The trio walked over to the guards. “Excuse me, my good fellows,” said Praxle sweeping his hat as they drew close, his tenor voice resonating in the street, “we were hoping you could direct us to where we might be able to hire some overland transport to Flamekeep.”
One of the guards stood, scratching at his unshaven cheek. “Who’s asking?”
Praxle, ahead of Jeffers and Teron, stepped into the circle of light cast by the everbright lantern. “Praxle Arrant d’Sivis, of the University of Korranberg,” he said with a bow.
The guard straightened. “At your service, friend gnome,” he said. “You’ll want to go three more streets that way, then turn right. That’s Procession Road; you can’t miss it, it’s very wide and well cobbled. Go maybe a half mile, and you’ll see a sign pointing you toward Caravan Square. There’s caravaneers, drovers and the like looking for hirelings and passengers, House Orien has an outpost there, and such like. You should be able to find something that’ll leave in the morning.”
Jeffers and Teron stepped up beside Praxle. “Would there perchance be a representative of House Vadalis there as well?” asked Jeffers.
The guard’s answer was interrupted by one of his companions, who suddenly stood bolt upright and confronted Teron with wide, accusatory eyes. His mouth worked fiercely, but the only noise that came was an airy whisper punctuated by sharp sibilants and plosives.
“Is he ill?” asked Praxle, backing up. Jeffers stepped forward between the gnome and the apoplectic guard.
Hissing, Flotsam darted out of Teron’s arms and scooted for the protection of the wall.
The guard, seeing the confusion in the eyes of his compatriots, whipped out his sword with startling speed and, in one continuous motion, slashed at Teron’s neck. Teron leaned backward, taking a grazing slash across the cheek. He tried to back up, but his heel caught a jutting cobble and he flopped to his back.
The guard brought his sword around, up, and down, intent on splitting Teron’s belly open, but Teron used the velocity of his fall to propel him into a backward roll. The sword sparked on the street, and Teron continued his somersault to land back on his feet at a safer distance.
The guard was big, and the way the everbright lantern illuminated the sneer of hatred that smeared across his face made him seem larger still. He stepped forward with his sword extended aggressively.
Praxle and Jeffers backed up as the other guards unlimbered their various weapons. “Hold it right there,” barked one of the guards, pointing at the twosome. Jeffers paused, standing with poise and dignity as the scene unfolded. Praxle cowered somewhat less proudly close behind the large half-orc.
The guards fanned out, two warily watching Praxle and Jeffers, the other two moving to assist the guard facing Teron.
Seeing three guards facing him, Teron straightened up and tentatively raised his hands in surrender, shaking his head ever so slightly. The mute guard moved in, his face held somewhere between a grin and a snarl. He prodded Teron in the sternum with the tip of his broadsword, and the monk flashed into action. His hands, held to the side, jerked in, striking the mute guard’s sword arm and hand, and suddenly Teron, his arms crossed in an X before him, held the broadsword in his left hand. The guard looked in shock at his empty hand, then up at Teron’s calm eyes.
“Nobody move!” boomed a voice. Nine more Thrane guards stepped out of the night and into the shadowy periphery of the everbright lantern’s glow.
Frozen in position, Teron looked at them, gauging the odds. Jeffers raised his chin defiantly, but left his serrated sword sheathed, Praxle hid himself beneath the tail of Jeffers’ overcoat.
With the appearance of reinforcements, the guards’ surprise and wariness were replaced by a cold, gloating superiority. One of the guards facing Jeffers stepped in closer. “I dare you to draw now, orc-thing,” he mocked, his face so close that Jeffers turned his head.
The reinforcements spread out to surround the group, their steely arms and armor glimmering in the darkness, reflecting stray shards of light.
Teron slowly lowered his arms, still holding the sword and keeping his hands defensively crossed at the wrists.
“Well, now,” said the newly arrived officer with a dark chuckle. “It seems we have some people here who think they’re dangerous. Ludicrous, don’t you think, that they dare take on the followers of the Silver Flame?” The soldiers laughed. “You three are under arrest,” continued the officer in his bold tenor voice. “And don’t even think of resisting. You’ll find my guards to be rather more of a challenge than a group of spelunking Cyran thieves or handful of overzealous border guards, wouldn’t you say … monk?”
Even as the officer finished speaking, Jeffers acted. He turned his cultured gaze on the guard facing him, and headbutted him in the face. The guard staggered back, hand rising to his broken nose. Jeffers snatched the guard’s spear away and struck him on the side of the neck with the shaft, cracking it. The guard went down.
Teron reversed his grip on the broadsword and gave a backhand thrust, swinging his arm low and guiding the point of the sword upward, to pierce the mute guard’s abdomen below his cuirass.
Startled by the sudden revolt, the patrol sergeant looked to the officer and the other eight reinforcements for assistance. To his amazement, they faded from sight. He glanced about, saw the human engaged with three guards, the half-orc fighting one as well, and the gnome pointing a small wand at him. There was a magical flare of red, and the sergeant saw no more.
Teron ripped the bloodied blade back out of his mute victim and tossed it handle first to another of the guards facing him. As the guard’s eyes rose to follow the weapon through the air, Teron jumped forward. His leg snapped up and delivered a debilitating kick between the legs. As the guard doubled over, Teron lanced his fingers at the guard’s throat. The guard’s head dropped, and Teron reached out and grabbed the guard’s head. Holding the guard’s neck secure, Teron spun around him, interposing the hapless soldier’s body between him and the rest of the melee.
The third guard that faced Teron stepped forward, hefting a large double-bitted axe. Teron shifted his position, keeping the incapacitated guard between them. With a rip, he twisted his captive’s head sharply and broke his neck, looking to goad the axe-wielding guard into a reckless attack.
The attack never materialized, however, as a serrated blade decapitated the guard before he charged. Teron dodged aside as blood gushed from the wound.
“That could have proceeded more auspiciously,” said Jeffers, slinging blood from his blade. “We’d best get our transport quickly.”
“What was that all about, monk?” asked Praxle.
“Did you see his throat?” said Teron. “I think I must have crushed his voice box during the war.”
“Strange that he’d remember your face,” said Praxle.
“I must have been in a hurry,” said Teron, scooping up Flotsam unceremoniously under one arm, “I usually don’t leave survivors.”
14
The Phiarlander Phaire
“Look here now, if it isn’t the Shadow Fox.”
The Fox shut the door quietly behind her, shutting herself in with the pungent odors that permeated the arcanium. “Good afternoon, Rezam,” she said. She crossed the room and sat in a large chair at a stained table, turning it so she faced the wizard.
The aged elf pushed his tome aside and leaned back, lacing his fingers across his belly. “It’s been a very long time since you’ve tome to visit our little nest here,” he said.
The Shadow Fox fidgeted with her fingers a moment, then looked up, all business. “I’ve been busy with one of the other nests. We ended up traveling across half of Khorvaire.”