The Orb of Xoriat

23 The Bodyguard

“Souls?” blurted Teron.

Praxle laughed. “Of course. What the Six else did you chink was trapped in here, anyway? The druids sealed any ability to cross back and forth, so the souls in there are trapped on the threshold of madness, fragments of a greater pattern.”

Teron pressed his palms together and raised them to his nose, stilling himself. There, in the black voids between his thoughts, he could hear faint screams of hysteria and gibbering words of madness.

“Don’t look so surprised, Ter,” said Praxle, “What else do you think would feed the dragon’s blood within you? Why do you think everything has been ordered so that we could escape this prison puzzle box that holds us? This is our chance, our chance to seize the world by the throat, to force our pattern upon these souls within this ball and by ordering them within us, to ascend to greater power. The door has opened for us to become gods, ascending on the stairs of those who died for our benefit.” He giggled and plugged one ear. “I think I can hear that Cyran mage.”

For a brief moment, Teron wanted it. He wanted the power, he wanted the control, he wanted to stand up to the dragon, he wanted the chance to order the world to suit him instead of being a decaying relic of a dead war. And he knew how; the last few pages of the Thrane notes had spoken of opening the Sphere fully. Now that Praxle’s words had given those cryptic notes a context, he understood that the Thranes wrote both of how to gather, as well as how to consume. He could harvest …

But then he thought of Master Keiftal, and of all those the old master had once called friends, now trapped within the extradimensional torment of the Sphere of Xoriat. Those who’d shared his trials, his training, those who’d called the monastery their home. And he knew that no matter how horrid their current state, he could not abide their essence feeding the megalomania of this egocentric gnome, or anyone else who would be a god.

Praxle sniffed deeply, devouring another tormented consciousness. His fingers tried to stop the petals of the black rose from closing, but the scarab plates squirmed in his grasp. “This is just so slow,” he grumbled.

“That’s because I burned about eight pages of notes,” said Teron.

“You what?” shrieked Praxle. “How could you—”

“I blocked your path, Praxle,” he said, “and I will not walk it.”

“The dragon calls us, dares us to challenge it, and you’re turning your back?” Praxle snorted derisively, “You’re no warrior, monk. You’re a coward. You don’t deserve the dragon’s blood.”

“I cannot join you, Praxle, nor can I allow you to continue this,” said Teron.

“Fine,” said Praxle. He rotated the Sphere and began manipulating its pieces in a different manner. “I’ll consume your soul, too. That should save me a little time.”

Teron jumped up into the air and kicked at the table with all his force. The heavy table slid across the carpet. Though it did not move as far as Teron hoped, it was enough to throw Praxle off balance and slide him away from the Sphere, which remained in place.

Teron moved in the opposite direction and landed on his side by the wall of the carriage. He jumped back to his feet and saw Praxle crawling rapidly back to the Sphere, a fierce hatred in his newly reptilian eyes. Behind him, Jeffers reached out, grabbed the gnome’s ankles, and pulled him away. Surprise and accusation filled Praxle’s eyes as he stared malevolently at Teron, then the gnome grinned. Electrical bolts flared all about his body, wreathing him as they did the lightning rail’s harness coach, Jeffers yelled in pain and released Praxle’s ankles, and the sorcerer crawled up to the Sphere.

Teron snapped his arm like a whip, forcing energy to his fist. It spat out of his palm, but he closed his iron fist around it before it could escape. He leapt forward, windmilling his arm down to slam on the tabletop. He struck the table squarely on the centerline, and the arcane concussion split the massive table in half. It fell, taking Praxle with it. The Sphere remained in place, hovering just three feet off the floor.

With a primal roar, Praxle fired a bolt of raw arcane power at Teron. The monk dived to the side, and the blast took him across the back, charring his vest and blistering his skin. Teron rolled through the dive and ended up at one end of the sundered table. Praxle stood as well, feet awkwardly straddling the uneven table halves. With an immense surge, Teron grabbed the underside of the end of the table, where the cross bracing kept the legs from splaying, and heaved. He managed to lever the sundered end of the table a few inches off the ground, putting Praxle off balance again. The gnome fell, and Teron released his grip. The heavy table fell back to the floor, trapping Praxle’s left hand beneath it and thrusting shards of shattered wood through the sorcerer’s wrist. Praxle cried out in anger and pain.

