The Orb of Xoriat

5 The Catacombs

Teron’s training, his rigorous indoctrination, his faith, and his instinct all told him to proceed forward alone, that to do otherwise was to rely on someone else who would prove weaker than he. Nevertheless, his intellect carried the day. He did not know whom he pursued, the threat they posed, or their intent. He had never been within the confines of the cathedral ruins. No one in the monastery went there. As near as he could tell, he was the only one in the Monastery of Pastoral Solitude who was even aware that intruders were here—and he was exhausted from his afternoon workout. He had to inform someone, even if it risked exposing his presence to whomever lurked within the debris of the cathedral.

Regret and self-reproach cursing him even as he did it, he found several fist-sized chunks of masonry and threw one as hard as he could at the main hall. He followed it with another and then a third. The rocks sailed through the air and cracked against the exterior wall, one by one.

One of the brothers of the monastery poked his head out, looking around for the source of the disturbance. Teron raised his arms over his head, crossing the forearms to form an X. Invaders. The brother clenched a fist at his shoulder. Understood. Teron held both palms up, dropped them, then raised one hand turned sideways. Unknown people. Less than ten. The brother signaled that he understood. Teron pointed his arm at the ruins of the cathedral, then swept it down. The brother clenched a fist a third time and disappeared back into the building.

Teron turned back to the ruins. He ran his fingers along the wall leading to the broken window over his head, looking for any traces or imperfections that would indicate the intruder had climbed the wall. He found none. He stooped down to the small window that led into the basement. The window had once been an iron lattice filled with small diamond-shaped panes. The lattice was badly broken and had rusted, but Teron noted that the ironwork along the bottom of the opening had been pushed flat, and some of the cracks in the rusted iron showed a sliver of shiny metal, untouched by the weather.

Teron glanced at the broken glass on the sill and the ground outside the window, then at his bare feet. He knew there was likely more broken glass inside. He prayed he could land gently enough that none of it would pierce his soles. With a shrug of resignation, he slipped through the small window and dropped noiselessly to the stone floor.

He landed in a crouch, hearing the creak of stressed glass beneath his toughened feet. He held his position for several heartbeats, listening intently and staring straight at the darkest shadow he could find. Soon his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the sunken scriptorium level of the cathedral foundation and details become clearer. He saw a rectangle of darker black—an open doorway. He glanced at the floor, the illumination given by the slanting shaft of sunlight revealed that footsteps had broken the layer of dust and ash that had lain here, undisturbed save by the occasional rodent, for so many years.

A small shadow moved at the window as Flotsam peered in and meowed.

“I don’t like it either,” whispered Teron, “I just wish I had your eyes.”

He dropped his breathing into a slow and easy cycle, the air flowing noiselessly in and out of his lungs. He moved forward in attack stance, a ready half-crouch. His feet moved gently, stepping one after the other in a rolling gait designed to provide steady pressure and thus minimize the creaking of the floorboards. His aching muscles protested the further abuse in the wake of his workout, but he ignored their warnings.

He left the room and entered the hallway beyond. The gloom deepened. He focused his eyes on nothing, knowing that his peripheral vision grew more reliable as the darkness deepened. The trail, he noted, had broadened. The dust was disturbed by the passage of multiple tracks.

I thank you, Lady, that you led me here, he prayed. I might not have been able to follow the trail otherwise.

He continued toward the center of the ruined structure and the darkness deepened. Occasional small holes in the decaying wooden flooring of the cathedral above admitted a secondary glow from the shafts of miasmic sunlight that pierced the ruined sanctuary.

As he continued slowly, he realized another reason why the interlopers chose to strike in broad daylight—at night, the light of their lanterns might be seen from afar as they explored, but in the daytime, the sunshine obliterated any such telltale glow.

The trail moved into an apse in an area so dark he could only sense its openness by the changes in the behavior of the air. He heard voices—faint, distorted. For a moment he wondered if he was hearing the agonies of the Crying Fields, almost never heard in the daylight but somehow persistent here, hidden from the sun … but after careful consideration, the timbre of the voices was not one of hate and suffering.

