The Orb of Xoriat

15 Predatory Nature

Eyes bleary, head swaying side to side, Praxle strained to focus his intoxicated brain as he worked his way through a spell. At last the tendrils of mystic energy coalesced properly, and he raised his hands to his face. The energies swirled around his head, then wormed their way into his hair and disappeared into his scalp.

“I didn’t pass out,” he said slowly, concentrating on his diction. “I took a bad step.”

Teron leaned against one wall, his arms crossed. “Your legs weren’t moving,” he countered.

Praxle sighed deeply. “Tea, Jeffers, very strong.”

Jeffers nodded, and left the room to procure the tea. He shut the door quietly behind him.

Praxle turned around slowly, swiveling on the rotating stool on which he sat, then leaned back against the table. “I don’t understand you, monk,” he slurred.

“How so?”

“That wench wanted your touch,” said the gnome. “The string of her blouse got looser and looser as the evening went on.”

“It was hot in there. She was working.”

“She was offering a lot more than drinks every time she came to our table and leaned over,” snarled the gnome, venting all his physical discomfort into the utterance.

Teron looked down, trying to forget her touch on his arm, the look in her eyes.

“Are you truly that blind?” asked Praxle, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “If you spent half the energy on pleasure that you do on exercising and causing yourself pain—”

“Pain is the mortar of my life,” said Teron. “I could not build myself without it.”

“That,” slurred Praxle, “may be the wisest thing you’ve said yet, monk.”

Teron looked up. “My name is Teron.”

“But why do I even bother? I’m trying to show you there’s more to life than abusing yourself and meditating on your navel, and what kind of gratitude do I receive?”

“Use my name.”

“Be quiet, monk. I don’t feel well at all.”

Teron strode over and planted his hands on each side of Praxle, penning him in against the table. “You call Jeffers by name. He’s your servant. I’m your partner. Show me the same respect.”

Praxle’s momentary surprise gave way to an inebriated smirk. He guffawed, then broke into a near-hysterical drunk laugh. He slid off the stool to the floor. “Oh, monk,” he said, rolling onto his back, “He’s not named Jeffers. He’s just … my Jeffers. That’s what he is. He’s … I think he’s the third one I’ve had. All my Jefferses … ses.”

Teron stood and took a step back. “What?”

Just then the door opened, and Jeffers stepped in with a teapot, “May I enquire as to what you gentlemen find so amusing?”

“Oh, look,” said Praxle, giggling. “My dear Jeffers is back with the tea.”

“I seen them, yes’m,” said Squints, a tremor in his voice. “There’s no doubting it.” The old man hated being away from his familiar kitchen and his cleavers, more so hated being here, way out of his element. He fidgeted with his hat, turning it in circles and trying to make out some semblance of shape in the darkened recess of the private booth. The Coal Scuttle was known as a place of discretion even at noontide; in the wee hours of the morning its darkness was all but impenetrable.

“What, exactly, did you see?” asked a voice from the darkest shadows.

The old man scratched at the scarred eyelid that hung over his empty socket. “I work at the Phiarlander. I saw a little gnome, all gussied up, take the stage and sing a bit. Then he passed out, on account of being very drunk, I do believe. A half-orc carried him out. And behind them walked a human, too. I’d wager gold to gonads that he were a monk type. He had muscles that moved like … like there was weasels under his skin.”

“Muscles do not make a monk.”

“Yes’m,” replied the old man, “but Kelcie, she’s one of the girls that works the tables, er, not like a whore or anything, you understand, the Phiarlander is classier than that, but she brings drinks and food and other needy things, she said the monk guy was all flustered and such that she talked to him, like he ain’t never been with a woman or anything.”

“I see.” The Shadow Fox leaned forward, her face concealed by a large, drooping hood. The old man could only see the point of her jaw; the rest was concealed by shadows or black material. It was hard to tell which. “Anything else?” she asked.

“No, that’s all I done saw.” The old man stared at the shrouded figure. The Fox didn’t move. At last the man couldn’t withstand the silence any more and stammered, “I thought you were wanting to know, is all. I came right as soon as I’d finished up the cleaning.”

He looked around for some support, but no one else in the Coal Scuttle was paying him any mind. He started crumpling his hat and twisting it.

