The Orb of Xoriat

10 The Lightning Rail

The Shadow Fox and Oargesha sat in their seats oblivious to the passing scenery as the lightning rail cruised through the bright morning. They rode in the third-class coach. It was not as crowded or dismal as the steerage cars, but beyond the fact that the two women had seats, there was little to recommend it. Their seats faced each other. The Fox sat with her arms tightly crossed and her head sunk to her chest. Oargesha sat with her head back and her mouth open. Occasionally small snores escaped her throat.

The black globe sat in its bag on the floor between them, pressed up against the coach wall. Each of the Cyran women had one foot on top of the bag, and another touching it on the side. No one could move the bag without shifting at least two of their feet.

From beneath the Shadow Fox’s seat, a small, thin hand reached out. It gently lifted the Fox’s heel a scant eighth inch from the top of the bag, and then a broad dagger slid out from the shadows and inserted itself between the Fox’s boot and the bag she guarded. Then a second thin hand appeared and started quietly undoing the clasps on the bag, first one, then two, then three.

The hand paused in its endeavors as Oargesha smacked her mouth noisily a few times. “Pull back your hand while you still have it, halfling,” she said without opening her eyes.

The hand remained frozen in place.

“I think I’ll have to put my sword through this seat,” said the Fox. “That’d be about where a halfling’s kidneys would be, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” said Oargesha. She let her mouth sag open again.

The hand closed the hasps, and then gently pushed the Fox’s foot off the dagger.

The Fox stepped down firmly, trapping the blade between her boot and the bag. “Leave it,” she growled.

The hand withdrew from sight. The blade remained.

With the exception of one limb, Teron was curled into a fetal ball. Only his right arm extended out, the hand tightly gripping the railing of the last carriage in the caravan. His left arm tightly cradled his yowling cat to his chest—the cat had taken the first opportunity to force his way out of Teron’s bag—and his legs pulled in as tight as they could to avoid getting clipped by the landscape that passed rapidly beneath the levitating coach.

“Easy, Flotsam,” he murmured as calmly as his adrenaline allowed. He forced the cat away from his body, a direction the disheveled tom was loath to take. He clawed at Teron’s peasant shirt, trying to remain in the secure sling of Teron’s body. The monk gritted his teeth and forced the cat to the small platform that extended from the rear of the carriage. Once on the comparatively stable balcony, the cat oozed pitifully to the rear door and hunkered down.

Grimacing with effort and unable to use his tightly curled legs, Teron strong-armed himself up. His left arm grasped the rail and he pulled his body up. His skin trembled with the electric energies that coursed all about, but the railing was designed to keep harmful energies away from passengers who came out here to view the scenery.

Teron climbed over the railing, stood upright, and brushed himself off, despite the fact that his tumble hadn’t made him any dirtier. He drew a tension-purging breath, then took just a moment to look for Hatch and his dragonhawk and wave in thanks.

Teron took another deep breath, then placed his hand on the latch of the door that led inside the carriage. He glanced down at his cat.

“I just hope they’ve already checked everyone’s passage,” he said.

“What’s on your mind, master?” asked Jeffers. “You’ve hardly touched your breakfast.”

Praxle glanced up at the half-orc with a grim set to his smile. “I face several problems, Jeffers,” he said. “They vex me. And I’m wondering which of them will ultimately stand between success and me, that I may be the best prepared.

“First, we have had the Orb of Xoriat stolen out from under our very noses. Second, we do not know who stole it—other than, I surmise, that they are the selfsame Cyrans who assassinated Caeheras back in Wroat. Third, the Aundairian authorities believe I collaborated with the Cyrans, and therefore they are searching for me. Fourth, I don’t even know if my new papers will see me successfully across the border. Fifth, the Thranes still possess the investigative notes on the function of the Orb. The Cyrans may potentially know this as well and could well be closing upon the Thranes ahead of us. Sixth, the Thranes have no idea that people are coming. Granted, that last point could work for me or against me.

“I need to reach Flamekeep and acquire the Thrane mages’ notes before the others do. If I don’t … then the Cyrans will have both the Orb of Xoriat and the knowledge to use it, yet lack any reason to stay their hand.” Praxle thumped his fist on the table. “This means I have to move fast and alone. It’s not my preferred method, but it will have to suffice. I dare not wait for reinforcements.”

“As ever, master, I am more than delighted to provide any assistance I can,” said Jeffers as he refilled Praxle’s water. “Especially if it means that we can obviate another singular cataclysm such as the disaster that befell the area around that monastery.”

