Teron flushed and turned his head, but Hathia cut in. “You may have charm, d’Sivis,” she said, “but you are a fool with regard to the female heart. Teron did the right thing by declining to take advantage.”
“Can we quit this talk?” asked Teron, annoyance tinting his voice, “We’re here on business.”
“Indeed,” said Lady Hathia. She gestured to an alley down the way. “Turn down that alley there,” she said. “Take the first right branch. Then, after the alley turns left, you’ll find their lair. There has been some activity tonight,” she added, “and they’ve been a little careless. I do believe you’ll find their door slightly ajar.”
Praxle cackled, wriggling his fingers and bouncing on the balls of his feet as he led the way.
Creeping quietly as a cat, Dyen slipped into the Cyran arcanium. The front room was empty, but light spilled from two doorways flanking the back hallway. “Psst! Anyone here?” he called out in a loud whisper.
“Sure, we’re here,” answered a voice, and a half-elf female sauntered out of one of the rooms. “Oh, hullo, Dyen. Back already? How’d it go?”
“Sh sh,” said Dyen. “No time. I think they may be outside.”
The half-elf hunkered down. “What?”
“I think they may be outside,” repeated Dyen, hefting his mallet. “They may have seen me!”
“Careless dreg!” hissed the half-elf. She ran back into her room and returned a few seconds later bearing a Valenar scimitar, a long, vicious weapon with opposing curved blades at each end and a double leather-wrapped handle set in the center.
Dyen raised one eyebrow. “This will be interesting,” he said.
“I hear someone,” whispered the half-elf. She glided to one side of the corridor that led into the room and assumed a striking stance, her Valenar scimitar raised for a decapitation.
Dyen moved to an ambush position on the other side. He crouched low for a shot to the groin or knee. Or a face shot if the gnome happened to be the first one in.
After a few tense moments, a dark-haired human glided silently into the room, his bare arms raised, hands open, ready to strike or block. The half-elf stepped out and swept the double scimitar around in a dizzying flurry of sweeps, drawing the lead blade through the monk’s neck and following with the trailing blade for good measure. A huge spray erupted as the monk’s neck disintegrated, the thin strand of meat offering no resistance to the razor-sharp blades. For good measure, the half-elf reversed the spin and took the lead blade back through a third time to strike the head from the rear. The scimitar connected with the human’s head before it had fallen more than a few inches, and as the blade sliced through, the head ceased to exist, spattering into a thousand multicolored motes that flickered away and died.
Shocked, the half-elf looked down at the little gnome who stood where the human had been a second ago. The gnome looked up and smiled. “Oops.”
Then the half-elf saw Dyen spinning to deliver a reverse heel kick to the back of her head.
Teron slid down the hall at the far side of the Cyran hideout. Light shone from two rooms; the one on the left he presumed was some sort of bunkhouse, presumably empty, because the half-elf had brought no additional assistance when she retrieved her weapon. He stood at the side of the door to the second lit room. The closer he got to the open door, the more he could sense the tension that resonated in the air.
He held the Valenar double scimitar in his hand to accentuate the adjusted illusory disguise that Praxle had given him. He did not trust the weapon; its opposing blades and asymmetric design clearly required years of training to master.
He listened at the door for several minutes, then signaled back to Praxle and Jeffers, holding up two fingers. They nodded, and Teron ambled into the room.
He saw two Thrane mages working on the far side of a large, heavy oaken table. Resting on a gold stand placed in the center of the table sat the Thrane Sphere. It looked like a mass of glossy black scarab beetles all huddled into a perfect sphere, occasionally shifting, and humming with vile intent. A pulsating shield of translucent green energy surrounded the sphere and prevented it from actually touching the stand; Teron recognized it as a protective spell, presumably one that did not protect the Sphere from danger but protected those nearby from the danger of the relic itself.
Teron walked up to the table, idly letting the double scimitar swing by his side, but as he approached, he sensed the aura of the Sphere press away the veneer of his illusory disguise, sending shreds of arcane energy wafting across the room. As one, the two Cyran mages turned malevolent eyes on him, burning with a hint of madness.
“Go!” yelled Teron, flinging the dangerous Valenar scimitar at one of the mages.
Teron tumbled over the table to attack the other mage, though, mindful of the Thrane Sphere’s effects on the Cyran thief, he had to tumble quite wide of the mark. The mage was fast, however, and by the time Teron had landed on his feet, he saw a large flaming ball rolling toward him. He stepped to the side and retreated, and the ball swerved toward him. He thought of jumping it but was afraid it might reverse its course and remain beneath him, so instead he readied himself to punch it hard back at its caster.
Praxle entered the room with his dagger reversed in his hand and let loose a thunderbolt at the more distant Cyran mage. The blast flew out of the dagger, but its proximity to the Orb of Xoriat bent its path, and it smote the stone wall harmlessly. The Cyran mage made a series of gestures, each time sending blue tendrils of power all over his body. Angry, Praxle summoned his couatl illusion again as Jeffers lunged past and dived under the table.
The blazing ball rolled right at Teron, and he punched the fiery ball as hard he could with an open palm, but instead of a solid impact like he’d expected, his fist punched into a spongy mass that smelled of an alchemist’s lab. Instead of deflecting the ball’s approach, he’d buried his hand in the flames, and he could feel his flesh burning.
Teron pulled his arm back, and flopped backward as the flaming sphere rolled over him. He quickly batted at it with his hands and feet, keeping it distant as it overran him. The ball stopped trying to spin, content to be above him, and in that instant he moved. He let it drop to his side, guiding it with his hands, and then, kicking heartily with both feet, he managed to push the flaming ball just enough to wedge it under the table.
Praxle’s couatl charged the second mage, who had retreated into the furthest corner of the room. It, too, shredded into nonexistence as it passed close by the dreaded Orb.
Jeffers surged up from beneath the table, waving his serrated blade and charged the second mage, now faintly shimmering with arcane effects. The mage gestured, and a staff flew across the room into his hands just as Jeffers reached him. He raised the staff to block Jeffers’ initial chop, then spun the staff neatly to stop the second and third attacks of Jeffers’ favorite combination move. Then with a speed and grace that made his mage’s robes swirl like a dancer, the wizard spun around and cracked Jeffers on the back of the head with the inside of his staff, staggering the half-orc.
Praxle moved to an adjacent corner of the room to watch the duel. He prepared a spell.
Teron hopped back to his feet, ignoring the itching pain that was starting to throb in his burnt extremities. He lunged for the mage in front of him, but again the wizard was the faster. He finished another incantation just as Teron reached him. The monk landed a solid blow dead center to the wizard’s breastbone, knocking him off his feet, but before he could follow through on his success, a miniature funnel cloud formed at the ceiling, reached down and surrounded the monk. Blinded by the winds and the dust they kicked up, Teron tried to wriggle free of the air elemental’s grasp.