The Fox reached forth with one gloved hand and placed a gold coin on the table with a clack. “You did well to bring this to me,” she said. The glove retreated, and soon a second galifar clinked onto the first. “Very well,” she said. And then, as she reached out and deposited a third coin on the table, she added, “Three enemies. Three rewards. Thank you.”

The man hesitantly reached for the coins, then snatched them up as avarice overcame timidity. He clutched his fist to his chest, feeling the beautiful weight of a month’s wages. “Welcome, kind lady,” he said, his voice trembling with fear and relief. “It weren’t nothing.” He tittered. “Nothing at all.” So saying, he backed halfway across the floor, turned, and made a brisk escape into the night street.

He didn’t notice that one of the other patrons tapped thrice on one of the taverns windows just as he exited.

Praxle rolled a string of vowels from his mouth in one last incoherent attempt to communicate as Jeffers shoveled him into bed. He continued to babble for a few moments, his slack jaw pushed to the side due to the angle at which his face rested on the pillow, but in a short few moments the droning voice was replaced by snoring.

Teron lay on the floor, his head propped up against the wall. Flotsam sat on his chest, paws tucked in contentedly beneath him, and purred loudly.

“That was … educational,” said Teron.

Jeffers, seating himself at the table with a quill and papers, raised his hands helplessly. “The pot did not contain tea, I’m afraid. I find that on evenings such as this, a mild narcotic makes for a simpler existence.”

Teron snorted with amusement. Flotsam opened one eye in annoyance at the disturbance.

“So why do you stay with him?” asked Teron.

“I am a bondservant. I sold myself to his service as butler and bodyguard for a period of ten years. He paid my family quite well for my time.”

“Is that who you write letters to?”

“Indeed, I keep them abreast of our adventures. They mean the world to me.” Jeffers tapped his lips with the quill for a few moments then set it down and walked over to sit at the edge of the bed nearest Teron. Teron glanced up out of the corner of his eye and noticed the half-orc’s posture was perfect.

“If I may be so bold as to enquire, good Teron,” asked Jeffers, “there seemed to be some tension between you and my master with regard to the young woman at the guesthouse this evening. What, precisely, was the source of the problem?”

Teron considered for a moment, then decided to answer. “I think you, as a bondservant, would understand.” He gently ushered his gray cat off his chest, and sat up, legs folded, hands on his knees. “I swore a vow when I joined the monastery. I dedicated my life to Dol Arrah. In a sense, I married her that day.”

“Dot Arrah?” echoed Jeffers. “She seems a trifle unusual a choice for a deity of warrior monks. Please take no offense, but the goddess of honor and light does not mesh well with the impressive acts of puissance that I have witnessed you undertake.”

Teron nodded his head to the side in concession, “True, but Dol Arrah is also the goddess of sacrifice. That aspect is the centerpiece for my … my school. It’s an ancient path, one that hadn’t been seen for a long time. I shouldn’t say any more on the subject.”

“I understand, master. Rest assured I shall exercise the utmost discretion in this regard. None shall hear of your path from me.”

Teron tipped his head respectfully. “Thank you, Jeffers.”

For a while there was only the sound of Praxle snoring and the cat noisily cleaning his fur. Then Jeffers got up and began gathering the teapot, cup and spoon to return them to the proprietor.

“Jeffers?” asked Teron.

“Yes, Teron?”

“What’s your real name?”

“Whatever makes you ask, my good man?” asked Jeffers, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

Teron looked at him and realized that the half-orc didn’t know. “I just figured that it wasn’t the name you were born with.”

Jeffers smiled. “You are correct, master, though Master d’Sivis has insisted on using ‘Jeffers’ from the day he hired me. He did not treat my cousin well when she used my real name, and I have not mentioned it to anyone else since.”

“You don’t have to worry on my account,” said Teron.

“You don’t know master d’Sivis,” said Jeffers as he let himself out the door.

“Where are you going, old man?” asked a sniggering voice that slithered from the shadows of the alley behind the Coal Scuttle.

“What?”

The mugger stepped out of the shadows of the alley. He slid one arm out from beneath his cloak, turning his short sword so it caught the light. “I said, where are you going, one-eye?”