Praxle looked at the half-orc with hooded eyes. “Your job, Jeffers, is to keep me alive and comfortable. Thus far, you’ve proven to be quite effective at the first and reasonably good at the second, recent events notwithstanding. So long as that remains true, I can see no other duties more valuable than your current tasks.”

“As you wish, master,” said the half-orc with a slight smile.

The coaches lurched as the lightning rail began its deceleration heading into the Starpeaks River Valley. Oargesha nudged a toe to wake the Shadow Fox, who’d been sound asleep with her head leaning against the window for the last fifty miles.

The Fox stirred and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “I’ll be glad when we get to Flamekeep,” she said. “This whole trip is very discomfiting.”

“Your heart and mine,” said Oargesha. “I wish we still had the others with us.” She swallowed hard. “I keep seeing their faces, hearing … do you think there’s any chance Roon made it out?”

The Fox looked Oargesha square in the face but said nothing.

“I know,” said Oargesha glumly. “I knew that. But I still have hope, right? I saw Grameste get … well, I saw Grameste. So I know she’s dead. And Rander … well, he got it first. But I still can’t help but wonder if maybe Roon beat that … that monk, or whatever he was and made it out after we’d left. Do you understand? I just can’t help but wonder. I mean, maybe he beat him, but say his leg was badly hurt, and …”

The Fox shook her head ever so slightly.

Oargesha broke eye contact and looked out the window, her eyes welling with tears. “Well,” she said, “at least they’re not trapped behind the mist.”

The Fox chose to say nothing. Instead, she opened the window, letting the chill northern air blow through her hair and bring a flush of red to her cheeks. She looked out at the countryside as the lightning rail continued to decelerate. Here the line followed the Aundair River on its winding course through the Starpeaks, and she looked out on fertile river-valley fields dotted with farms and paddocks. On the far side of the river, there was another narrow band of farmland, and then the Starpeaks thrust out of the ground, steep, rugged evergreen-encrusted mountains capped with remnants of snow. “We’ll be crossing the border soon,” she said. “Now’s as good a time to pray as any, Oargesha.”

Oargesha started to bow her head, then paused. “Aren’t you going to pray, Fox?”

Without turning her head, she answered, “Given the life I’ve been leading lately, I’m more than a little concerned about which god would answer.”

Oargesha murmured a series of supplications under her breath as the Fox watched the countryside roll by.

In this corner of Aundair, close to the Thrane border, the marks of the War became more and more prominent. They passed through the ashen wreckage of a small rural village, ruins so old that sizable trees had grown up within the empty frames of houses, only to be burned themselves when war swept through a second time. Now dead stalks of wood, bleached white like skeletal hands, clawed at the sky among overgrown squares where an entire community once had lived its collective life.

Closer to the border lay fieldworks, long barricades of earth and wood that once had protected the defenders of the realm from the incessant attacks by Thrane armies and Karrnathi undead. Fronted by trenches filled with long stakes and supported by towers equipped with ballistae, the fieldworks showed signs of breaches and reconstruction. They stretched across the river bottom and even up onto the lower parts of the mountains, a livid scar that demarked the hostility that yet remained between the nations.

The Fox saw other, less obvious marks, as well—veteran soldiers missing limbs, wrecked wagons and carts abandoned by the sides of overused country lanes, reckless holes torn or blasted through centuries-old hedges, rotting structures where a command post once stood in the middle of a fertile field.

The lightning rail slowed further, and for a moment the Shadow Fox considered jumping out the window with the black globe and trying to sneak across the border on foot. Then she noticed a blue-tabarded longbowman across the grassy field, scanning the passing caravan for any such questionable activity. A few score yards farther on and she saw a second guard and then a third.

The Fox placed a hand on Oargesha’s head. “This doesn’t look good,” she said. “I’d say your prayers aren’t being answered.”

“Patience,” was all Oargesha said in response.

The sun set behind the curve of the mountains. The land lay in shadow, while the sky still shone brightly above. The lightning rail pulled into the border station and came to a complete stop. The border station was a small encampment for Aundairian military personnel and tax collectors. A rough-hewn boardwalk ran along the side of the rail and led to a sizeable platform near a plain, wooden office. Several barracks sat behind it, removed from direct access to the passengers, as well as a stable and a couple of buildings.

The two Cyrans looked out the window and saw well over a hundred guards with spears and halberds standing alongside the rail. Farther back, cavalry armed with longbows lurked, waiting for the opportunity to run down and pierce anyone who managed to break through the cordon. As the last of the lightning rail’s actinic flares died away, an officer of the guard blew a shrill whistle. “Everyone off,” he said. “Queen Aurala and the Church of the Sovereign Host are compelling a detailed search of papers and belongings!”