With a growl of determination, Praxle placed his hand on the tabletop just above his mangled wrist. An explosion shattered the table, sending wooden shrapnel through the interior of the carriage. Teron felt several pieces cut into his skin as they flew past. Praxle rolled away from the table and around to the far side from Teron.

The monk forced his energy to his hands, but instead of catching the power in his fist as before, he clapped his hands together. He spun his palms until his fingers pointed in opposite directions, and then he ran his hands up to his elbows, simultaneously encasing each of his forearms in a sheath of raw energy.

Praxle stood, his injured left hand held tightly to his breast. He brought his right hand across his chest and back, then flung it backhand at the monk. A wad of fire snapped free from his fingers and flew at Teron. Praxle snapped his hand twice more, following the missile closely with a wad of pure acid and one of supercooled water. Teron blocked the fire bolt with his arm, extinguishing it. A rising block at the acid missile deflected it to the roof of the carriage, and it spattered about, eating away at the wooden paneling.

The bolts had come too fast, and Teron was barely able to duck out of the way of the third, which flew past his shoulder and into one of the large picture windows in the carriage, shattering it. Immediately noise and wind filled the carriage, loose Thrane notes flying about in the cacophony.

Praxle ducked around the corner of the table and out of sight. Teron knew his only advantage was to press the attack, using his physical training to prevent the gnome from employing his magical training, so he charged around the end of the table, arms raised defensively.

There was no one there.

Invisible! Teron jumped straight up, twisting in midair to remove his body from the target zone. As he rotated in the air, he saw a blast of flame gush forth from beneath the table, roasting the area where he’d stood a breath before. He slid down the sloped tabletop and landed on Jeffers, who was crawling toward the Sphere, one hand reaching out for the relic.

“No!” yelled Teron. He kicked Jeffers in the side of the head to stun him then rolled off the table and grabbed the smothering cloth. He flipped the cloth once to spread it out, just as Praxle stuck his hand out from beneath the table’s end and shot a blast of lightning at him. The attack caught the cloth squarely. The cloth absorbed much of the bolt’s magic, but enough electrical power remained to leave a large smoking char mark on it.

Teron flipped the smoldering sheet over the Sphere, concealing it from casual sight. Then he saw Praxle peek out from behind his cover to check on the effects of the lightning. The gnome ducked back. Quick as a cat, Teron charged the empty space beneath the end of the table, intent on killing the gnome at close quarters.

As he dived through the gap between the broken tabletop and the floor, Teron saw Praxle readying a wand. He struck with his elbow at Praxle’s throat, but his arm passed through the illusion and glanced off the underside of the table.

He looked up and saw the gnome across the room, cocking his fist for a punch. Praxle punched at the air, and Teron had just enough time to raise his arms defensively before he got struck by a massive shockwave. He tumbled backward and slammed painfully into the table leg at the far end.

Teron rose to his feet and charged Praxle. The gnome still held his left arm protectively but wove a spell rapidly with his right. Teron jumped high into the air and tucked into a forward flip as Praxle extended his arm and launched a flight of baleful red spheres.

As he came down, Teron’s excellent training allowed him to grab Praxle’s extended arm with one hand. He turned his wrist around to lock Praxle’s joints, then met the gnome’s evil gaze. With his other hand he broke the gnome’s index finger, then …

“Look out!” called Jeffers.

A flight of violent red spheres slammed into Teron’s back, sending blasts of malevolent energy shuddering through his body and throwing him to the floor. He managed to break Praxle’s middle finger before the gnome yanked his hand free.

Teron fought off the pain and got back up to his knees. He raised one hand to guard while the other steadied him against the wall. Praxle had run back toward where the Sphere of Xoriat hung in the air, its charred shroud fluttering in the winds from the shattered window. He studied his injured hands, one crushed and bloody, the other with broken fingers hanging awkwardly. “Think I’m finished, do you?” he said, glowering at Teron.