“Home,” he stammered, desperately wishing he’d brought his mace from beneath the service counter. “I’m no trouble to you.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would be. Too old and timid. You sound like a foreigner, too. Where are you from?”

“C —Cyre. At least, that’s where I was born.” Without the comfort of the familiar establishment and several Cyran compatriots nearby, Squints found his courage utterly void.

“Ohh,” mocked the mugger, in an exaggerated show of grief. “Poor Cyre. Where the weak of soul let their whole country just die in one short day. No wonder you’re such a coward.” He waved his blade slightly, and held out his left hand. “Come now, grampa, unload your saddlebags. I know you’ve got coin, and I’ll take it from your hand now. Its up to you whether your hand is still attached to your arm.”

A tear rolled down from the old man’s good eye as he slowly extended his hand and, by an act of will, forced it to open and release the gold. Clink clink. It fell into the mugger’s hand. Clink. As the last coin fell, the old man bowed his head in defeat.

The mugger spun his short sword once, sheathed it, and jingled the gold in his hand. “Thank you so much,” he said with another snigger. “You have a nice evening.”

He turned to go but found his path blocked by a woman in a hooded cloak. She stood, her weight all on her right foot and her hip thrown to that side. Her cloak was thrown back on the left, showing that her left hand was balanced lightly on her thigh.

“You have my money,” she said simply.

“What are you blathering about, woman?”

“You have my money. I gave it to him, and you took it from him. Give it back.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said the mugger, chuckling.

The woman started stepping forward, slowly, her hips swaying gently like a great cat on the prowl. “I don’t care what you think,” she said. “Give. My money. Back.”

“You listen here, lady—”

The Shadow Fox stepped right up to the mugger, her face still concealed by her hood. “Draw steel,” she demanded.

“You’re asking for big—”

Smack! Her left hand darted out and struck him full across the face. “Air that sword and start fighting, boy. I’m only a weaksouled Cyran. You said it yourself.”

His eyes widened and rolled like a panicked horse. He wavered for a moment, then he drew his blade and swung a mighty chop at the Fox.

She stepped forward and ducked, sliding neatly under his initial flailing blow. She turned to face him again, flipping her cloak off her right arm. She concealed both her hands behind her back. “Try it again, boy.”

Angered and nervous, he slashed at the Shadow Fox again. She stepped to the side and extended one arm to deflect the blow. The mugger’s blade landed a glancing blow, shuddering and sparking as it traveled the length of her arm.

Stupefied, he paused for a moment. The Shadow Fox chose to give him his answer. She revealed the weapon in her hands: in her right a kama, a small weapon shaped like a miniature scythe. A chain led from the butt of the kama’s haft up to her neck. With a casual shrug, she let the links drop. She held the other end of the chain in her left hand; she’d had it pulled taut over her shoulder and down the arm to protect against an overhead slash.

“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve never seen a woman with a weapon before.” She slung the kama toward him, then yanked on the chain. The horn-shaped blade snapped like the tip of a whip, drawing a gash across the hack of the mugger’s calf. With another snap, the Fox slung the kama back to her hand.

Trembling with rage and fear, the mugger attacked again, swinging for her neck. The Fox deflected the first strike, stepped back from the second, and at the third she stepped in and locked his hilt with the haft of her kama. There was a brief pause, and she flicked their weapons apart.

He yelped and stared at a second gash across his wrist, just starting to well blood.

“You fight like you learned how to swing a cleaver from your mother,” said the Fox. “Didn’t your father teach you anything?”

He charged and thrust. She gave ground quickly, raising her kama just in time to steer his point away from her abdomen. He pressed the attack, and she parried, her chain jingling with every move. Then, as he drew back his blade for a third thrust, she yanked her arms up and out, pulling on the chain. It had looped around his ankle as he’d pressed forward, and her sudden move made him lose his balance on his injured leg. He dropped to one knee. Quick as a cat she lunged forward, pressing her blade into the flesh under his chin, ready to slash his jugular from the rear. The kama’s razor tip drew a bead of blood from the soft skin.

He froze in place, mortal fear in his eyes.

“Drop your blade.” The short sword first dangled, then dropped and embedded its point in the packed-dirt alley. “Give him back my money.” The mugger’s left hand extended, and the old man came out from hiding to recover his wealth.

