The Tomb of Horrors

9

Gray clouds hung like a shroud over the sweeping grasslands of Nyrond, casting a chill shadow on the line of wagons and horses that crept along the rough road. Wet snow and freezing rain fell hard from the sky, driven by the bitter lash of the wind. Even the thick-skinned oxen, normally dull and placid as they pulled their wagons, bent their heads beneath the wintry blasts and let out deep-throated grumbles of protest.

Kaerion pulled the thick expanse of his winter cloak tightly about him, seeking in vain for some protection against the needles of ice that struck painfully against exposed skin. Cold beads of moisture ran down from his matted hair, gathering at the frozen tip of nose and beard. These he swept away with an angry mutter and a swift motion of his gloved hand, but he couldn’t prevent the occasional drop from running down his neck and underneath the bulk of his chainmail. He shuddered once again and was forced to grab hold of the reins as his horse, a powerfully built roan stallion, shifted nervously beneath him, obviously sensing its rider’s discomfort.

Not an auspicious beginning to their journey, Kaerion thought miserably, and ran a hand across the bulk of his saddlebag, absently checking the complement of filled wineskins he’d brought along. The group had awoken well before dawn and made their way from the University to the caravans staging area in the trade district. They spent most of their time during the pre-dawn gloom double-checking their supplies and making last-minute deals with the caravan merchant’s agents, who were only too eager to sell any in-demand item or service for twice its price.

They left Rel Mord as soon as the gates were thrown wide against the unrelieved gloom of a forbidding winter sky—though the weather had been kind enough to wait until mid-morning before showering them with its gifts. Now, the expedition plodded forward, six wagons full of food, clothing, spare wood and nails for repairs, pick axes, shovels and other excavating equipment, empty chests for carrying Acererak’s treasure, and all the sundry provisions and supplies required for such an undertaking.

Roughly a dozen drovers and an equal amount of caravan guards had joined them on their journey, sharing crude humor and a rough camaraderie as they went about their business. Kaerion noted the guards with interest. Though most of them seemed like typical down-on-their-luck hired swords, their captain, a steely-eyed woman of indeterminate age, moved with the confidence and grace of a trained warrior. He watched as the woman, who called herself Landra, barked orders that sent the various guards stumbling into formation around the caravan. It was clear to Kaerion after a few moments that her tongue was as sharp as her wit, and he made a note to find out more about her.

Of the nobles who embarked upon this journey, Kaerion was pleasantly surprised to discover that only Phathas remained in the relative comfort of a wagon. Still recovering from his wounds from the battle at the Platinum Shield, the old mage had originally insisted in joining the rest of the group on horseback, and it wasn’t until Vaxor had threatened the mage with bodily harm that he had finally relented.

Though there was little danger of being attacked so close to the capitol of Nyrond, their recent battle had added a cautious element to the expedition. They did not want to leave anything to chance. Thus it was decided that Gerwyth would scout ahead of the caravan, alert for any danger, while Kaerion and a small complement of guards would lag behind, ready to discourage any pursuit. Vaxor, Bredeth, and Majandra wove themselves into the patrols of the remaining guards, roving on either side of the caravan train. Once they left the shadow of Rel Mord, it would be several weeks before they found themselves near the walls of a major settlement or city, and this area could hold dangers beyond that of simple brigands.

A sharp gust of wind blew across the grasslands. Kaerion gasped as its swirling fingers rustled through his cloak, sending shivers throughout his body. He cursed and reached for the edges of his wet cloak once again. He didn’t know if he’d be able to survive the coming weeks and months. Between the bitter assault of the weather and the suspicious silence that had grown between he and Vaxor, Kaerion didn’t know how long he’d be able to last.

He’d studiously avoided the Heironean cleric ever since the night of the battle, and it was fairly clear that the priest was doing the same. Kaerion thought the cleric might have discovered his secret, and the very possibility had kept him from sleeping ever since. He had shared his suspicions with Gerwyth, but the elf had quickly dismissed them. If what Kaerion had reported to his friend about the Heironean church was true, the elf had suggested, then Vaxor would have been honor bound not to offer any aid, comfort, or sustenance to Kaerion. Vaxor would not have allowed Kaerion to remain a member of the expedition. The elf’s argument was a good one, but Kaerion couldn’t shake the belief that Vaxor’s silence implied condemnation. The strain of such belief, combined with nearly two days without sleep, had begun to wear upon Kaerion. Already his head ached with the need for strong wine—and it would only get worse. At least, he thought, his insomnia had kept the nightmares at bay.