Grimacing in pain, Teron stood.

The gnome turned and drew his dagger with the remaining good fingers on his right hand. He aimed the butt end at Teron, and lightning shot out, turning Teron’s whole world white.

Pain wracked the Aundairian’s body, overwhelming his training and discipline. He screamed as the energy coursed up and down his body, dragging jagged razors along his nerves.

The wave of anguish passed. Teron forced his brain to stay awake, straining against the massive weight that threatened to press him into unconsciousness. He slowly rolled back to his hands and knees, mouth hanging open, head aching like it was fit to burst. His chest trembled so hard that he could barely draw breath.

He saw Praxle step closer, dagger held ready to fire another blast of energy and send Teron to the afterlife. Teron slowly pulled one foot underneath him, intent on dying on his feet.

Jeffers intervened. “A moment, master,” he said, approaching Praxle with his hands out, “Think of what you’re contemplating. If you slay him with that, you’ll forfeit his soul, will you not? Would you not prefer to draw him into the Orb of Xoriat, to take full advantage of the situation, master?”

A flash of sanity crossed Praxle’s eyes. “Of course, thank you, Jeffers,” he said, and turned to look at the Sphere hanging in the air, “Well, then. Fetch that for me.”

In the blink of an eye, Jeffers snapped his hands together, striking Praxle’s outstretched right hand. The magical dagger flew from his grasp and imbedded itself in the wall. Then the half-orc grabbed the gnome’s small body in his burly arms and, with a yell, charged across the carriage.

Praxle shrieked in terror. He clamped his injured hands on each side of the half-orc’s head, gouging his eyes and pumping raw arcane energy into Jeffers’ skull. Jeffers roared, grappling the gnome tightly and squeezing his torso in a bear hug, Jeffers slammed into the wall of the carriage, bouncing blindly.

Teron realized that Jeffers was searching for the shattered window, but blinded and wounded, he might not last long enough to find it. Drawing on the very last of his energy, Teron stumbled across the ruined carriage. He grabbed Jeffers by the tunic and used his weight to swing the two of them around, Jeffers did not resist, and Teron pulled them to the open window. Jeffers’ knees slammed into the wall, and momentum carried master and servant out the window into the stormy night. A bolt of lightning and a blast of wind punctuated the evening.

Teron sagged against the wall.

Across the way, the Sphere’s shroud billowed in the wind, making it look like it was dancing.

Teron awakened to the sensation of the lightning rail slowing as it neared Starilaskur. The Sphere had moved to the opposite side of the carriage and lay on the floor. It took him a minute to figure out that the weight of the smothering cloth had dragged the Sphere slowly down, while the lightning rail’s curving course had probably moved it from side to side several times.

Teron rose slowly, his entire body aching. He gathered up the Sphere and its cloth, and wrapped the relic up securely before placing it back in the leather bag. He gathered up what few pages of the Thrane notes remained in the cabin and burned them. Then he searched the carriage for anything of value, but since they’d abandoned what luggage they’d had when the Cyrans stormed their room in Flamekeep, he found nothing of note.

Other than the dagger.

Pulling it from the wall, he thought of Jeffers and his sudden, if sensible, change of loyalty. He wondered what chance the half-orc had of surviving the fall and the crazed gnome. He looked at the map on the wall and decided that the chance was nil. Falling from the lightning rail, an untrained person like Jeffers would certainly suffer injury, and in this portion of Breland hospitalers were few and far between. He might bleed to death, he might get savaged by wolves, but the chances of him making it to a town were slim at best.

Teron mused that the same applied to Praxle, as well, or at least so he hoped. It was possible that the gnome had been shielded from the impact by Jeffers’ larger body, or that Praxle cast a spell at the last second to save himself. And if that were the case, the gnome would stop at nothing to recover the Orb of Xoriat. How long would it take him to find his way back to the monastery?

Teron scrutinized the map. He found the scale printed in one corner and, using a joint of his finger to mark off distances, did his best to estimate. He knuckled his way from Starilaskur to Vathirond: roughly 300 miles. He then did a rough estimate of how much time had passed before their fight, coming up with a guess that about two-thirds of that leg of the trip had passed. That left roughly one hundred miles. If Praxle survived the fall in good shape and went west instead of east, he’d reach Starilaskur in five to ten days, depending on how hard he could march.

