“I’ve opened the door in the other direction,” said Praxle. He opened his eyes again, and Teron saw that his pupils had become somewhat elliptical, his eyes glassier. “I’m using the Orb of Xoriat to awaken the latent power of our dragon’s blood. A while back, Ter, you said that pain is the mortar of our lives. That’s true; I assume you learned that at the monastery. But your teachers fell just short of the mark. Pain is indeed the mortar of your life, but—here’s the trick—it doesn’t have to be your pain!
“That’s the beauty of this device; it understands. The door is very small now; the Thranes apparently did not figure out how to completely open the Sphere. If only they had, I could already have drained every last one from within the Sphere.”
“Every last one … of what?” asked Teron, fearing the answer.
Praxle gave him an incredulous look. “Why, souls, of course.”
23
The Bodyguard
“Souls?” blurted Teron.
Praxle laughed. “Of course. What the Six else did you chink was trapped in here, anyway? The druids sealed any ability to cross back and forth, so the souls in there are trapped on the threshold of madness, fragments of a greater pattern.”
Teron pressed his palms together and raised them to his nose, stilling himself. There, in the black voids between his thoughts, he could hear faint screams of hysteria and gibbering words of madness.
“Don’t look so surprised, Ter,” said Praxle, “What else do you think would feed the dragon’s blood within you? Why do you think everything has been ordered so that we could escape this prison puzzle box that holds us? This is our chance, our chance to seize the world by the throat, to force our pattern upon these souls within this ball and by ordering them within us, to ascend to greater power. The door has opened for us to become gods, ascending on the stairs of those who died for our benefit.” He giggled and plugged one ear. “I think I can hear that Cyran mage.”
For a brief moment, Teron wanted it. He wanted the power, he wanted the control, he wanted to stand up to the dragon, he wanted the chance to order the world to suit him instead of being a decaying relic of a dead war. And he knew how; the last few pages of the Thrane notes had spoken of opening the Sphere fully. Now that Praxle’s words had given those cryptic notes a context, he understood that the Thranes wrote both of how to gather, as well as how to consume. He could harvest …
But then he thought of Master Keiftal, and of all those the old master had once called friends, now trapped within the extradimensional torment of the Sphere of Xoriat. Those who’d shared his trials, his training, those who’d called the monastery their home. And he knew that no matter how horrid their current state, he could not abide their essence feeding the megalomania of this egocentric gnome, or anyone else who would be a god.
Praxle sniffed deeply, devouring another tormented consciousness. His fingers tried to stop the petals of the black rose from closing, but the scarab plates squirmed in his grasp. “This is just so slow,” he grumbled.
“That’s because I burned about eight pages of notes,” said Teron.
“You what?” shrieked Praxle. “How could you—”
“I blocked your path, Praxle,” he said, “and I will not walk it.”
“The dragon calls us, dares us to challenge it, and you’re turning your back?” Praxle snorted derisively, “You’re no warrior, monk. You’re a coward. You don’t deserve the dragon’s blood.”
“I cannot join you, Praxle, nor can I allow you to continue this,” said Teron.
“Fine,” said Praxle. He rotated the Sphere and began manipulating its pieces in a different manner. “I’ll consume your soul, too. That should save me a little time.”
Teron jumped up into the air and kicked at the table with all his force. The heavy table slid across the carpet. Though it did not move as far as Teron hoped, it was enough to throw Praxle off balance and slide him away from the Sphere, which remained in place.
Teron moved in the opposite direction and landed on his side by the wall of the carriage. He jumped back to his feet and saw Praxle crawling rapidly back to the Sphere, a fierce hatred in his newly reptilian eyes. Behind him, Jeffers reached out, grabbed the gnome’s ankles, and pulled him away. Surprise and accusation filled Praxle’s eyes as he stared malevolently at Teron, then the gnome grinned. Electrical bolts flared all about his body, wreathing him as they did the lightning rail’s harness coach, Jeffers yelled in pain and released Praxle’s ankles, and the sorcerer crawled up to the Sphere.
Teron snapped his arm like a whip, forcing energy to his fist. It spat out of his palm, but he closed his iron fist around it before it could escape. He leapt forward, windmilling his arm down to slam on the tabletop. He struck the table squarely on the centerline, and the arcane concussion split the massive table in half. It fell, taking Praxle with it. The Sphere remained in place, hovering just three feet off the floor.
With a primal roar, Praxle fired a bolt of raw arcane power at Teron. The monk dived to the side, and the blast took him across the back, charring his vest and blistering his skin. Teron rolled through the dive and ended up at one end of the sundered table. Praxle stood as well, feet awkwardly straddling the uneven table halves. With an immense surge, Teron grabbed the underside of the end of the table, where the cross bracing kept the legs from splaying, and heaved. He managed to lever the sundered end of the table a few inches off the ground, putting Praxle off balance again. The gnome fell, and Teron released his grip. The heavy table fell back to the floor, trapping Praxle’s left hand beneath it and thrusting shards of shattered wood through the sorcerer’s wrist. Praxle cried out in anger and pain.
With a growl of determination, Praxle placed his hand on the tabletop just above his mangled wrist. An explosion shattered the table, sending wooden shrapnel through the interior of the carriage. Teron felt several pieces cut into his skin as they flew past. Praxle rolled away from the table and around to the far side from Teron.
The monk forced his energy to his hands, but instead of catching the power in his fist as before, he clapped his hands together. He spun his palms until his fingers pointed in opposite directions, and then he ran his hands up to his elbows, simultaneously encasing each of his forearms in a sheath of raw energy.
Praxle stood, his injured left hand held tightly to his breast. He brought his right hand across his chest and back, then flung it backhand at the monk. A wad of fire snapped free from his fingers and flew at Teron. Praxle snapped his hand twice more, following the missile closely with a wad of pure acid and one of supercooled water. Teron blocked the fire bolt with his arm, extinguishing it. A rising block at the acid missile deflected it to the roof of the carriage, and it spattered about, eating away at the wooden paneling.
The bolts had come too fast, and Teron was barely able to duck out of the way of the third, which flew past his shoulder and into one of the large picture windows in the carriage, shattering it. Immediately noise and wind filled the carriage, loose Thrane notes flying about in the cacophony.
Praxle ducked around the corner of the table and out of sight. Teron knew his only advantage was to press the attack, using his physical training to prevent the gnome from employing his magical training, so he charged around the end of the table, arms raised defensively.
There was no one there.
Invisible! Teron jumped straight up, twisting in midair to remove his body from the target zone. As he rotated in the air, he saw a blast of flame gush forth from beneath the table, roasting the area where he’d stood a breath before. He slid down the sloped tabletop and landed on Jeffers, who was crawling toward the Sphere, one hand reaching out for the relic.
“No!” yelled Teron. He kicked Jeffers in the side of the head to stun him then rolled off the table and grabbed the smothering cloth. He flipped the cloth once to spread it out, just as Praxle stuck his hand out from beneath the table’s end and shot a blast of lightning at him. The attack caught the cloth squarely. The cloth absorbed much of the bolt’s magic, but enough electrical power remained to leave a large smoking char mark on it.