The Orb of Xoriat

24 The Crying Fields

Praxle seethed with anger. Not at his double-crossing bodyguard—that feckless animal lay rotting in a Brelish field—but at the one who’d turned his back on the dragon and wrenched Praxle’s apotheosis from his hands.

He thought back on Jeffers’ betrayal, how he’d slapped the dagger from his hands, how he’d used his overlarge body to pick up Praxle, and how, somehow, he had found the window and hurled them both out. In that moment of crisis, Praxle had proved his worth to ascend by drawing upon the power of the elements, lightning to obliterate the skull of his disloyal servant, and wind to save himself from striking the ground too hard. Conversely, Jeffers had proved with his action that he was indeed an insect, a worthless drone sacrificing itself for the benefit of the pathetic hive of so-called sentients, by striking at a pending god. Praxle hated being surrounded by those who couldn’t work magic. There were so many of them, crawling everywhere …

But that monk. He had the potential. The dragons had blessed him with their blood. The dragons had called to him in his dreams. His mind had accepted the discipline, and his soul could sense the truth, but in the end he’d proved his heart to be merely mortal, recoiling in fear from the greatest test ever given to mortals. He’d refused to rise to the challenge of overcoming his own death.

Either that monk was apprehensive of the effort that it would require, or he was squeamish at the need to devour the souls of the underlings. It didn’t matter. He had scorned the dragons. He had thwarted the new ascendant gnome. And he and his foul partner had done so by taking advantage of their larger size. Such a grotesque, fleshly advantage; Praxle was humiliated to have been undone in that manner. Such blundering size should be inefficient.

“It matters not,” spat Praxle out loud. “I am more powerful!”

He stood on a hill, looking over the rolling red fields. In the distance, he saw the shards of the monastery defiantly reaching for the sky.

Soon, he thought, they will reach to me.

Teron stood outside and watched the fires of the setting sun stain the sky red. The color blended the horizon almost to nonexistence. The ring was faintly visible overhead. To the east, orange Aryth was at the full, its last sliver just being devoured by Eyre’s silver disk. The faintest arc of Therendor rose beneath them in turn, eclipsing a portion of Eyre’s face.

Teron watched as the sun fully set. Then he turned to the other direction, and for a long while he watched the moons in their gentle race across the sky. Aryth was devoured by Eyre’s larger size, while Therendor’s clean, while shape slowly overtook Eyre. At last Nymm also rose, hiding itself behind its larger kin.

He had planned for this night a long time, ever since the end of the Last War. If things worked out as he expected, he would give himself the ultimate test of his ability, proving to himself whether he was still worthy to exist. If he failed, he would die, and quite possibly never be seen on Eberron again. If he lived … well, he didn’t expect to, but he’d deal with that when it came.

Odd, he thought, that Therendor, the moon of the month, should be called the Healer’s Moon. And Eyre is the Anvil. There must be a message there.

Then he hesitated. If he should die, who would stand between the gnomes and the Orb of Xoriat? He looked back at the monastery, now starting to be lit from within. Would he trust anyone there with such a duty? Should he? Master Keiftal, of course, but how much longer would the old monk stay alive? And none of the other brothers had undergone the same intense training as the Quiet Touch had.

Then it struck him: He didn’t have to abandon his position as the keeper of the Sphere.

He turned back to the monastery.

“Praxle d’Sivis!” Master Keiftal, surprised in the middle of lighting candles in his room, all but dropped his taper. Wax dribbled unattended on the floor.

“Yes, I am back,” said the gnome, menacing in presence despite his small size, “and I’ve come to get what I originally came for: the Thrane Sphere, the Orb of Xoriat.” He walked right up to the speechless Keiftal and glared up at the old man. “Where is it?” he bellowed.

“I—I don’t—don’t know,” stammered Keiftal, his gaze darting about.

Praxle reached up, grabbed the elder monk’s scraggly beard, and yanked hard. “Don’t lie to me!”

Thus affronted, Keiftal’s courage rose to surpass Praxle’s presence. His eyes hardened from surprised and fearful to solemn and determined. Praxle saw it and started to react, but Keiftal was quicker. He jerked his head up to pull the sorcerer’s arm higher, stretching his body. Then he kneed Praxle as hard as he could, striking the gnome in the midriff.

Praxle stumbled back, snarling as he fell to the floor. Angrily he slammed his glowing fist into the floor of the monastery, and the paving stones exploded beneath Keiftal’s feet, heaving him upwards in a geyser of masonry. Battered and thrown off balance, Keiftal fell to the floor. Sharp stone shards and heavy slabs up to a foot wide fell all about, some striking his frail body.

