“I need to reach Flamekeep and acquire the Thrane mages’ notes before the others do. If I don’t … then the Cyrans will have both the Orb of Xoriat and the knowledge to use it, yet lack any reason to stay their hand.” Praxle thumped his fist on the table. “This means I have to move fast and alone. It’s not my preferred method, but it will have to suffice. I dare not wait for reinforcements.”
“As ever, master, I am more than delighted to provide any assistance I can,” said Jeffers as he refilled Praxle’s water. “Especially if it means that we can obviate another singular cataclysm such as the disaster that befell the area around that monastery.”
Praxle looked at the half-orc with hooded eyes. “Your job, Jeffers, is to keep me alive and comfortable. Thus far, you’ve proven to be quite effective at the first and reasonably good at the second, recent events notwithstanding. So long as that remains true, I can see no other duties more valuable than your current tasks.”
“As you wish, master,” said the half-orc with a slight smile.
The coaches lurched as the lightning rail began its deceleration heading into the Starpeaks River Valley. Oargesha nudged a toe to wake the Shadow Fox, who’d been sound asleep with her head leaning against the window for the last fifty miles.
The Fox stirred and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “I’ll be glad when we get to Flamekeep,” she said. “This whole trip is very discomfiting.”
“Your heart and mine,” said Oargesha. “I wish we still had the others with us.” She swallowed hard. “I keep seeing their faces, hearing … do you think there’s any chance Roon made it out?”
The Fox looked Oargesha square in the face but said nothing.
“I know,” said Oargesha glumly. “I knew that. But I still have hope, right? I saw Grameste get … well, I saw Grameste. So I know she’s dead. And Rander … well, he got it first. But I still can’t help but wonder if maybe Roon beat that … that monk, or whatever he was and made it out after we’d left. Do you understand? I just can’t help but wonder. I mean, maybe he beat him, but say his leg was badly hurt, and …”
The Fox shook her head ever so slightly.
Oargesha broke eye contact and looked out the window, her eyes welling with tears. “Well,” she said, “at least they’re not trapped behind the mist.”
The Fox chose to say nothing. Instead, she opened the window, letting the chill northern air blow through her hair and bring a flush of red to her cheeks. She looked out at the countryside as the lightning rail continued to decelerate. Here the line followed the Aundair River on its winding course through the Starpeaks, and she looked out on fertile river-valley fields dotted with farms and paddocks. On the far side of the river, there was another narrow band of farmland, and then the Starpeaks thrust out of the ground, steep, rugged evergreen-encrusted mountains capped with remnants of snow. “We’ll be crossing the border soon,” she said. “Now’s as good a time to pray as any, Oargesha.”
Oargesha started to bow her head, then paused. “Aren’t you going to pray, Fox?”
Without turning her head, she answered, “Given the life I’ve been leading lately, I’m more than a little concerned about which god would answer.”
Oargesha murmured a series of supplications under her breath as the Fox watched the countryside roll by.
In this corner of Aundair, close to the Thrane border, the marks of the War became more and more prominent. They passed through the ashen wreckage of a small rural village, ruins so old that sizable trees had grown up within the empty frames of houses, only to be burned themselves when war swept through a second time. Now dead stalks of wood, bleached white like skeletal hands, clawed at the sky among overgrown squares where an entire community once had lived its collective life.
Closer to the border lay fieldworks, long barricades of earth and wood that once had protected the defenders of the realm from the incessant attacks by Thrane armies and Karrnathi undead. Fronted by trenches filled with long stakes and supported by towers equipped with ballistae, the fieldworks showed signs of breaches and reconstruction. They stretched across the river bottom and even up onto the lower parts of the mountains, a livid scar that demarked the hostility that yet remained between the nations.
The Fox saw other, less obvious marks, as well—veteran soldiers missing limbs, wrecked wagons and carts abandoned by the sides of overused country lanes, reckless holes torn or blasted through centuries-old hedges, rotting structures where a command post once stood in the middle of a fertile field.
The lightning rail slowed further, and for a moment the Shadow Fox considered jumping out the window with the black globe and trying to sneak across the border on foot. Then she noticed a blue-tabarded longbowman across the grassy field, scanning the passing caravan for any such questionable activity. A few score yards farther on and she saw a second guard and then a third.
The Fox placed a hand on Oargesha’s head. “This doesn’t look good,” she said. “I’d say your prayers aren’t being answered.”
“Patience,” was all Oargesha said in response.
The sun set behind the curve of the mountains. The land lay in shadow, while the sky still shone brightly above. The lightning rail pulled into the border station and came to a complete stop. The border station was a small encampment for Aundairian military personnel and tax collectors. A rough-hewn boardwalk ran along the side of the rail and led to a sizeable platform near a plain, wooden office. Several barracks sat behind it, removed from direct access to the passengers, as well as a stable and a couple of buildings.
The two Cyrans looked out the window and saw well over a hundred guards with spears and halberds standing alongside the rail. Farther back, cavalry armed with longbows lurked, waiting for the opportunity to run down and pierce anyone who managed to break through the cordon. As the last of the lightning rail’s actinic flares died away, an officer of the guard blew a shrill whistle. “Everyone off,” he said. “Queen Aurala and the Church of the Sovereign Host are compelling a detailed search of papers and belongings!”
“They’re onto us,” whispered Oargesha, her voice filling with fear.
“Perhaps,” said the Shadow Fox, “but perhaps not. This may be a random stop, some newly appointed officer whipping his blundering troops through their paces just to bloat his ego. Or maybe, my dear Oargesha, this is the way things are up here at this end of the world. I’ve not taken this route before, so I don’t know, but this is the most direct path from Fairhaven to Flamekeep, and you know that relations between Aundair and Thrane are anxious at best.”
Oargesha leaned over and whispered, “So?”
“So maybe they’re looking for someone else.”
“But they may still catch us in their net. What are we going to do?”
“For one, do not cast any spells,” said the Fox. “If they have this kind of force turned out, you know there are mages, priests, familiars, and more all prowling these premises. They’ll be looking for anyone who tries a magical means of bypassing the search, just as the guards are looking for anyone who tries to sneak something past them. We need to look haggard. Don’t hold your baggage too efficiently, so it looks like more than it is. Try to give the impression of someone who wants to cooperate but is too exhausted to care much. Beyond that … Cyre’s spirit, I wish I knew. Just follow my lead. Try to keep in the thickest part of the crowd, and we’ll see what I can do.”
The two gathered their luggage and followed the flow of passengers out of the coach. They proceeded down the boardwalk, staggering and occasionally stopping to readjust their bags. Every time they did so, the Fox struggled with starting or stopping, as the black globe continued to demonstrate a mind of its own with regard to motion.