It’s them, he thought. I must be at a stairwell of some sort, and they on a lower level where they think their voices will go unheard.

He lowered himself to the ground. His muscles were somewhat tight from skipping the warm-down stretching after his workout, and they acceded unwillingly. He tapped around the floor with his fingers in a broadening circle and found the top stair of the descending flight. Feeling around to locate the balusters, he rose again and descended the stairs as silent as a viper, fingers lightly tracing the handrail. He felt his heart preparing to quicken, felt the sensation of adrenaline infusing into his tired, uncertain muscles. His stomach growled, sounding to him as loud as a great cats mating call. He tightened his tunic once more.

The catacomb level was carved out of the ground itself and laid with quarried slabs. The stone stairs were built in a gradual spiral wide enough to bear a coffin, pallbearers, and light-bearing acolytes, all at once. The steps were shallow and expertly placed. Teron lost his sense of direction by the time he was halfway down. However, as he reached the bottom of the stairs, he realized that he could see faint shapes in the darkness, and he knew he was getting close to the intruders and their lanterns. In this perfect darkness, even the faintest indirect light was visible.

He heard a few more words whispered among the strangers. Turning his head, he figured out which direction the sound was coming from. The quiet conversation ended, then Teron heard a grating sound as of sand and stone. He glided closer, slowly, one finger trailing along the wall to ensure his path was straight.

He heard quiet shuffling ahead, and the smothering darkness waned ever so slightly as more reflected light spilled into the hallway. His pace quickened.

At that moment, his stomach chose to make the loudest of its protestations.

He froze. So did the others.

He heard someone start to whisper, but the sound was immediately cut off by a sharp, “Tch!”

Teron held his position, although his muscles were very unhappy to freeze in a ready stance. For many long moments he stood there. The light neither rose nor faded, and the only thing Teron heard was the ringing in his ears.

Somewhere in the darkness he heard the sigh of steel gliding out of a well-oiled scabbard—then footsteps, a slow, stealthy gait born of the hunter’s confidence. He tried to use his peripheral vision to watch for motion, but his eyes were having trouble seeing anything in the unchanging darkness, and his mind was starting to imagine it saw the apparitions of the Crying Fields.

The shadows shifted, or so he thought. He tried to move his head around to discern whether or not he saw a human silhouette—

Blue eyes flashed briefly, looking like Flotsam’s eyes seen at night.

Magic! Teron lunged forward in the darkness, intent on landing the first blow, for he knew that the other, with magically augmented vision, had spotted him in the near-pitch black.

He cleared the handful of yards between him and his quarry, trailing his right hand along the wall to maintain his bearings. He hooked his left fist at the center of his foe, an unskilled blow of power and momentum rather than precision. Relying solely on sound and peripheral vision, Teron’s first blow struck wide of where he’d hoped. He felt it land a glancing blow just below the ribs. At the same time, Teron felt himself run into a partially raised blade, and the steel ripped through his tunic and across his left side, skipping along his ribs and opening skin and muscle.

Teron heard tense words, not quite shouted but filled with urgency, but he could not attend to the meaning. His concentration was consumed by his kinesthetic sense, tracking where his body was in comparison to his opponent and the walls. The wounded monk knew that the intruder had the benefit of vision, but he certainly didn’t have the same close-combat training. If he did, he wouldn’t be using a slow and awkward weapon like a longsword for interior fighting.

Teron sensed the sword rising, so he spun in close and low, his back to his foe’s chest. The right arm came down, and as the arm hit Teron’s shoulder, he hooked his right arm around the enemy’s sword arm, immobilizing it. A strike with the open left hand sent the sword clattering down the hall. He smashed the back of his head into his opponent’s nose, then stomped his left heel on the other’s foot and was rewarded by the sound of breaking bones.