Keiftal started to rise, causing stones to clatter to the ground, but Praxle was faster. He grabbed the old monk’s ankle with one hand, uttering words of power. Electrical charges raced through Keiftal’s body, and the old man screamed.

“You’re—you’re too loud,” he panted. “Help—will come.”

“Really?” responded Praxle. “I think not.” He turned to the doorway, left open to the hallway. Keiftal followed his gaze, and saw three young monks run right past the open door and begin pounding on the wall beside it. “Illusions are the first step in creation,” he explained. “They see a closed door where the wall is, and a bare wall where the door is. Such a simple thing to deceive those without the dragon’s eye.”

Bruised, bloody, and trembling from the electrical shock, Keiftal turned his gaze back to the gnome, and fear returned to his countenance.

Praxle grabbed the old man’s forehead and chanted his words again, sending another jolt of electrical power through the old man’s body. “Now tell me, old man,” he growled, “where is the Orb?”

“You’re too late,” Keiftal gasped. “Teron—he—he took it.” He chuckled weakly.

Praxle grabbed Keiftal’s throat, his hand tingling with unspent power. He pressed his face nose to nose with the old monk. “Where did he take it?” he hissed.

Keiftal reflexively glanced in the direction of the Crying Fields.

Praxle smiled beatifically. “Thank you,” he said, standing. “I allow you to live.” He whirled his hand above his head, making two full circles. He put his hands in his pockets and walked to the unattended open doorway, whistling softly to himself. And as he passed through the doorway, he vanished.

The monks continued to pound on the illusory door, calling Keiftal’s name.

The spirits of the past writhed into being all around Teron as he walked the unnatural grass of the Crying Fields. Overhead, Therendor and Eyre shone brightly. The Healer’s Moon, full and potent, slowly devoured the Anvil as they moved slowly toward conjunction. According to the astronomers, they would move into alignment at midnight, just as the day changed.

Just as the month changed. For an instant, the month’s moon would be full in two months at the same time. It was the first time that had happened since the end of the Last War. He’d planned for this evening for two years, to test himself. And suddenly his planning had a second purpose. Teron wondered if this was that pattern that he and Praxle had been drawn to.

Of course, he thought, it’s vain to think that I am being drawn to anything. More likely the Sovereign Host, or the Dragon Eberron itself was drawing the Sphere to this time and place, looking to remove it from this world by trapping it in its own corrupted pattern. I’m no more than a piece of the puzzle to make it happen.

Then he remembered Keiftal’s words from seemingly so long ago: “You can accomplish things that can no longer be done any other way.”

Midnight drew nigh, and the phantoms became more real. He knew from experience that the ghosts of those who fought and died here all lingered about the area, but tonight they took on the most substantial form he had ever seen, manifesting with a clarity he didn’t expect. Heretofore, the apparitions had been ghostly, wispy, hideous caricatures of soldiers of all races. But tonight, they seemed like true ghosts.

Above, lit by a phosphorescent campfire, he saw the banner of Aundair, a resplendent dragonhawk on a blue field. A military camp resolved into being all around him, jumbled by the translucence of the spirits.

Repetitive experience over the last two years made it difficult for Teron not to attack the apparitions as they formed, but he restrained himself.

An Aundairian guard leveled a spear at him. “Halt! Who are you?” he demanded.

“I’m from the monastery,” he answered.

“The monastery was destroyed last year,” retorted the guard. “I heard there were no survivors.”

“Destroyed?” echoed Teron, feigning surprise. “How?” The guard looked suspicious, so Teron held up his hands consolingly. “I was on a mission deep in the Reaches,” he lied. He patted his hand on the black leather bag. “I was supposed to recover this, and I just got back. Here, here’s my papers,” he added. He showed his papers to the guard but put them away quickly before the guard saw the date written by the issuing official.

The soldier relaxed somewhat. “All right, move along.”

“What happened to the monastery?” Teron asked.

The soldier leaned on his spear and shuddered. “We’d been camped just over there, about ten miles or so, waiting for the Thranes to move. Then … I don’t know what it was, but one morning we heard this terrible row come over the plains, and this vast chill shadowed the air. Our scouts came in and told us not to go to the monastery. Now here we are anyways, and I wish we’d never come. This place just felt wrong, understand? There’s this.”

A horn sounded in the night, and soldiers raised the rallying cry. “Thranes! “yelled the guard. “Sneak attack!” He turned and charged off into the night.