By midafternoon, the falling rain and snow had eased up, and the grassland winds were, for the moment, held in abeyance. Kaerion sighed and cast a look behind him. Rel Mord still loomed in the distance, a brooding giant. He was surprised to note, however, that despite the brutal weather, the caravan had traveled a fair distance. Looking forward, he saw the undulating tide of grasslands stretch out before him. About a mile ahead, he saw the black line of caravan wagons. From this distance they looked like the great behemoths of the Aerdi Sea, their long bodies cresting across a sea of grass. Patches of white snow dotted the landscape, and Kaerion recalled the whitecaps on the storm-tossed waters of his youth.

He reined his stallion to a halt and stood up in the stirrups, stretching tired legs. Around him, several guards had dismounted and were walking their mounts. Despite the calm in the weather, he couldn’t quite shake the chill that had gripped him since leaving Rel Mord. His hands shook as he continued to watch the slow progress of the caravan in the distance, though he wasn’t sure if his twitching muscles were due to the weather or his sudden thirst.

Deftly, the fighter dismounted and undid the knot in his saddlebag. He drew forth a skin filled with sweet Nyrondean wine and quickly took a draught. The weather-chilled wine filled his mouth with its crisp texture and he swallowed greedily.

“A bit early to start celebrating, wouldn’t you say?”

Kaerion nearly choked at the sound of the sharp-toned voice. Spluttering, he drew his forearm across his mouth and turned to face the source of that voice. Majandra stood smiling beside the elegant bulk of her horse, a piebald mare with a graceful mane. The half-elf wore a thick green cloak clasped at the neck with a gold-wrought pin in the shape of a harp. A wool-spun doublet further protected her from the elements. Her riding leathers were worn but well made, and she moved easily across the slippery turf in high-topped leather boots.

Majandra shook her head at Kaerion’s discomfiture, and the fighter noticed that for once, the bard’s fiery red hair lay bound in tightly woven braids that lay about her head like a circlet of bronze.

“This is no celebration, Majandra,” he said, indicating the uncorked skin. “It’s a balm for this damned weather. Alchemists and wizards aren’t the only ones who brew magic.”

The half-elf laughed and reached for the wineskin. “Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind sharing a little bit of this potion. My fingers are so cold I think they’d shatter on the strings of my harp.”

Kaerion handed over the wine, watching in fascination as the bard took several long swallows and then wiped her mouth, quite improperly, on the sleeve of her doublet.

“What is it Kaerion?” she asked with a smile. “Have you never seen a woman drink before?”

The fighter shook his head, hoping that the red tint to his face would be seen as a product of the chill wind and not the embarrassment he felt. What was it about this woman that made him feel so off balance?

“Of course I have,” he said, perhaps a bit too sharply. “I’ve just never seen a daughter of one of the noblest houses in Nyrond drink out of anything that wasn’t made of gold.”

If Majandra took any offense at his statement, she didn’t show it. Rather, the half-elf cracked a thoroughly enchanting and all-too-knowing smile. “Well, now,” she said, her eyes flashing with mischief, “it seems that you have forgotten the fact that you and I have already shared a drink, after a fashion.”

Kaerion stiffened at the mention of his disastrous first evening in Rel Mord, but relaxed when the bard rolled her eyes and laughed in obvious good nature. He was beginning to enjoy this woman’s mercurial wit, even when its rapier-sharp point was focused on him. Perhaps, he thought, this journey wouldn’t be too dull.

Majandra handed back the skin of wine, and the two stood in companionable silence, listening to the sound of the wind as it whistled across the grassland. In the distance, he could see that the caravan line had stopped for the final break of the day. After this, the wagons would push on until dusk, when they would finally make camp for the night.

“I actually came here to thank you for helping us the other night,” Majandra spoke at last, breaking the silence. “I know you think our mission is a foolish one, but that didn’t stop you from risking your life to save Phathas and the rest of us. Without you and Gerwyth, I doubt we could have overcome our attackers.”

“You have no need to thank me,” Kaerion mumbled. And that was the truth. Thinking back on the events of that evening, he recalled springing out of sleep and into battle. The rest had simply been instinct. It wasn’t until they had regrouped in the ruins of the inn that Kaerion had realized exactly what had happened.

