The Orb of Xoriat
Edward Bolme
For my wife, who had, at best, the vaguest idea what she was getting into.
You are the greatest.
Thanks go to a number of people for this book: my wife, for holding the family together when everything else was falling apart; Mark Sehestedt, for working with me above and beyond the call of duty to make this happen; and everyone involved in making Eberron a reality, for giving me—and you—a new sandbox to play in.
Map by Dennis Kauth
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.
1
Shadows of the Last War
Teron walked across the blood-hued grass as the last sliver of the sun began to sink below the horizon. Although he was light of frame and stood on the shorter end of average, his tightly packed muscles gave him weight. His short-cropped black hair and beard framed a face taut with tension and a pair of blue eyes as cold and dead as a hanging convict. His skin, the color of oiled walnut, blended with the well-washed gray of his simple canvas outfit.
Although he walked with a cat’s gentle step, in this area he felt as stealthy as a drunken orc. The grass creaked beneath his bare feet. It was not the brittle crunch of dead vegetation, but still a far cry from the whispery rustle of healthy growth. Too much had happened here for the ground to ever be whole again.
The rolling grassy plains held little resemblance to the rest of Aundair. Even those Aundairian towns that had been utterly razed by the Thrane army were fairer in comparison. The grass of the Crying Fields bore an unhealthy red hue. Under the light of the setting sun, it seemed the color of fresh blood. The tone stood as a reminder of the cost of the Last War, of the countless dead in the dozens of battles that had been fought here for the control of the southern portion of the kingdom.
As Teron walked the ruined meadows, he paced a familiar cerebral landscape, a drear and brooding path of mental flagellation. He hearkened back to the Last War, and the guilt and pain and shame whipped his soul, serving to purge and purify his mind.
So much blood shed, he thought, with every nation locked in a brutal struggle for dominance. So much carnage spread over so many decades, yet for all the brutalities, only the Crying Fields bear this terrible scar … a cold reminder of how far we have fallen from grace. The Sovereign Host has cursed us for what we are. For what we have done, they have cursed this place above all the lands.
Rather, he reminded himself, taking a rare side excursion in his dark thoughts, this place was cursed above all lands save Cyre. Then again, Cyre has the advantage of being truly and completely dead. Ah, to be dead instead of merely scarred, twisted into a dark revenant of the Last War. Ruined by one’s choices. Ruined, like the monastery, and forever doomed to lurk in this blighted land, fighting the old battles, again and again.
Mists twined around his ankles as he walked. At first, the mists merely swirled in the wake of his stride, but as the night deepened they began to writhe of their own accord, manifesting from nothing and rising like sinister serpents to tarnish the darkness.
Somewhere, an indeterminate distance away, Teron heard a wail. He couldn’t tell if it was several voices crying out in unison or one voice shredded into strips. After a few steps, the sound was followed by a faint howl of triumph.
Teron glanced up at the moons. Several were below the horizon, the rest spread across the luminous Ring of Siberys like tokens on a shaman’s necklace. Sedate Olarune lingered on the horizon, waxed full, pregnant with power. Her pale orange color seemed to mock the sun. Slow-moving Vult hung almost directly overhead, while splinters of Sypheros and Barrakas lurked in the moody hues of the sunset.