Teron cleared the halves of the heavy table from the center of the carriage and began to stretch on the floor.

Five to ten days, he thought. Assuming he still lives, that’s all the lead I have. But what shall I do with that time? Teron considered his options, trying to cover all possibilities.

I could run. But if I run, it’s only a matter of time before Praxle or one of his associates finds me; the gnomes have eyes and ears everywhere. And they will corner me in a place of their choosing, with forces of their choosing, and they shall have the Sphere.

I could fight. I might win and kill Praxle, but even if I do, it’s entirely probable that another gnome would pick up the trail, and then I’m back to the original choices. And if I lose the fight …

But at least, if I fight, I can choose the battlefield, position myself to my best advantage. Which would be at the monastery; that’s where my knowledge is best and where I have the greatest number of trustworthy allies. The ground is broken and the monastery shattered so it affords a great number of places for ambuscades and traps.

What other choices are there? I suppose I could abrogate my responsibility, return the Sphere to Prelate Quardov, and leave it to him to determine its disposition. Teron paused in his stretching to snicker.

If only there were a way to destroy it, he thought. Remove it forever from the reach of Praxle, and others like him.

Once more he paused in his stretching. Dol Arrah, he prayed, let the gnome be dead. Let what I do here be wasted time and effort. Let the Sphere never again fall into his hands, or into the hands of anyone like him.

Any prayer I’ve raised that wished for my own death, he added, let this prayer supercede it.

Shortly before sundown, the lightning rail pulled into Starilaskur. As it slowed, Teron took his satchel, Praxle’s dagger, some leftover food, and the bag containing the Sphere and jumped out of the sundered window. The abnormal inertia of the Sphere yielded him a soft landing.

He glided into the drizzle, leaving the ruined carriage behind, empty of people, empty of answers.

Hoping to avoid detection, he passed the night resting in the shadows, for the most part quietly. A footpad tried to take advantage of a lone, unarmed man sitting in an alley, and instead received a lesson in how short life could be.

Well after sunrise, Teron located someone to buy the enchanted dagger and bought himself a hot bath, two days’ worth of food, and passage on the lightning rail to Ghalt. He opted for a private cabin; he intended to stay awake for the entire trip back to the monastery. He had no intention of leaving the Sphere of Xoriat unguarded even for a moment; at best he would allow himself to fall into a light meditative trance from which he could easily awaken.

The days passed slowly for Teron, trapped within a cell consisting of a bunk and a writing table. He tried to spend time in meditation, but every time he did, he heard the faint echoes of screams in the back of his mind, lingering remnants of those whose souls he had unwittingly devoured. Instead, he spent long hours staring out the window of his cabin, watching the world pass by and wondering what had become of Flotsam. Every so often Kelcie’s eyes would haunt his thoughts, but he drove her memory away by reliving her betrayal.

The rail cut through the more fertile portion of Breland, then turned north toward Aundair, skirting Lake Brey. Then at last it crossed into Aundair, and Teron dared breathe a sigh of relief.

The sky was dark as Teron debarked the lightning rail. He hitched the leather bag and its recalcitrant occupant under his arm, and began the long walk back to the Monastery of Pastoral Solitude. Part of his mind was aware that the weather was fine, with cool air and a clear sky, but the weight under his arm did not allow him to enjoy it.

He walked through the night and into the next day. He arrived at the monastery well after dark, thankful that the darkness had saved his eyes from having to see the vile red tinge of the Crying Fields. With a weary, satisfied sigh, he crossed the threshold of the Gallery and started to meander down to his small room.

Just as Teron passed the door to Keiftal’s room, the aging master burst out, wild-eyed and frantic.

“What is it, my boy?” he yelled, the loudness distorting his nasal tone. “What’s happening?”

Exhausted and startled, Teron whipped around, expecting to see a wave of gnomes pursuing him. “What? Where?” he asked.