Teron turned to finish the enemy off, but his speed and strength were hampered by his exhaustion, and the enemy managed to pull away from him with a howl of unbridled agony. Teron shoved him out of the way; satisfied that he was out of the combat. As he turned to face the next threat (or at least his best guess as to where the next threat would come from), he staggered slightly as his muscles protested the exertion.

He heard a voice, and then the universe turned white.

Despite his training in fighting blind, the sudden transition from pitch dark to piercing daylight had a disorienting effect on Teron. He shut his eyes, but all he could see was a glaring red afterimage. He gave ground, spinning his arms in a defensive ring, until he backed into the stone wall of the corridor. He tried to force his aching eyes back open and glimpsed a glowing object fly past him and down the hallway. There was a shadow ahead of him, lit from behind.

Then he felt an impact in his abdomen, and a burning sensation that was all too familiar—he’d been impaled. He grimaced in pain, his eyes squinting against the light. One hand ran to his side and clutched the end of a quarrel embedded in his gut. Blood welled out from the wound and soaked into his tunic and the waistband of his pants.

“We gotta go!” said a dusky voice. “Now!”

“Where’s Rander?” someone asked, half-whispering, “Rander! Where are you?”

“I’ll bet he knows,” replied a light female voice.

Teron blinked several times, and through the haze of his tortured eyesight, he saw a shadow drawing closer to him, brandishing a crossbow.

“Where’s Rander, monk?” said the shadow. “Which way did you throw him?”

“Careful, Grameste,” warned the first voice, “that monk might still be dangerous.”

Teron said nothing. He leaned against the wall, panting. He didn’t have to feign his fatigue or his pain. He tightened his grip on the quarrel that seemed to devour his side.

Grameste moved closer, then she turned her head and paused as he spied Rander and the effect of Teron’s handiwork. “Oh my—” she began, stretching her neck forward to see better.

With one smooth motion, Teron drew the quarrel from his side and speared the end of the bolt into Grameste’s head, piercing the weak spot of the skull just behind the ear. She jerked, but Teron kept his grip and followed it up by striking the pointed end of the quarrel with his other hand, driving it fully into the woman’s brain, killing her instantly. The only noise she made was a slight squeak—then a long, slow exhale as she slumped to the floor.

For a moment, stunned silence reigned.

“Sovereign bitch!” said one of the intruders, a tremor of fear in her voice.

Teron’s eyes adjusted to the light, and he stood. He saw three people left. One was a spellcaster of some sort, probably female, holding a staff aglow with magical light. The second figure he could see only partially, as it held a bulls-eye lantern focused directly at the wounded monk. The third was a male, judging by his silhouetted build.

Teron ignored the trembling in his legs, the burning sensation in his side, and the trickle of blood that worked a red trail down his trousers. He flexed his shoulders to pop a few vertebrae in his upper back, then settled into combat stance and began to advance upon the strangers. His calf tried to cramp, so he paused in his approach to stretch it out. He concealed his momentary weakness by shifting to viper stance.

The male stepped forward. He exhaled slowly, belying his tension. “I’ll take care of this wretch,” he said. “Oargesha, you and Fox take the back way out of here, just to be safe.”

“Just buy us some time, Roon, and then follow,” said the wizard. A woman. Her voice betrayed her sex.

“A few moments will be enough for us,” said the third, the one with the dusky voice, “but perhaps too much for you. I’ve heard monks can be fast. Bleed him some more, hobble him, or strike his eyes before you follow.”

“Be careful,” said the wizard.

“Aye, Oargesha,” said the rearguard.

The shadow with the lantern set it on the floor, still facing Teron, then the two intruders turned to leave, with only Roon watching their back. Unfortunately, Teron knew Roon would be enough. His exhaustion, the two wounds, the cramp that threatened to return, and the fact that they knew these catacombs gave his opponents the edge they needed.

Since he could not beat the three of them, Teron let the two go. There was no point in fighting a battle that could not be won. Instead, Teron focused his whole being on ensuring that Roon died. Narrowing his focus in this manner brought Teron a pure, almost joyous clarity. He had a purpose, it was readily attainable, and nothing else mattered.

