He placed his hand on the shoulder of his compatriot. “You stay with the gnome,” he said. He strode across the platform. “Stay with him,” he said to the guard with Jeffers.
He broke into a trot after Teron.
“Hold up there,” said the guard as he closed.
The human in the peasant shirt did not slow down, although the cat jumped off his shoulder and scrambled away.
“You there, halt now!” barked the soldier.
The human stopped and slowly turned around.
The guard quickly peeked over his shoulder. His sergeant and one comrade were speaking to the gnome, the other had the half-orc bowing submissively and proffering his papers. Yet somehow he was nervous approaching this one, even if the traveler was unarmed, unarmored, and a good six inches shorter than he.
“Papers. Now,” demanded the guard.
Without any acknowledgment, the young man pulled a very plain leather fold from his satchel and handed it to the guard.
The guard inspected the papers. “From Aundair, huh?” he asked. “Heard there was some trouble on the other side of the border. Heard some of you folks were in irons. Is Queen Aurala throwing out her garbage across our border? What crime did you commit,”—he glanced at the papers—“Tuh-rone?”
“It’s Tehr-ron,” said the man.
“Mind your mouth, Aundairian, if you like all your teeth.” The guard looked Teron up and down. “Did you fight in the War, t’Rone? Huh?”
“Why? Afraid I killed someone you knew?”
“I’m not afraid of any Aundairian. Answer the question.”
“I was not in the army, no,” said Teron. He readdressed his body so that he faced the guard squarely. He steepled his fingertips together and raised his hands to his solar plexus.
“Look me in the eye, Aundairian!” barked the guard.
Teron looked up and the guard took an involuntary step back.
“All right, Aundairian dog,” said the guard as he leveled his spear, “you’re going with me to see the captain. Don’t try anything you might regret.”
“It’s far too late for that,” whispered Teron.
The guard nervously shifted his grip on the spear, then let out a tense breath as he heard his sergeant trot up beside him.
“Trouble, soldier?”
“Aye, sergeant. This Aundairian’s got trouble written all over him,” said the guard. “I think he fought in the Last War. He’s got a killer’s look about him.”
“I was in the Last War myself, soldier,” said the sergeant. “But last I heard, that war is over.”
“That still doesn’t mean I want Aundairian soldiers prowling our countryside, sergeant. Just look at him. He’s all tensed up, like a lurker ready to spring.”
The sergeant crossed his arms. “And look at you, soldier. You’ve got your spear leveled at someone for a routine check of papers. He’s unarmed.”
“That’s right, sergeant,” stammered the guard. “I think he’s one of those monk warriors.”
The sergeant stiffened and looked at Teron anew. He saw the balanced stance, the poised hands, the dead eyes. “I think you may be right,” he said slowly. “The Monastery of … Provincial … oh, what was it?” He thought for a moment, trying to remember. “No matter,” he said suddenly. “I remember the gold altar that my regiment plundered from it well enough.” He smirked. “Do you want to know whether or not this is one of those monks, soldier?”
“Well, yes and no, sergeant, I heard they were pretty treacherous.”
“True enough, but my regiment did all right.” The sergeant drew his swords and smiled mockingly. “Let’s find out, shall we? Repeat after me, Aundairian. ‘Dol Arrah is a rancid whore. All praise the Silver Flame.’”
Teron’s eyes flared, then he snarled, “Dol Arrah is a rancid whore.” He paused, then added, “All praise the Silver Flame,” with a rather confused expression on his face.
The sergeant pushed out his lower lip in frank amazement. “I guess you were wrong,” he said, “Now quit being so skittish and give the man his papers.”
“What do you mean?” asked the guard, still edgy.
The sergeant leaned close and said, “Over the course of the Last War, our inquisitors were able to bring the light to a number of Aundairian captives. But despite their best efforts, they never succeeded in coaxing a single monk from the Monastery of the Provincial Whatever into saying the least positive token about the Silver Flame.” He shrugged. “Just part of their vows or something. Let him go,” he added with a yawn. “He’s no monk. He’s nothing more than a street tough. This is all just an angry goblin gambler getting some petty revenge.”
The soldier tossed Teron’s leather fold back to him and walked away warily.
“Hold on there—what’s this?” asked Praxle under his breath. He nodded his head to a woman who sat by herself on the platform, a look of entranced horror on her face.
Jeffers stepped over and kneeled in front of her. He noticed papers in her lap, and inspected them. “Three different identities. Neshryk of Darguun, Oargesha of Cyre, and—”
“Oargesha?” said Teron. “That was one of the people I fought in the catacombs.”
“And you let her get away?” goaded Praxle.
“One of them stayed to slow me down while the other two fled,” explained Teron. “They got away. He didn’t.”
“So whatever has happened to her?” asked Jeffers.
“Perhaps she toyed with the Sphere,” offered Teron.
“She sure has the face of one who did,” said Praxle, and chuckled. Intrigued, he placed his palm against her forehead, intending to set her to rocking, but as his hand touched her skin, he gasped and pulled his arm back as if bitten. He cocked his head, curious, and studied the woman more closely.
Praxle felt for Oargesha’s pulse. Then he pulled out his timepiece and held the polished golden ring up to Oargesha’s mouth, shaking his head. “She’s definitely dealt with the Orb of Xoriat,” he said hollowly.
“I guess this proves we’re still on the right trail,” observed Teron.
“Judging by her state,” said Jeffers, “I’m uncertain whether or not ‘right’ ought be applied to this situation.”
Daskaran Ferry was little more than a service hamlet built alongside the venerable chain of conductor stones that marked the lightning rail’s route through northern Thrane. Aside from the platform and office, Daskaran Ferry boasted merely two stores that sold a variety of durable goods, three purveyors of fresh-cooked and/or preserved foods (those sold by the kobolds being of highly questionable quality), a cheap lodge, and the ferry for which the tiny hamlet was named.
A few miles upstream, the Aundair River flowed into a finger of Scions Sound, a writhing hydra of a saltwater inlet that, among other things, separated Thrane from her enemies to the east: Karrnath and Cyre. The ferry had been the only means to cross the sound since Karrnathi sappers destroyed the arching span of the Trader’s Bridge during the Last War. The ferry operated under the auspices of the Thrane government, providing free passage in hopes of improving trade and travel through the area.
Teron, Praxle, and Jeffers walked down the packed-dirt slope to the ferry’s marginal dock. The sun, peering through the dissipating clouds, continued its descent to the horizon, a hazy and colorful display that cast a rich orange hue over everything.
“All right, Praxle,” asked Teron, “what was that?”
The threesome made it to the dock and stepped out. The heavily weathered boards creaked and flexed under their feet. Their brief detention put them among the last of the passengers to board the ferry, but no one paid them any extra attention; the aggressiveness of the Thrane soldiery was well known across Khorvaire.
“Hm?” Praxle said distractedly, inspecting the ferry as they approached.
The ferry was a large barge equipped with weatherworn wooden benches. Tarps lay bundled at the gunwales in case of rain; the barge was definitely not equipped for luxury. But most curious was the gaping circular hole cut in the center of the deck. Next to the hole was a silver paddle, looking rather like a rudder raised up on a pivot and secured out of the water. Within the hole, the sound’s salty waters roiled aggressively, even rising up to a foot in the air, yet none of it spilled out, and, despite the weight of the passengers, the barge did not sink.