Teron continued moving toward what he believed to be the center of the Crying Fields. The battle spilled out near him, Aundairian soldiers engaging Thranes in a ragged, chaotic melee. One Thrane eviscerated his foe and charged Teron, waving a scimitar. Teron tried to dodge, but the Sphere he carried resisted the sudden movement, and the bag’s straps held him in place. The Thrane swung his scimitar down to where he expected Teron to move, and the ghostly blade traced only a long, thin slice in Teron’s arm.

Teron kicked out quickly, but his foot passed harmlessly through the ghostly form. The Thrane turned for another attack, and Teron quickly extricated himself from the bag’s straps. The soldier swung overhand, intending to split Teron like a fish. The monk ducked and rolled beneath the hanging leather bag. As he rolled, he heard a loud clang as the Thrane’s scimitar struck the Sphere and shattered. Teron rolled cleanly through the Thrane’s legs and to his feet. He turned to strike the Thrane, but the soldier, seeing his weapon gone and a monk ready to strike, turned and fled.

Teron looked at the bleeding cut on his arm. He had never been wounded so … so physically before. Above, the last wisp of Eyre slipped behind Therendor’s shield. They were not quite yet in conjunction, so he knew the dangers would only grow. And while he could strike back by focusing his magic, he knew he did not have the ability to fight all the way to his destination.

He grabbed the Sphere and moved on to where he believed the center of the Crying Fields to be, trying to stay low and unseen. He cowered like a camp follower, hoping that by acting non-threatening, he’d be ignored. He moved along through the fields, surrounded by knots of soldiers fighting, killing. In his years in the Quiet Touch, he never saw armies this large clashing, and he realized that indeed this area held the dead from many long years of war, all returned to fight once more.

He passed into a Thrane camp, curiously quiet but surrounded by the sounds of battle as its occupants fought against threats at all quarters. He looked around, but the ghostly remnants of tents, wagons, soldiers, and corpses littered the area, obscuring the terrain. He realized that he could no longer orienteer himself toward the center; he was as close as he could reasonably get.

“Psst! Brother!” He heard a female voice, speaking common with an Aundairian accent. In the darkness a shadow moved, hunkered low, silent as it walked. Teron moved over toward it.

In the moonlight he saw a young monk, probably just past the examination. Her head was shaven and her tunic ill-fitting. The young woman darted her head back and forth. “Where are the reinforcements?” she asked. “Prelate Quardov said he’d bring reinforcements, but I haven’t seen them anywhere! Have you seen them?”

Teron shook his head.

“I have to get out of this camp and back to the monastery,” she said. “I think they’re going to attack in the morning. But we can’t prevail against these numbers. I fear the monastery will be burned …” She looked about, feverish in her determination, and snuck away without another word.

Her words gave him pause to think. Keiftal had often told of how the Thrane army had camped for days near the monastery before they used the Sphere. He was in a large Thrane camp. He just had to find the general’s treasure tent.

He smiled. This was exactly what those in the Quiet Touch were trained for.

Thranes were nothing if not efficient. When on the march, the army always organized its camp exactly the same way. That way, soldiers could move easily about in any camp, no matter how the units or soldiers might get shifted around. It also meant that those infiltrating the camp had an easier time of it. Teron got some bearings by checking the arrangement of the wagons and scouting the pathways between banks of tents. Once he had deduced where in the camp he was, he moved toward the command center.

He moved along the open walkways, keeping to one side so as to seem inconsequential, shuffling his feet as though tired, hanging his head subserviently. He had done it often before, and he moved not simply as one who belonged there, but as one who was weary of being there and wanted to go home. In a sense, his posture was no disguise at all.

Ahead, he could see guards around the command center, illuminated by the flames of a ghostly fire. As he drew close, the fire grew stronger, starker, changing from an echo of a fire to what appeared to be the real thing. Teron looked up. Somewhere behind Therendor, invisible to mortals, Eyre moved closer to its appointed conjunction. Teron wished he could see it to better gauge what time he had left.

Regardless, he knew his time was running out.

Then a strong tenor voice broke through the darkness. “Drop it, monk.”

Teron whipped around, shielding the Orb behind him. There was nothing to be seen in the darkness.

He heard Praxle chuckle in the moonlit night. “Now how will you use your big ugly fists, monk?” he asked mockingly. “How will you strike that which you cannot see?”

Teron spun in place as the Orb continued its sedate progress forward.

“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.

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.”