With a quick sneer, the Shadow Fox drew her blade across the mugger’s throat. He clapped his hands to his jugular, his eyes wide with panic. He rose and turned to run, but the Fox slung the weighted tip of her chain around his ankle and tripped him up. He rolled on the ground and she stepped on his chest to hold him in place.

“Your throat will heal,” she said. “But I want you to remember this, and tell all your little friends; I work for the Shadow Fox, and he’s very protective of his fellow Cyran. If anyone harms a Cyran, the Shadow Fox will find them. Do you understand?”

The mugger nodded with as small a motion as possible.

The Fox cleaned her blades on his cloak, concealed the chain beneath her cloak, and walked away.

“And crawl home on your hands and knees,” she called over her shoulder. “You never know: I might be watching.”

Praxle groaned and pulled the blanket over his head. “Wake me after you’ve broken your fast,” he mumbled.

“I already have,” said Teron.

“I also partook,” added Jeffers. “And, if history is to be a guide, master, we should be just in time for midday meal.”

Praxle moaned again and rolled over, trying to curl into as small a ball as possible.

Teron stepped over to Praxle’s bed, grabbed it firmly, and heaved it onto its side just as Jeffers blurted out, “Wait!”

With a yelp, the sleeping gnome tumbled to the floor, pulling the blanket off with him. He ended up on his stomach, the blanket beneath him, wearing naught but his underclothes. “Who—this—” he sputtered, as he pushed himself up. He rolled onto his back, reclining on his elbows. “You vicious little bastard!” he spat.

Teron loomed over him, staring back, unafraid. “Get dressed,” he commanded. “Let’s get moving.”

Praxle glared up at him. “I should—”

“Try me,” said Teron, gesturing Praxle up with one hand, “Your illusions won’t help you.”

Praxle smiled cruelly. “Bravely spoken by someone who only knows how to hit people,” he said. “But illusions are the first step in creation.” Magical energy coursed around his hands, arcing out to encompass his body and the area around. Teron took a step back as sudden winds blew in the room, buffeting Teron’s clothing and sending Praxle’s blanket flopping across the floor. The window rattled as the winds gathered beneath the gnome, whipping his underclothes and hair, and pushed him to an upright posture floating a hand’s span above the floorboards. Then all at once the wind cut off, and he landed gently on his bare feet.

Praxle gestured again, creating a sea-green flash. The sound of a dozen clashing sabers resounded in the room. An aura of pale energy surrounded him.

Teron stepped back again and adopted a ready stance, “Be careful, Praxle.”

“Careful?” said Praxle. “My power grows every year, monk. Your power will fade as you age. I can create. You can only destroy.” He gestured again, his hand flaring crimson, and Teron felt a forceful blow strike him in the midsection. The impact shoved Teron backward into the wall of the room with a loud slam. He managed to keep his balance, however, and stepped forward, ready to launch an attack to immobilize the gnome. He drew himself up short, however, when he saw that Praxle was once more his casual sell, and wasn’t even looking at him.

“Well, then,” the gnome said, “now that I’m up, I suppose we may as well get to work.” He got dressed, idly bantering about the day. “All right, first, food. And then I’ll show you the place the Thranes keep their research notes. And, uh, let’s leave the mangy cat behind, right?”

As the threesome left the room, Praxle paused. “We do understand each other, right … monk?” he asked, but before Teron could answer, he turned and headed down the hall.

A cold wind blew in from Scions Sound as Praxle, Teron, and Jeffers walked toward the heart of Flamekeep. Unseen behind them, a nondescript person paced their progress, almost a block to the rear.

“All right, here it comes,” said Praxle. He cleared his throat with mock dignity and swept one arm out in a grand gesture. “The Great Library of the Congress of Alchemical and Magecraft Academics of Thrane,” he intoned. “That’s what the Thranes call it, at least. Down in Zilargo, we refer to it as the Camat Library.”

“Why?” asked Teron.

“It’s an acronym. Made up of the initials. It’s a lot faster than using their long-winded and pompous name.”

“We’re taught to respect names,” said Teron.

“I might respect the name if I respected the people or the institution,” said Praxle, “But the Thranes are a bunch of warmongering zealots, and the Camat is an ideologically dominated school that focuses on application over theory.”

