Teron looked for footprints, but it was too dark to see any. Then, in a flash of inspiration, he snatched one end of the smothering cloth and snapped it around. He saw it graze something, and gave it a quick loop to drape it around his target.
He saw the unmistakable profile of Praxle’s nose protruding from the wrap.
Startled by the sudden appearance of a cloth over his face, Praxle started to duck. Then something struck him dead on the end of his nose with the force of the lightning rail. He saw a flash of white, heard the crunch of the cartilage of his nose shattering beneath the impact, felt himself weightless for a moment as the blow sent him momentarily airborne.
Praxle raised his hand to his bloodied nose. From his unimpressive position flat on his back, Praxle saw the hated Aundairian monk standing amid the fading Thrane tents, poised for another flurry of blows, and the smothering cloth dangling in his left hand. He realized that Teron’s easy punch had knocked him clean out of the smothering cloth, and, better yet, the monk was scanning the area, eyes darting back and forth for some clue to the sorcerer’s position.
With a vicious smile, Praxle rose silently to his feet. He drew a long poisoned dagger from his boot. Teron foolishly remained in place, merely shifting his feet as he looked around. Praxle crept around the monk’s side, intent on stabbing the monk right in the kidney, then running out of the way until the poison took hold.
Then suddenly Teron took a jumping sidestep and kicked him in the side; he heard a pop that signaled his floating rib had broken. He writhed on the ground, trying to regain his breath.
Teron stepped over. “The cloth stripped your invisibility, you arrogant gnome,” he said. “Surrender.”
“I thought you were an assassin,” grunted Praxle as he tried to get back on his hands and knees.
“That’s part of it,” said Teron. “But I’ve never gone out of my way to kill when I didn’t have to. As I said before, I break things. Tonight I broke your ladder to godhood. Frankly, it felt good.”
Wounded and exhausted, Praxle refused to concede the victory to one who had betrayed both his fellow sorcerer and his higher destiny. He summoned every last ounce of power he had left in him, gathering it near his heart. He rose to his knees.
“Don’t make me kill you on top of everything else, Praxle,” said Teron, “My job here is done.”
Praxle sneered at the display of weakness. “And so are you.” He raised his hands and let loose everything he had left in one massive surge of power. It struck Teron dead on and blasted him back, screaming. He flopped to the ground, motionless. All around, the ruins of the Thrane camp rippled and vanished in the wake of the magical eruption.
“Ha ha!” Praxle gloated, staggering to his feet. He walked over to where Teron’s body lay. “Well, then, let that be a lesson to you, monk,” he said. “Magic is superior to muscle, and wit is superior to size!”
Teron drew in a deep shuddering breath and pushed himself to his feet. His mouth hung open, and he swayed from side to side. Sweat plastered his hair to his scalp. Eyes burning with fury, he lurched forward.
Praxle gesticulated again, trying to draw forth another blast to finish the damnably resilient monk, but he could find nothing left within him. A few stray sparks of color wavered near his fingertips before frittering away.
Teron snorted. “Lesson to you, gnome. I never run out of punches.”
The bleary pre-dawn glow lighted a strange sight in the Crying Fields: an Aundairian monk walking side by side with a Zil gnome. Though from a distance one might think them to be comrades, the truth was very different.
“So are we going to walk all the way back in silence? Say something, damn you, monk!”
“I’ve been thinking,” said Teron. “And all your grousing has made it harder for me to concentrate. But I think I’m happy with my solution now.
“So here’s the deal, Praxle. We’ll give you back your identification papers. We’ll feed you. We’ll put you back on the lightning rail. We’ll even pay for you to have a private coach, as a measure of respect for the University. In return, you promise to remain aboard the lightning rail until it has left Aundair. You promise never to return to our country, and you promise never to harm any of the brothers you may meet elsewhere. Is that clear?”
“Yes, very clear.”
“Do you agree?”
“Yes. Yes! I agree. Will you let go of my ear now?”
“No. Not until we’re back at the monastery, and the brothers have been filled in.”
Praxle growled. “Let go of my ear or you’ll pay for your insolen— Oooow!”
“We haven’t discussed penalties, Praxle,” said Teron. “If you break any of these rules, the entirety of the Quiet Touch will hunt you down and kill you. We’ve been trained, Praxle. Trained to infiltrate, trained to blend in, trained to look just like people. The conductor on the lightning rail. The person who takes your garbage. A student at the University. Break your promise, and we will kill you, slowly and painfully. It may take a few years to infiltrate, but we will do it. You’ve shown me how better to blend in with the peacetime world, and I’ll make sure to pass this knowledge on to everyone else in the order.”
Praxle considered this. “So, uh … how many of you are there?”
“I’ll never tell.”
Epilogue
Keiftal looked up, his eyes alight with joy. “Teron, my boy, I’m so very glad to see you!” he said, rising slowly and painfully from his cot. “When that d’Sivis left after you, I feared for the worst.”
Teron smiled shyly. “I can take care of myself, master,” he said.
“I know that, but I feared you’d not be able to protect both yourself and the Thrane Sphere. But I am glad that you did. Tell me, my boy, where is it now?”
“I don’t know,” said Teron, but as the alarm rose on Keiftal’s face, he added, “It’s gone, Keiftal, and we need not worry about it for a long, long time. The Fields took it, and they will be loathe to yield it up again.”
Keiftal began to sway slightly, and Teron gently led him back to his cot.
“Master Keiftal,” said Teron, “I have something to tell you. I, well, I probably shouldn’t tell you until you’re healed, but I will not restrain the truth.”
“What is it, my boy?”
“When I was in the Crying Fields, I chanced upon some Thrane military scouting reports. I took them from the command tent, but they faded just as I feared they would. But I knew you’d want to know what was in them.”
“What did they say, my boy?”
“I didn’t have time to read the whole of them, but the gist is this: When the Thranes used their Sphere, the prelate and his troops were just ten miles away. Waiting.”
Keiftal gaped. “Our reinforcements, the promised help, just ten miles away?” He moaned, then raised his eyes to the sky. “Oh, Dol Arrah, why could they not have arrived earlier?”
“They did,” said Teron. “There were several reports. The prelate and his reinforcements were encamped ten miles away for almost two weeks. But he never moved his troops in a position to assist in our battle. In fact, it looked like he avoided contact with the Thrane army when they tried to engage him.”
“He swore!” spat Keiftal, disbelieving. “He swore to help us! If they had come as promised—”
Then the aging monk reconsidered this news for a while. “That was probably for the best, in the long run,” he said softly. “That is, if his troops had been here, there would have been that many more lives claimed by the Thrane Sphere.” He looked up at Teron but couldn’t keep his gaze.
“That does not change the fact that he broke his vow,” said Teron. “Nor the fact that he wanted the Thranes to destroy us utterly.”