Teron flipped the smoldering sheet over the Sphere, concealing it from casual sight. Then he saw Praxle peek out from behind his cover to check on the effects of the lightning. The gnome ducked back. Quick as a cat, Teron charged the empty space beneath the end of the table, intent on killing the gnome at close quarters.
As he dived through the gap between the broken tabletop and the floor, Teron saw Praxle readying a wand. He struck with his elbow at Praxle’s throat, but his arm passed through the illusion and glanced off the underside of the table.
He looked up and saw the gnome across the room, cocking his fist for a punch. Praxle punched at the air, and Teron had just enough time to raise his arms defensively before he got struck by a massive shockwave. He tumbled backward and slammed painfully into the table leg at the far end.
Teron rose to his feet and charged Praxle. The gnome still held his left arm protectively but wove a spell rapidly with his right. Teron jumped high into the air and tucked into a forward flip as Praxle extended his arm and launched a flight of baleful red spheres.
As he came down, Teron’s excellent training allowed him to grab Praxle’s extended arm with one hand. He turned his wrist around to lock Praxle’s joints, then met the gnome’s evil gaze. With his other hand he broke the gnome’s index finger, then …
“Look out!” called Jeffers.
A flight of violent red spheres slammed into Teron’s back, sending blasts of malevolent energy shuddering through his body and throwing him to the floor. He managed to break Praxle’s middle finger before the gnome yanked his hand free.
Teron fought off the pain and got back up to his knees. He raised one hand to guard while the other steadied him against the wall. Praxle had run back toward where the Sphere of Xoriat hung in the air, its charred shroud fluttering in the winds from the shattered window. He studied his injured hands, one crushed and bloody, the other with broken fingers hanging awkwardly. “Think I’m finished, do you?” he said, glowering at Teron.
Grimacing in pain, Teron stood.
The gnome turned and drew his dagger with the remaining good fingers on his right hand. He aimed the butt end at Teron, and lightning shot out, turning Teron’s whole world white.
Pain wracked the Aundairian’s body, overwhelming his training and discipline. He screamed as the energy coursed up and down his body, dragging jagged razors along his nerves.
The wave of anguish passed. Teron forced his brain to stay awake, straining against the massive weight that threatened to press him into unconsciousness. He slowly rolled back to his hands and knees, mouth hanging open, head aching like it was fit to burst. His chest trembled so hard that he could barely draw breath.
He saw Praxle step closer, dagger held ready to fire another blast of energy and send Teron to the afterlife. Teron slowly pulled one foot underneath him, intent on dying on his feet.
Jeffers intervened. “A moment, master,” he said, approaching Praxle with his hands out, “Think of what you’re contemplating. If you slay him with that, you’ll forfeit his soul, will you not? Would you not prefer to draw him into the Orb of Xoriat, to take full advantage of the situation, master?”
A flash of sanity crossed Praxle’s eyes. “Of course, thank you, Jeffers,” he said, and turned to look at the Sphere hanging in the air, “Well, then. Fetch that for me.”
In the blink of an eye, Jeffers snapped his hands together, striking Praxle’s outstretched right hand. The magical dagger flew from his grasp and imbedded itself in the wall. Then the half-orc grabbed the gnome’s small body in his burly arms and, with a yell, charged across the carriage.
Praxle shrieked in terror. He clamped his injured hands on each side of the half-orc’s head, gouging his eyes and pumping raw arcane energy into Jeffers’ skull. Jeffers roared, grappling the gnome tightly and squeezing his torso in a bear hug, Jeffers slammed into the wall of the carriage, bouncing blindly.
Teron realized that Jeffers was searching for the shattered window, but blinded and wounded, he might not last long enough to find it. Drawing on the very last of his energy, Teron stumbled across the ruined carriage. He grabbed Jeffers by the tunic and used his weight to swing the two of them around, Jeffers did not resist, and Teron pulled them to the open window. Jeffers’ knees slammed into the wall, and momentum carried master and servant out the window into the stormy night. A bolt of lightning and a blast of wind punctuated the evening.
Teron sagged against the wall.
Across the way, the Sphere’s shroud billowed in the wind, making it look like it was dancing.
Teron awakened to the sensation of the lightning rail slowing as it neared Starilaskur. The Sphere had moved to the opposite side of the carriage and lay on the floor. It took him a minute to figure out that the weight of the smothering cloth had dragged the Sphere slowly down, while the lightning rail’s curving course had probably moved it from side to side several times.
Teron rose slowly, his entire body aching. He gathered up the Sphere and its cloth, and wrapped the relic up securely before placing it back in the leather bag. He gathered up what few pages of the Thrane notes remained in the cabin and burned them. Then he searched the carriage for anything of value, but since they’d abandoned what luggage they’d had when the Cyrans stormed their room in Flamekeep, he found nothing of note.
Other than the dagger.
Pulling it from the wall, he thought of Jeffers and his sudden, if sensible, change of loyalty. He wondered what chance the half-orc had of surviving the fall and the crazed gnome. He looked at the map on the wall and decided that the chance was nil. Falling from the lightning rail, an untrained person like Jeffers would certainly suffer injury, and in this portion of Breland hospitalers were few and far between. He might bleed to death, he might get savaged by wolves, but the chances of him making it to a town were slim at best.
Teron mused that the same applied to Praxle, as well, or at least so he hoped. It was possible that the gnome had been shielded from the impact by Jeffers’ larger body, or that Praxle cast a spell at the last second to save himself. And if that were the case, the gnome would stop at nothing to recover the Orb of Xoriat. How long would it take him to find his way back to the monastery?
Teron scrutinized the map. He found the scale printed in one corner and, using a joint of his finger to mark off distances, did his best to estimate. He knuckled his way from Starilaskur to Vathirond: roughly 300 miles. He then did a rough estimate of how much time had passed before their fight, coming up with a guess that about two-thirds of that leg of the trip had passed. That left roughly one hundred miles. If Praxle survived the fall in good shape and went west instead of east, he’d reach Starilaskur in five to ten days, depending on how hard he could march.
Teron cleared the halves of the heavy table from the center of the carriage and began to stretch on the floor.
Five to ten days, he thought. Assuming he still lives, that’s all the lead I have. But what shall I do with that time? Teron considered his options, trying to cover all possibilities.
I could run. But if I run, it’s only a matter of time before Praxle or one of his associates finds me; the gnomes have eyes and ears everywhere. And they will corner me in a place of their choosing, with forces of their choosing, and they shall have the Sphere.
I could fight. I might win and kill Praxle, but even if I do, it’s entirely probable that another gnome would pick up the trail, and then I’m back to the original choices. And if I lose the fight …