Roon stepped closer, drawing two short swords. The left blade he held inverted, with the blade extending down his forearm, while the right he dangled behind his back.

The two faced each other for several long breaths, the only sound an occasional flick or pop from the lantern’s untrimmed wick.

He’s trained, thought Teron, as he studied Roon’s stance. Lead blade ready to block any strike and wound me in return, rear blade hidden so I won’t see a change in grip. Good stance, but not relaxed. Tense breathing. He’s trained but not experienced enough to be a master of his techniques.

Teron took a deep breath and clenched his teeth as a wave of dizziness swept over him. With time, he mused, I could find his weakness, find the slow move, but time is not a luxury I have, not bleeding the way I am.

Roon flashed forth, thrusting straight from the hip with his rear blade. Silhouetted as Roon was, the blade never entered the lamp’s light, and it took Teron a split second to see what was happening. Teron twisted his arm in a rolling block to guide the deadly point away from his vitals, but he was a little too slow and the point sheared into his arm below the shoulder. Roon followed the strike with a forehand slash, trying to draw the blade of his inverted sword across Teron’s body. Teron ducked the strike, and Roon’s fist glanced off the top of his head. Roon pulled back, and Teron felt the inner edge of the blade draw a line across his shoulder—whether by accident or design he did not know.

Teron spun and tried to hook Roon’s heels with a leg sweep, but his trembling leg made him a little too ponderous. He only caught a part of Roon’s foot, and the burglar stumbled out of range.

Teron rose, slowly and not at all in the manner in which he’d been trained.

Roon smiled, and did a taunting little shuffle step. “Looks like you’ll be meditating on nothing soon, friend,” he said.

Teron cursed himself for his lack of concentration. Roon must die, he thought. That is my purpose. He focused himself, trying to channel his energy into his aching limbs. He felt the rise of a familiar wave of nausea building in his gut.

Roon charged again, this time leading with his front weapon, a stepping forehand slash followed by a backhand thrust. Teron feinted, then dodged right. His left hand hooked upward to brace Roon’s wrist, while his right hand punched Roon squarely on the elbow. There was a flash of red and the sound of ligaments and cartilage breaking under the impact as the joint gave way. Roon yelped, and his planned combination move with his rear sword became a wild, flailing swing that carved a light cut across Teron’s chest.

“Dolurrh!” cursed Roon. He staggered back, the sword dropping from his nerveless left hand. He looked confused, fearful.

Teron leaned forward and vomited up a small wad of stomach juices before he regained command of his uneasy esophagus.

Roon’s eyes lit up with the possibility of escape.

Seeing this, Teron swallowed hard and pushed out every ounce of energy his spirit had left, forcing the power into his fists. His face contorted with rage, pain, and tormented intensity. He lunged forward, reversed his direction and feinted a kick with his left leg, then reversed again, launching a roundhouse kick with his right. It connected squarely with Roon’s thrusting sword, although between the thrust and the force of the kick, the sword’s blade opened a long, nasty gash along Teron’s shin. The monk used his momentum to spin around and, with a loud cry, he struck Roon as hard as he could with both arms, his hands molded into veritable spear points.

His strike landed true, hitting Roon just below the breast on each side. He heard a loud crack but was unsure if he had broken Roon’s ribs, his own fingers, or both.

The last thing he remembered was seeing the sweep of the lantern light as he fell to the floor.

High above the earth, a small falcon stooped to a dive, falling closer and closer to the ground and the two mounted women who awaited it. The raptor swooped out of the dive at grass level, beating its wings and rising again to land on Oargesha’s outstretched wrist.

Oargesha turned to the Shadow Fox and shook her head.

The Fox set her mouth in a grim line and exhaled, a sigh that was almost a growl of frustration. “Rander, Gramm, and Roon. This was … a very expensive excursion.”

