“You know, perhaps that’s a good metaphor for your life,” Praxle continued, “You couldn’t see your potential, so you didn’t reach for it. And now you can’t see your death, so you won’t stop it.”
Crack! A blast of energy flew out from one of the tents and struck Teron squarely in the ribs, sending him tumbling to the ground. He looked up and saw Praxle through the adjacent tent flap, his smiling teeth reflecting the moonlight. Teron hopped to his feet, but as he did, Praxle vanished.
The Sphere continued on, but as the bag weighed it down, it also began to sink to the ground.
Teron stood, turning his head back and forth, searching the darkness. He heard the quiet scritch-scratch of Praxle’s feet moving on the grass to his right. He feigned ignorance for a moment, and then stepped and delivered a low whirling heel kick at a level to catch Praxle right in the gut. His foot swung through the air without hitting anything, and the lack of impact threw him slightly off balance.
Then Praxle appeared on the other side and launched another bolt at the monk, wracking his body with pain. “Maybe you’re not as smart as I thought you were, monk,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcastic pity. “You’ve already forgotten that I threw my voice into your mouth. Moving my footsteps is nothing to me.”
He vanished again.
Teron staggered to his feet and saw that several of the guards were running at him, weapons drawn, “Hold!” they yell. “Identify yourself!”
“There’s a gnome assassin,” yelled Teron, doing his best approximation of a Thrane accent. “He’s after the general!”
The guards drew up around the bag, weapons ready, scanning the night. One of the guards grabbed Teron’s arm. “Where? Speak!” he demanded.
Teron looked into the darkness. He could sense Praxle nearby, but the gnome had as much time as he wanted, and Teron had nearly none.
“Be ready,” he said. He looked inward, pressing all of the energy he could into his fists. He focused all of his discord, the screams of the souls in his head, his self-loathing, and his painful past into the essence, then all at once he slung his hands around, pushing the energy out as he brought his palms together for a mighty clap. A bright white flash emanated from the monk, radiating out in a beautiful pattern of ripples. It billowed the tents and shook the grass, and it also shredded the invisibility that cloaked Praxle, reordering it into a series of disconnected arcs that flickered away.
“There he is!” yelled the guards, and they leapt to the attack as Praxle shrieked in anger.
Teron turned and ran. He struck the bag containing the Sphere as hard as he could several times to get it moving, and, after a few seconds, it responded, moving faster and faster. He ran over to the guards at the entrance to the general’s tent and pointed back toward Praxle. Several flashes lit the night, and a couatl flew about, hissing its danger. “Gnome assassins!” he yelled. “Help them!” The guards ran to help their comrades as Teron got ahead of the Sphere and plied every ounce of strength he had to slow it down.
Inside the tent, he saw a large magewrought apparatus, a pair of iron-and-brass fangs that arced upward and held between them a bubble of vivid emerald energy some two feet in diameter.
The bubble was empty, as Teron had hoped. He pulled the leather bag off the Sphere and unwrapped the smothering cloth. The Sphere of Xoriat hovered there, drifting slightly to one side.
Teron aligned himself, the Sphere and the babble of energy on the Thrane apparatus. Wrapping his hands in the smothering cloth, he grabbed onto the Sphere and pushed it toward the device. The Sphere crawled beneath his hands like he was pressing on a huge pile of large beetles. It seemed to struggle, flexing amorphous muscles to break his grip upon it, but he held firm, guiding it closer.
The Sphere of Xoriat began vibrating harder and harder until at last it touched the edge of the green field. Then suddenly the powers of the Thrane device took hold, and the magical bubble drew the Sphere of Xoriat into its protective embrace. In the last seconds the sliding pieces on the surface of the Sphere nearly boiled with activity.
Then it was in. Encased within the bubble, it sat motionless, the magewrought device somehow overcoming its odd inertial behavior. It almost looked like a beautifully carved gemstone of obsidian.
Teron exhaled with relief and draped the smothering cloth around his neck. He turned to go, but happened to notice the campaign map on the Thrane general’s table. He looked at the map, and at the disposition of troops. Then, casting quickly about, he saw several intelligence reports. He scanned them quickly, and seeing the contents, he snatched them up and shoved them into his vest, offering a quick prayer to Dol Arrah that they might he spared from fading with the rest of the apparitions.
Just as he finished his prayer, he heard a familiar voice.
“Did you think it would be so easy, monk?” Praxle’s voice rang out of the empty air.
“It’s too late, Praxle,” said Teron, “the pattern is complete.”
Praxle popped himself visible with a snap of his fingers. Standing near the center of the tent, he surveyed the area and smiled. “Yes,” he said, “yes it is.” He walked over to the Thrane device. “An effective if cumbersome way to transport the Sphere,” he said. He reached for the lever that controlled the inclination of the device.
His hand passed through it.
“What?” He tried again, with the same results. He jumped to grab the Sphere itself, and his hands passed through, leaving slight eddies of green and black mist behind as the device decayed into phantasm.
“Nooo!” howled Praxle. He quickly cast a spell upon himself and tried to grab it again. When that failed, he turned on Teron and shrieked. “You! You will pay for your treachery!”
Teron held up one finger. “Be careful, Praxle, or I’ll tell your people what you’ve done. I don’t think they’ll be happy.”
“You’ll tell no one if you’re dead, monk!” said Praxle, as he waved his hands and let fly a blast of arcane energy.
The brief moment it took for Praxle to gesture gave Teron all the warning he needed. He leapt high into the air, twisting and flipping as he arced. The blast of magical energy ripped beneath him, but as he spun upside-down, the edge of the searing blast smote his head and disoriented him.
Teron landed hard on his side, wrenching his neck. He instinctively kicked at the most substantial thing he could see, and heard Praxle emit a strained grunt at the impact. Teron’s bleary eyes saw Praxle stumble backward through the side of the command tent, momentarily shredding the ethereal structure of the pavilion.
Teron rose to his feet. Outside a number of ghostly voices called out: “The assassin! He’s after the general! ’Ware the gnome!” Through the hole in the tent fabric, Teron saw numerous Thrane guards closing in. Praxle started to stalk back through the main tent flap, but a Thrane apparition struck at his back with an axe, and Praxle cried out in pain and surprise. He turned and swept his arms back and forth in grand gestures, unleashing an entire thunderstorm of power in a matter of a dozen seconds, all the while cursing like a grave robber.
Teron shook his head to clear it fully, then grabbed the smothering cloth and wrapped it around his left arm, just in case. Moving as silent as a cat, he stalked up behind Praxle, fist cocked for a telling blow. Outside, he saw the shattered remains of scores of ghostly Thrane guards, blown by unseen winds.
As Teron closed in Praxle, the gnome spun about and hissed, his reptilian eyes flashing eerily in the spectral light of the Thrane torches. Praxle cast another potent spell at Teron, who reflexively raised his left arm for a block. The magical blast caromed off the smothering cloth and whistled past Teron’s ear, giving him a painful if unthreatening glancing blow.
Teron spun and struck Praxle across the jaw with a spinning backfist, sending the gnome tumbling to the ground. Teron stepped out to finish the job, but as he approached, Praxle turned himself invisible once more.