“They’re onto us,” whispered Oargesha, her voice filling with fear.

“Perhaps,” said the Shadow Fox, “but perhaps not. This may be a random stop, some newly appointed officer whipping his blundering troops through their paces just to bloat his ego. Or maybe, my dear Oargesha, this is the way things are up here at this end of the world. I’ve not taken this route before, so I don’t know, but this is the most direct path from Fairhaven to Flamekeep, and you know that relations between Aundair and Thrane are anxious at best.”

Oargesha leaned over and whispered, “So?”

“So maybe they’re looking for someone else.”

“But they may still catch us in their net. What are we going to do?”

“For one, do not cast any spells,” said the Fox. “If they have this kind of force turned out, you know there are mages, priests, familiars, and more all prowling these premises. They’ll be looking for anyone who tries a magical means of bypassing the search, just as the guards are looking for anyone who tries to sneak something past them. We need to look haggard. Don’t hold your baggage too efficiently, so it looks like more than it is. Try to give the impression of someone who wants to cooperate but is too exhausted to care much. Beyond that … Cyre’s spirit, I wish I knew. Just follow my lead. Try to keep in the thickest part of the crowd, and we’ll see what I can do.”

The two gathered their luggage and followed the flow of passengers out of the coach. They proceeded down the boardwalk, staggering and occasionally stopping to readjust their bags. Every time they did so, the Fox struggled with starting or stopping, as the black globe continued to demonstrate a mind of its own with regard to motion.

They approached a cluster of guards, and one stepped over to them.

“Papers?”

The two Cyrans handed over their papers, stolen in separate incidents a year ago from some Brelish adventurers of similar appearance and who, having been assassinated, would never report their loss.

“Who is in your party?” the guard snapped.

“Me and her,” said the Fox. She allowed one of her bags to slip, then wrestled it back into place. “What’s this all about, soldier?”

“Routine tariff check,” he snapped as he handed back their documentation. “Over there. Line to the left.”

The two Cyrans followed the soldier’s command and ended up in a long line of unhappy people. They looked at the others in their line, then checked out those in the much shorter line.

“Do you see that, Oargesha?” asked the Fox.

“Yes, I do. What do you suppose is happening? Do you think maybe Aundair is having some trouble with Droaam or Darguun?”

The Fox tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “I rather doubt it,” she said. “Look around. We have goblins over here in our line. Why separate them from the half-orcs?”

“You’re right. Everyone over there is either of orc or gnome blood.” Oargesha smiled. “They’re looking for someone else. Hey, what’s that? They’re leading someone away.”

The Fox nodded. “A gnome and a half-orc. That’s interesting.”

“And you said my prayers weren’t being answered.”

“I’d hold the celebration until we get ourselves through this,” said the Fox. “We’re not free yet.”

As they approached the front of their line, the Fox watched the guards questioning the passengers at the head of their line. It looked like the passengers were running a gauntlet. The crowd moved between two sets of guards, two pair of guards on each side. Each pair questioned a party, then those who had been inspected made their egress through the far end of the gauntlet and returned to the boardwalk where they awaited permission to reboard the lightning rail.

“I have an idea, Oargesha,” said the Fox. “The guards on this line are processing people fairly swiftly. Let’s go separately, with you going first. I’ll pass the globe over to you. I think we can do this without having this bag opened.”

Oargesha nodded her approval.

The lines kept crawling forward, amid grumbling in the long line and high-tempered moments between the guards and the passengers in the gnome/half-orc line. Finally Oargesha reached the head of the line and stepped forward with her bag. The Fox waited, having faded back a spot in line. She gauged the progress of the various passengers, then let one more slip ahead of her. As Oargesha spoke with the guards about something in her papers, the Fox step forward. She had to strain, stiff-armed, to pull the globe along behind without it being obvious. She’d been holding it motionless at her side, and it resisted getting under way.

She walked slowly to one of the guards, and “accidentally” dropped her shoulder bag. As she moved to retrieve it, she let go of the bag holding the globe. The bag sagged around the globe within it, but the globe itself kept moving in the same direction, slowly gliding between the luggage of the various passengers. Oargesha caught its motion out of the corner of her eye and planted one of her feet in the bag’s path.

The Fox’s aim was true. The globe glided into Oargesha’s foot and almost came to a stop before she let it continue sliding ever so slowly onward. Any noise the impact made was lost in the general brabble of the crowd. The guards waved Oargesha on, and she picked up her bag and the globe’s bag and proceeded onward with none the wiser to their ploy.