The Orb of Xoriat

Prologue

How sad, thought Keiftal, rubbing his stubbly chin, that such a beautiful sunrise should herald the end of this monastery.

He looked out at the open fields of the Galtaise Gap. The dawning sun shone upon a sea of steel. After almost two weeks of waiting, the Thrane army was ready for an attack upon the monastery, intent on wiping out Keiftal and his fellow monks. The red eastern sky glinted off the helmets of thousands of Thrane troops, making it seem as if the lush green fields ran with blood. Huge siege engines stood as stark silhouettes against the east.

In a sense, it was beautiful. The Thrane army was arranged in a rigid structure, a pattern of death and destruction, an orderly arrangement intended to cause chaos.

Keiftal rang the bell, raising the alarm, calling the monks forth to battle, even though he knew it was pointless. Against these odds, the monks would hardly acquit themselves well. If they awaited the foe, flying boulders and firebombs would destroy them as they stood, yet if they charged unarmored through a rain of arrows to face a hedge of spears, their strength would be wasted. The only victory they could win would be to remain true to their sacred vows.

“Dol Arrah,” he prayed, “Radiant Mistress of Honor, you know I had hoped someday to merit the title of Master in your service. I do not ask for special dispensation for myself, but if it be your will, please spare your monastery this day and allow us to continue to serve you as we have done for nigh two thousand years.”

The Thrane army was almost fully ordered. Keiftal estimated that the battle would begin in less than an hour. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.

The Grand Master stepped up beside him. “Any sign of reinforcements?” he asked.

“None at all, master,” said Keiftal. “I don’t understand. The Prelate knew they were marching. We sent word when the Thranes moved, and he vowed to send reinforcements. Without them, the monastery will be destroyed.”

“We serve Dol Arrah,” said the Grand Master. “Trust in her to deliver us.”

“I trusted in her servant the Prelate to deliver reinforcements,” Keiftal said.

Time passed as each side performed their rituals. The monks of the monastery gathered outside, stretched and meditated, each moving in his individual rite, all preparing to acquit themselves well on their last day. The Thranes stood in unison, a rigid organic whole as their officers exhorted them to their duty.

The Grand Master ordered the monks forward with a wave that struck Keiftal as a gesture of resignation. They closed on the Thranes, loosely ordered to present a poor target for archers and trebuchets. It was a long walk to the Thrane lines, but by the time they arrived, they would be warmed up, while the Thranes would be stiff from standing still.

Then Keiftal heard a voice. Run, it whispered.

He stuttered his step, slowing. Run, the voice repeated. Airy, feminine, commanding. Keiftal felt fear rising in his heart. He stopped, his pulse racing, his breath fast and shallow. He looked around.

The voice spoke once more. Run, it insisted. It’s here.

Keiftal staggered back, seized by trepidation. He looked about for a threat and found none.

Blinking rapidly, he found himself back at the monastery with one trembling hand seeking stability against a solid wooden pillar. He had only a vague panicked memory of retreating that far. He saw his fellow monks marching toward the Thrane lines. He looked once more at the invading forces, and then, on the horizon near the enemy camp, he saw something.

His eye was drawn inexorably toward it, even though he didn’t know what it was. He saw a flash of black, a burst of darkness fierce and stark against the rising sun.

And he felt a great depraved eye opening to gaze upon the land, a vast snarling mouth yawning to swallow the world. Already hovering on the brink of panic, Keiftal averted his eyes and dived behind the pillar.

He hunkered like a child, knees drawn tight, eyes crushed closed as an otherworldly maelstrom wracked the battlefield. He covered his ears and shrieked, but he could not block out the horrid sounds that resounded in the dawn.

As he passed out, the last thing he heard was the screams of the lost.