Keiftal grabbed Teron’s shoulders and spun him around face to face. “What’s happening? Where’s that coming from?”

“Where’s what coming from?” asked Teron, edgy and confused.

“The screaming!” said Keiftal urgently. “I hear screaming, hundreds of voices, thousands …”

Teron’s brow furrowed, and one hand flew to the black leather bag. He pulled himself out of Keiftal’s grip and took a step back from the aging master. “I don’t hear anything,” he said warily.

Keiftal’s eye dropped to the bag held protectively beneath Teron’s arm, and his eyes went wide. “You have it?” he gasped, his eyes bugging out. He began to tremble. “The screaming, they’re all begging …”

“What’s going on, master?” asked Teron.

Keiftal stopped his rambling. “You can’t hear them?”

“Hear who? Hear what?”

Keiftal put his hands to his ears. “The cries of the monks, the Thranes, the cries of people being devoured by madness …”

Teron pushed the bag down to the floor, and took his master’s hand and led him away, down the hall. “I don’t hear any screaming, master,” he said, keeping one eye on the unattended bag. He ushered Keiftal around a corner, out of sight of the leather satchel. “Well, not much screaming, anyway.”

The elder monk wagged his head. “I never thought that my prayer would be such a curse,” he said.

“What do you mean, master?” asked Teron, “I don’t understand you.”

“My son,” said Keiftal with a loud, trembling, brassy voice, “I can hear the screams of those devoured by that foul device all those years ago. I can hear them clear as a bell. For years I have prayed to Dol Arrah to let me hear something, anything, and now this …”

“What?”

“I’ve been completely deaf since the day the Thranes first opened the Sphere. The last thing I ever heard was the cries of the armies as the Great Maw drew them in. I haven’t heard a single sound since. Not the crows as they ate the dead, not the prayers of my brothers and sisters, nothing. Not until just now. I can still hear their final screams.

“My boy, that thing is evil. We have hidden it for years, but now it has been found.” He poked Teron in the chest and said, “We trained you to destroy. I tell you now, you must destroy that thing.”

“But how?”

“Find a way. For the sake of the world, find a way.”

Under Keiftal’s direction, a rotating guard was set up to watch over the Orb of Xoriat. When he was not standing guard, Teron thought on Praxle’s words. Patterns. Patterns too complex for the human mind.

Why was it that the Crying Fields existed the way they did? Why did the ghosts of those dead manifest in the Crying Fields when the moon for which the month was named waxed full? The monks of the monastery had debated those questions for many years.

Some just dismissed the phenomenon as the result of magic, but Teron had always felt that that argument had been flippant at best. It was not understandable, therefore it was magic, because magic was incomprehensible. Yet Praxle’s words had implied that even magic operated by patterns, and the fact that people across Khorvaire could cast spells indicated that patterns of magic could be understood and applied.

Other believed the occurrences were part of a rhythmic cycle that was very complex. A pattern of days and hours between manifestations that defied formulae; something predictable if not comprehensible. Yet the chance of such an equation randomly matching the cycle of moons and the calendar was infinitesimal.

Then it struck Teron: such answers looked on the alignment of the moons as a coincidence, or a marker. But what if the moons were themselves the cause? What if the manifestation in the Crying Fields occurred because of the moons, when the moons and the sun and Eberron itself all aligned into a pattern too large to be seen from the surface of the world? Was this a part of the prophecy that the dragons spoke of?

Then he started seeing other patterns, how his road had taken him on a large circle across Khorvaire. How he began pursing Praxle, then joined with him, then split from him, only to have Praxle—and he must assume the gnome was alive—pursuing him. How he easily outfought Jeffers at their first meeting to get to Praxle, then saved his life from the fire elemental, then Jeffers saved Teron’s life from a lightning bolt, then Jeffers outfought Teron at the end to take Praxle away.

“I don’t believe it,” Teron muttered. “I’m starting to think like the damnable gnome.” He snorted. “Maybe that Sphere is affecting me more than I thought.”

But still, every night he stepped outside to watch the moons, Nymm, Therendor, Eyre and Aryth raced closer and closer to the full.

And he wondered where the pattern would end.