Oargesha tried to look at the Shadow Fox, tried to meet the weight that hung in her leader’s eyes, but couldn’t. “I can’t believe you just left him like that.”

“I had to. This bag is more important than all of us. Do you understand that? If we’d stayed, maybe we’d be dead, too.”

Oargesha hung her head. “We knew following you wouldn’t be easy, Fox,” she mumbled. She cast a longing look back toward the Crying Fields. “But … oh, I don’t … Fox, what was all this for?”

The Shadow Fox looked at the heavy, black leather bag that they had stolen. Although roughly rectangular in construction, it bulged with something large and round inside. “I’m not sure,” she said.

Oargesha looked at the Fox, her chin quivering. “What do you mean, you’re not sure? Don’t you know?”

The Shadow Fox met Oargesha’s eyes. “No, I don’t. The message that we took from Roon’s elf friend didn’t say much about the Black Globe other than it was a powerful artifact with the ability to effect dramatic changes in the world.”

“You mean maybe we could use it to try to restore Cyre?”

“Possibly.” She grasped the bag’s handles, which she had draped over the saddle horn, and pulled. When she tugged on the heavy handles, the bag did not react naturally. It resisted moving as if it were extremely heavy, but when she got it moving, it gathered an inertia that defied instinct. As she hefted it up to her lap, the bag kept moving upward, and she had to wrestle it down until it sat, quiescent, in front of her.

She glanced at Oargesha. Oargesha shrugged.

The Fox tested the heavy latches that held the bag closed. “Locked,” she said. “No surprise. We’ll have to open it later. That’s probably best, anyway. If we opened it here, we’d spend our time looking at it instead of getting away.” She patted the bulging leather and then pushed the bag back down to its resting place, draped over her saddle horn. “So. We have five horses, two of us, and one Black Globe. We should be able to make good time. Barring magical intervention, we’ll make Ghalt before anyone can pass word to the authorities.”

Oargesha nodded.

The Fox paused, looking around even though there was nothing to see but red-tinged grass out here at the fringe of the Crying Fields. “Come to think of it, let’s not ride to Ghalt. It’s the nearest town, and when the pursuit starts asking questions, folks there might remember seeing two women with five horses. And I don’t know about you, but that’s where I stole mine.”

“Then where do we go?” asked Oargesha. “Hook around and make for Athandra?”

“No, that’ll take too long. No decent roads, plus we’d be spending too much time near the Monastery of Pastoral Solitude. They’ll be scouring the land east, I’m sure.” She considered her options, then made her choice. “We’ll cut north by northwest from here, skipping Ghalt altogether. Instead, we’ll find the Orien trade road and push hard straight to Lathleer. Once there, we can reappraise our situation. I’d like to switch modes of transportation if possible, and see if maybe we can get a couple of dim-witted sots to join as on the trip to Fairhaven. Once there, we’ll hook the lightning rail to Thrane.” She drummed her fingers on her saddle, nodding to herself. “I think that’s our best bet. It’s fast, and it doesn’t retrace the route we took here. There’s no way to know whether or not any of the people we lost might still have had their lightning rail passes with them.”

Oargesha fought back some tears. “Right.” She sniffed. “Let’s go.”

The Shadow Fox paused a minute before spurring her horse. “It’s hard for me, too, Oargesha. Just remember that they died for a good cause.”

Oargesha said nothing as she flicked the reins.

Praxle reclined on his thin mattress, idly practicing his cantrips as the sun crept toward the horizon. Jeffers was on the floor beside him, testing the bulls-eye lantern, trimming the wick and checking the lenses. Praxle paused in his practice when he heard footsteps approaching. “That’s odd,” he said. “Last time they only sent one to summon me.”

Jeffers looked over at Praxle, then stood and set the bulls-eye lantern on the side table. An instant later, the door rattled as someone pounded on the other side. “Praxle d’Sivis!”

“One moment,” Praxle called. “Let me finish dressing.”

He snapped his fingers and pointed Jeffers to the corner behind the door. He made some shuffling noises, then opened the door until it rested against his firmly planted foot. He made a show of adjusting his trousers.