“I see,” said Teron. “Better to have something you can daydream about than something you can do.”

Praxle looked up at Teron with scorn. “Shut up, monk. You don’t understand.”

“Ah. Right. Debate is application, not theory.”

“Shut up, I said.”

“Your superior intellect shames me.”

Praxle growled as he led them to the front doors of the soaring structure. As they approached, Praxle began to gesture widely and spoke in a louder voice with obvious fascination. “The architecture is of the dynamic Flamic school. Observe the saw-toothed minarets that soar above the corners of the building; notice that each moves sedately, rotating about the base of the bridge that rises to it. Obviously, magical enhancements maintain their elegant courses, and the bridges use some of the finest engineering techniques to swivel with the towers. Thus at once this grand edifice showcases the skill of Thrane magewrights and architectural engineers, the glory of the Church of the Silver Flame, and the prestige of such a vaunted institution.”

They climbed the large stairs that ascended to the library, and Praxle pointed to a variety of adjacent buildings. “Well, then. Over there you see the Dormitorion, the building that houses students of the school. Behind us lies the Assembly, which contains the magical laboratories, the circle of regents, and proving grounds for students seeking advancement within their craft.”

They reached the top of the stairs, and the massive granite doors of the library, each twenty feet high, swung open noiselessly to admit the visitors. “In case you hadn’t noticed, the doors open automatically to admit those with magical ability,” Praxle said, doffing his cap with a sweeping bow.

They entered the building and walked across the wide marble floor of the foyer. The foyer was tall and wide, and very dark compared to the afternoon sunshine. Other than the narrow shaft of sunlight spilling in, the only light came from a small fire burning atop an eight-foot-tall silver oil stand, polished to a mirror shine. Any features in the walls around were lost in the shadows.

As they drew closer to the oil stand, some of the flame spilled over the side and onto the floor. It trickled across the floor toward the visitors, then pooled ten feet in front of them. The flame grew, and gathered itself into an oval shape that hovered a foot and a half above the floor. Only a single thin strand of flame reached down to touch the oil.

A voice issued forth from the flaming ovoid, a strange mix of whispering and growling. “What help may I provide, esteemed visitors?” it asked. The hard consonants sounded like the popping of a fire.

“I was escorting these gentlemen around, showing them the wonders of this library,” said Praxle.

The fire elemental flared. “The library is open to all spellcasters, although pursuant to our concern for safety and our position as guardians of the nation, we have certain strictures in place. Followers of the Silver Flame may bring tomes from the shelves to the reading tables. Students of the Congress of Alchemical and Magecraft Academics of Thrane may bring materials into private reading rooms. Only members of the faculty can remove items from the building. However, this library generously provides any spellcaster in Khorvaire with new incantations for personal use for a nominal fee.

“The library’s resources are divided by the schools of magic. The schools are arranged about the perimeter of the building, with more advanced resources available on higher floors. For the safety of all, librarians are on hand to ensure that novice spellcasters do not endeavor to research techniques that are beyond their capacity.” The fire elemental dimmed as it finished its recitation.

“What about the physical sciences? Alchemy, artifice, topics like that?”

The fire elemental flared briefly and said, “The physical and paramagical sciences are located in the center of the library. In this way we ensure that there is as little interaction as possible between members of opposing schools of magic.”

Praxle smiled. “I would like to tour the library, if you please.”

“Of course. I shall be happy to make an appointment for you,” said the fire elemental, pulsing. “I can arrange for you to apply as early as next week.”

“Apply?” said Praxle. “What does that involve?”

“In the interests of the safety of all, we check every applicant carefully. We do not wish to provide enemies of the peace with additional potentially damaging resources.”

“Enemies of the peace,” muttered Teron. He snorted.

“No, thank you,” said Praxle. “We have no need. I doubt we shall tarry that long. I believe we have seen enough to impress our friends back home. Thank you.”

The fire elemental flickered away, leaving nothing in its stead. No trace of oil remained on the floor.

The threesome turned and departed the building. The great doors opened, then closed behind them. As they descended the great staircase, Jeffers asked, “You didn’t wish an appointment master?”

“No,” said Praxle quietly. “There’s no sense in leaving them with my identity when I plan to burgle them in a day or two.”