Turn down that alley there,” she said. “Take the first right branch. Then, after the alley turns left, you’ll find their lair. There has been some activity tonight,” she added, “and they’ve been a little careless. I do believe you’ll find their door slightly ajar.”

Praxle cackled, wriggling his fingers and bouncing on the balls of his feet as he led the way.

Creeping quietly as a cat, Dyen slipped into the Cyran arcanium. The front room was empty, but light spilled from two doorways flanking the back hallway. “Psst! Anyone here?” he called out in a loud whisper.

“Sure, we’re here,” answered a voice, and a half-elf female sauntered out of one of the rooms. “Oh, hullo, Dyen. Back already? How’d it go?”

“Sh sh,” said Dyen. “No time. I think they may be outside.”

The half-elf hunkered down. “What?”

“I think they may be outside,” repeated Dyen, hefting his mallet. “They may have seen me!”

“Careless dreg!” hissed the half-elf. She ran back into her room and returned a few seconds later bearing a Valenar scimitar, a long, vicious weapon with opposing curved blades at each end and a double leather-wrapped handle set in the center.

Dyen raised one eyebrow. “This will be interesting,” he said.

“I hear someone,” whispered the half-elf. She glided to one side of the corridor that led into the room and assumed a striking stance, her Valenar scimitar raised for a decapitation.

Dyen moved to an ambush position on the other side. He crouched low for a shot to the groin or knee. Or a face shot if the gnome happened to be the first one in.

After a few tense moments, a dark-haired human glided silently into the room, his bare arms raised, hands open, ready to strike or block. The half-elf stepped out and swept the double scimitar around in a dizzying flurry of sweeps, drawing the lead blade through the monk’s neck and following with the trailing blade for good measure. A huge spray erupted as the monk’s neck disintegrated, the thin strand of meat offering no resistance to the razor-sharp blades. For good measure, the half-elf reversed the spin and took the lead blade back through a third time to strike the head from the rear. The scimitar connected with the human’s head before it had fallen more than a few inches, and as the blade sliced through, the head ceased to exist, spattering into a thousand multicolored motes that flickered away and died.

Shocked, the half-elf looked down at the little gnome who stood where the human had been a second ago. The gnome looked up and smiled. “Oops.”

Then the half-elf saw Dyen spinning to deliver a reverse heel kick to the back of her head.

Teron slid down the hall at the far side of the Cyran hideout. Light shone from two rooms; the one on the left he presumed was some sort of bunkhouse, presumably empty, because the half-elf had brought no additional assistance when she retrieved her weapon. He stood at the side of the door to the second lit room. The closer he got to the open door, the more he could sense the tension that resonated in the air.

He held the Valenar double scimitar in his hand to accentuate the adjusted illusory disguise that Praxle had given him. He did not trust the weapon; its opposing blades and asymmetric design clearly required years of training to master.

He listened at the door for several minutes, then signaled back to Praxle and Jeffers, holding up two fingers. They nodded, and Teron ambled into the room.

He saw two Thrane mages working on the far side of a large, heavy oaken table. Resting on a gold stand placed in the center of the table sat the Thrane Sphere. It looked like a mass of glossy black scarab beetles all huddled into a perfect sphere, occasionally shifting, and humming with vile intent. A pulsating shield of translucent green energy surrounded the sphere and prevented it from actually touching the stand; Teron recognized it as a protective spell, presumably one that did not protect the Sphere from danger but protected those nearby from the danger of the relic itself.

Teron walked up to the table, idly letting the double scimitar swing by his side, but as he approached, he sensed the aura of the Sphere press away the veneer of his illusory disguise, sending shreds of arcane energy wafting across the room. As one, the two Cyran mages turned malevolent eyes on him, burning with a hint of madness.

“Go!” yelled Teron, flinging the dangerous Valenar scimitar at one of the mages.