Outside the door stood Prelate Quardov, Master Keiftal, and roughly a half-dozen monks in black. Quardov did not look happy. Each of the monks wore an absolutely blank expression.

“Well, this is unexpected,” said the gnome. “I thought I wouldn’t be summoned until the evening meal. Pray tell, what can I do for you?”

“Do not insult us by acting innocent,” said Quardov.

A flash of panic flew from Praxle’s heart to his loins, but he quickly mastered the emotion. Had his bribe to Quardov somehow backfired? Had they heard Jeffers’s whetstone? “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” he said, carefully moderating his voice for that perfect balance of respectful caution and carefree innocence. He slid his hands into his pants pockets.

Quardov smirked. “You thought these people were just a bunch of Aundairian countryside simpletons, ignorant of the duplicity that festers in the big cities. You were wrong.”

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand,” said Praxle. He pulled his left hand from his pocket. His mind raced. Did they know he’d glamered himself to appear like Quardov?

“Your visit here has proven to be more than academic,” said Quardov.

Praxle spread his arms wide—helplessly, innocently. With this gesture, his left hand was concealed from view behind the door, and he flicked a small potion to Jeffers, who stood motionless in the corner.

Obviously annoyed at Praxle’s continued protestations, the prelate stamped his foot, “You came here to steal the Thrane Sphere!” he yelled. “And by the Five Nations, you will burn for your blasphemy!”

The suddenness and ferocity of the accusation caused Praxle’s face to blanch. “What’s the—?”

“Don’t even try such a tactic with me!” bellowed Quardov, the veins bulging out beneath his pale skin. He pointed a finger atremble with ire. “Arrest him! Arrest them both!”

The black-garbed monks leaped past Quardov and into the room. Two of them seized Praxle and ratcheted his arms into joint locks. He struggled, but one of them planted a thumb at the base of his ear and pressed, bringing such pain that the gnome relented.

The other four fanned out. One of them slammed the door fully open, but the room was otherwise empty.

“Where’s your companion?” asked one of the monks.

“I sent my domestic out to collect some local flora and fauna,” said Praxle. “The university wants samples of the oddities found here.”

Quardov glided into the room. He picked up the bulls-eye lantern that Jeffers had set on the side table and held it out accusingly. One of the monks offered Quardov the newly-honed serrated sword from the luggage case. Quardov ran a finger along the edge, clucking his tongue, then pulled his hand back and rubbed the whetting oil between his fingers.

“And these?” he asked. “Are these the tools you use to collect samples of grass, Professor d’Sivis?” He handed the blade back to the monk, then placed his hand on the lens of the lantern, “And this lantern is still warm. Is it really that much of a challenge to find weeds around here?”

“I can explain,” said Praxle.

“There’s no need to explain.” Quardov gestured, and one of the monks holding Praxle pressed his thumb into the soft spot behind the gnome’s ear again.

Praxle hissed in pain.

“You come here and verify for yourself the existence of the Thrane Sphere by its effects upon this landscape,” said Quardov, casting a dark look at Keiftal. “You impersonate me by means of illusion to discover where the Sphere is secreted. Oh, yes, little gnome, that came to light once your colleagues committed their crime. Then you use your scholarly ploy to press me for details on our past so that you can learn about the catacombs. Once you have these details, you send your compatriots to recover the Sphere while you linger here playing the innocent historian.” Quardov stepped over to Praxle and bent down to look him square in the eyes. “It was a very good plot. Indeed it was. Unfortunately for you, your compatriots were spotted. I am pleased to tell you that some are dead. And now you will tell us where the rest of them went.”

Quardov stood and began to leave the room.

“But there’s nothing to tell,” protested Praxle. “We’ve been in the monastery all day!”

Quardov halted in the doorway and turned his head. “You’ve been in the monastery all day? Why, dear gnome, I thought you sent your companion out for samples.”

Praxle tried to think of an answer—any answer—but failed.