Gasping for breath from Teron’s powerful hit, the first Cyran mage regained his feet. Satisfied that the monk was trapped in the elemental’s embrace, he turned to assist his compatriot. A half-orc struggled with the other mage, each firmly grasping the mage’s staff, a contest of orcish strength versus magical enhancement. The half-orc seemed to be getting the better of the fight, twisting the staff back and forth and brutally kicking the mage, while the wizard did nothing but tenaciously hold on to the staff.
Focused on their wrestling match, neither party considered outside threats, and thus the half-orc made a perfect target. The mage pulled a wand from his sleeve and aimed it at the intruder’s head. With a mental command, a shaft of primal cold lanced out of the wand, striking true. In an instant, the cold had enveloped the half-orc’s head, splitting the skin, freezing the eyes, and shattering a few teeth.
The spell also ruined the illusion that covered the pair; revealing a startled half-orc holding a staff, and a dead wizard lying on the floor.
“Sometimes I just love me,” said Praxle to himself. He aimed the handle of his dagger carefully and let fly another bolt of lightning. As before, the Orb of Xoriat bent its path. Unlike before, Praxle had planned on exactly that, and the electric energy blasted the other Cyran mage before he could recover from his surprise.
Holding one hand over the huge knot on the back of his skull, Jeffers staggered over to the downed mage and stomped heavily on his neck. In that instant, the air elemental ceased to exist, and Teron dropped to the floor.
Praxle clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Well, then,” he said. “That was easy.”
22
Escape
“WHAT?” bellowed Rezam. His brow furrowed.
“I said the driver took them Uptown, and then back down to Old Central. That’s where he dropped them. Then I saw them turn at Vintner’s Avenue, and I came right back here to tell you.”
Rezam’s mouth twisted with anger, as if trying to chew the words that fought for freedom. “They’re heading for the Sphere!” he said.
“That’s impossible!” said one of the other Cyrans.
“No!” yelled Rezam. “They know! They followed the Fox here, and somehow they know! Damn it!” He swept his robe about himself dramatically. “Follow me,” he said quietly, his eyes wide with intensity. “First we go to kill those who evaded us. Then we kill the one who led them here!”
A rapid knock sounded at the door, followed impatiently by another. “Wake up!” called Dyen as he knocked. “Wake up!”
There was no response from inside the darkened room. There was a scratching sound of metal on metal, and then the door’s tumbler slid to the side. The door swung open, and Dyen burst into the room, “Fox!” he whispered insistently. “We have troubles! Are you awake?”
He went over to the lantern that sat on the nightstand, the wick trimmed so low that it barely stayed ignited. “Fox,” he whispered again, turning up the wick, “are you all—”
The lantern shed its slanting light on a vacant bed.
“Fox?”
“We need to get out of here,” said Praxle, “Someone will come looking soon.”
“Agreed,” said Jeffers, panting. “But we have to be careful.”
With a groan, Teron pushed himself up to his hands and feet. He staggered, dizzy from the whirlwind. “Under the table,” he said weakly, “there are some things that might help.”
Praxle reached under the table and pulled the gear out. “This leather bag looks large enough to hold it,” he said. “And look, it’s lined with chain. That’s smart; helps ground out arcane effects. And what’s this?” he asked, holding the stained wrapping aloft. “It’s a smothering cloth!” He swept his arms, flipping the cloth out. “That’s sizeable, too,” he added. He glanced sidelong at the Orb of Xoriat, sitting on the tabletop. “Wrap that in this, and place them in the chain-lined bag? That would certainly stifle its aura. No wonder we couldn’t find it. Here, Teron, give a hand. Jeffers, you avert your eyes until we have it all wrapped up, understand?”
Teron took one end of the cloth, holding the corners out to keep it spread wide. Praxle wrangled the other two corners as best as he could with his smaller span. He clambered up onto the table and gently enveloped the Sphere with the end of the cloth. He held it in place as Teron walked around the table. He stepped over the cloth as Teron passed behind him, then the two of them ensured that the disturbing relic was wrapped thoroughly.
Finally the last of the cloth was set in place. Praxle took the two corners and tied them off against each other. “Good job, Ter,” he said, “You don’t mind if I call you Ter, do you? Hand me that bag. There’s a good man.”
Teron picked up the bag and opened it, then swept it across and scooped the Sphere and its gold stand into it. But when he pulled the bag toward him, it didn’t budge. “Hey,” he said. He tugged again. And again, and the Sphere finally started moving slowly across the table. “This is … that’s strange, very strange.”
“You expect some thing with ties to Xoriat to act normally?” asked Praxle. He shook his head. “I have a lot to teach you, Teron.” He paused to take a wand that lay on the floor. “Well, then, Jeffers,” he snapped, “one would think that averting one’s eyes would not preclude plundering the place. But no time now; let’s go.”
They left, Teron wrestling with the package all the way down the twisting passage to the outside.
Blood draining down her leg, the Shadow Fox leaned against the wall. Ahead, she saw a group of her people, led by the elf Rezam, speaking vehemently with a trio of Thrane guards.
“Go!” she called. “Get out of there! They’ve got guards all over the place!”
But even as some of her people heard her and turned their heads, she saw Rezam pull a wand and unleash a flaming inferno. The wave engulfed the Thrane guards, as well as several Cyrans who happened to be in the way.
“Run!” she bellowed, but she turned and staggered off, forced to abandon her people before she fainted.
Three simultaneous sighs of relief resounded through the opulent carriage when the lightning rail shuddered and started lumbering forward. The bag carrying the Orb sat in the center of the large, heavy dining table, and as the caravan started to accelerate, it stayed in place, slowly sliding toward one edge of the table and leaving long scratch marks in the polished wood. Jeffers moved to the end of the table to hold the bag in place while the caravan reached speed.
Slowly at first, then with increasing velocity, the rising spires of Flamekeep passed by the elegant windows, the flickering luminescence of the conductor stones reflecting off the building facades. Overhead, Dravago cast its cool lavender light upon their departure.
“We did it, Ter,” said Praxle. “We recovered it. After all this time, I have the Orb of Xoriat back in my hands. It’s finally back where it belongs.”
“We haven’t determined precisely where it’s going, Praxle,” Teron reminded him.
“I know,” said Praxle. “But it’s what, almost two days to Starilaskur? Until then, there’s only one route for the lightning rail, unless you have a whim to head east from Vathirond.”
“No,” said Teron, “I have no desire to go to the Mournland.”
“Well, then, then we have two relaxing days to talk things over and work out a solution. And once I understand this thing a little better, and I can explain it to you, I think we’ll find a very good solution indeed.”
Teron looked carefully at Praxle. He gauged his expression, then looked at the countryside passing by, then inspected the colorful map that was mounted in a frame on the wall. He decided he was fairly safe; the next major stop wasn’t until noon. “I’m going to get some sleep,” said Teron.