Teron tumbled over the table to attack the other mage, though, mindful of the Thrane Sphere’s effects on the Cyran thief, he had to tumble quite wide of the mark. The mage was fast, however, and by the time Teron had landed on his feet, he saw a large flaming ball rolling toward him. He stepped to the side and retreated, and the ball swerved toward him. He thought of jumping it but was afraid it might reverse its course and remain beneath him, so instead he readied himself to punch it hard back at its caster.

Praxle entered the room with his dagger reversed in his hand and let loose a thunderbolt at the more distant Cyran mage. The blast flew out of the dagger, but its proximity to the Orb of Xoriat bent its path, and it smote the stone wall harmlessly. The Cyran mage made a series of gestures, each time sending blue tendrils of power all over his body. Angry, Praxle summoned his couatl illusion again as Jeffers lunged past and dived under the table.

The blazing ball rolled right at Teron, and he punched the fiery ball as hard he could with an open palm, but instead of a solid impact like he’d expected, his fist punched into a spongy mass that smelled of an alchemist’s lab. Instead of deflecting the ball’s approach, he’d buried his hand in the flames, and he could feel his flesh burning.

Teron pulled his arm back, and flopped backward as the flaming sphere rolled over him. He quickly batted at it with his hands and feet, keeping it distant as it overran him. The ball stopped trying to spin, content to be above him, and in that instant he moved. He let it drop to his side, guiding it with his hands, and then, kicking heartily with both feet, he managed to push the flaming ball just enough to wedge it under the table.

Praxle’s couatl charged the second mage, who had retreated into the furthest corner of the room. It, too, shredded into nonexistence as it passed close by the dreaded Orb.

Jeffers surged up from beneath the table, waving his serrated blade and charged the second mage, now faintly shimmering with arcane effects. The mage gestured, and a staff flew across the room into his hands just as Jeffers reached him. He raised the staff to block Jeffers’ initial chop, then spun the staff neatly to stop the second and third attacks of Jeffers’ favorite combination move. Then with a speed and grace that made his mage’s robes swirl like a dancer, the wizard spun around and cracked Jeffers on the back of the head with the inside of his staff, staggering the half-orc.

Praxle moved to an adjacent corner of the room to watch the duel. He prepared a spell.

Teron hopped back to his feet, ignoring the itching pain that was starting to throb in his burnt extremities. He lunged for the mage in front of him, but again the wizard was the faster. He finished another incantation just as Teron reached him. The monk landed a solid blow dead center to the wizard’s breastbone, knocking him off his feet, but before he could follow through on his success, a miniature funnel cloud formed at the ceiling, reached down and surrounded the monk. Blinded by the winds and the dust they kicked up, Teron tried to wriggle free of the air elemental’s grasp.

Gasping for breath from Teron’s powerful hit, the first Cyran mage regained his feet. Satisfied that the monk was trapped in the elemental’s embrace, he turned to assist his compatriot. A half-orc struggled with the other mage, each firmly grasping the mage’s staff, a contest of orcish strength versus magical enhancement. The half-orc seemed to be getting the better of the fight, twisting the staff back and forth and brutally kicking the mage, while the wizard did nothing but tenaciously hold on to the staff.

Focused on their wrestling match, neither party considered outside threats, and thus the half-orc made a perfect target. The mage pulled a wand from his sleeve and aimed it at the intruder’s head. With a mental command, a shaft of primal cold lanced out of the wand, striking true. In an instant, the cold had enveloped the half-orc’s head, splitting the skin, freezing the eyes, and shattering a few teeth.

The spell also ruined the illusion that covered the pair; revealing a startled half-orc holding a staff, and a dead wizard lying on the floor.

“Sometimes I just love me,” said Praxle to himself. He aimed the handle of his dagger carefully and let fly another bolt of lightning. As before, the Orb of Xoriat bent its path. Unlike before, Praxle had planned on exactly that, and the electric energy blasted the other Cyran mage before he could recover from his surprise.

Holding one hand over the huge knot on the back of his skull, Jeffers staggered over to the downed mage and stomped heavily on his neck. In that instant, the air elemental ceased to exist, and Teron dropped to the floor.

Praxle clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Well, then,” he said. “That was easy.”