“And I don’t think that your plans, all of this—” he continued, indicating the wagons in the distance with a wave of his hand—“are foolish at all. I tried to tell you that the other evening, but I guess I was a bit too deep in my cups.”

He smiled ruefully and took another swallow of wine. “All of you have a tremendous amount of love for your country—and a tremendous amount of faith that the tightness of what you’re doing will see you through.”

“Is that so terrible a thing?” Majandra asked.

“No, I suppose not,” Kaerion replied after a long moment. He moved closer to the half-elf, catching her arm gently with his free hand. “But things don’t often work out the way we plan. Good doesn’t always triumph over evil. And sometimes, the paths that seem the clearest are the ones that cause us the most pain.”

This last came out in an uneven voice as Kaerion struggled to hide his grief—and failed. He released the bard’s arm and abruptly turned his attention to his mount, checking saddle knots and stirrups with studious concentration.

The silence stretched out again, this time full of tension. Majandra moved to the other side of the stallion’s head and gently rubbed the space between its eyes. “Why did you not seek healing after the attack?” she asked, suddenly changing the topic.

Kaerion continued with his ministrations, trying to find the right words. Despite his earlier comments, he did recall sharing a drink with Majandra. He’d almost confessed his guilt to her right there in the middle of the tavern, but fate had intervened. He had another chance now, if only he could figure out how to start. But try as he might, the words didn’t come.

“I suppose I wanted to save the god’s healing for those who truly needed it,” he said after a moment, immediately cursing himself for his cowardice. He’d refused Vaxor’s offer because he had been afraid of what the cleric would discover. Instead, he’d recovered his backpack and quaffed a healing potion while the others were deliberating their next move at the University.

He saw by the look on her face that she didn’t quite believe him. The bard opened her mouth to speak again, but he quickly interrupted her, not liking the direction the conversation was likely to take them.

“I appreciate your thanks, Majandra,” he said as he tightened the stallions saddle straps with a quick tug, “but as I said, it’s not necessary. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to check in with Gerwyth.”

With that, he mounted his horse and urged it forward with a flick of the reins, kicking up a spray of ice and snow.

Stiff-backed and angry, Majandra watched in stunned silence as Kaerion rode away. When his cantering form was no more than a distant blur, she let out a string of curses that would have shocked any elf that overheard. She had been so very close to drawing the reserved fighter out from behind the wall he had built up to keep most everyone away. She was sure of it. One wrong question, however, had sent him back behind his brusque defenses.

Not that she wasn’t truly grateful for his aid the other evening. Kaerion’s courage, skill with a blade, and poise under deadly attack had turned the tide of battle in the Platinum Shield. She was convinced more than ever that Phathas had made the correct choice when he called upon an old friendship in his time of need. Their group would need the skills of Gerwyth and his moody companion if they were to succeed. And so much depended upon their success, she thought, shivering in the chill afternoon air.

Majandra continued to stare out in the direction Kaerion had headed, pulling at her lower lip thoughtfully. What was it that drove this embittered man, that forced him to keep the world and everyone in it at a distance? She’d watched him closely these past two weeks, hoping for some due. One thing was certain: something must have happened during the battle at the inn, something between he and Vaxor. It wasn’t just that Kaerion had quietly removed himself from the area when the Heironean priest was offering the healing of his god. The two men hadn’t exchanged more than a few words since that night, and Majandra could feel the tension growing.

Whatever the issue was, she was sure that it was tied up in some way to Kaerion’s impassioned comments about the “clear path.” Something had occurred in this man’s past, something truly tragic, and despite his best attempts, it occasionally broke through the mask he wore. The depth of his pain had surprised her today, but even more disturbing had been the strength of her need to understand him.

What had begun as an instinctive desire to uncover what promised to be an intriguing tale had grown into something much more. Thinking about it, Majandra nearly laughed out loud at the irony. She, a bard and master of many fables, legends, and sagas, felt trapped in a story not of her own making. The truth of the matter was, she finally admitted to the rolling plains and angry gray clouds of the grasslands, Majandra Damar, bastard daughter of one of the noblest houses in the kingdom, was falling in love.

It wasn’t until her mare gave a whuffle of displeasure that Majandra noticed the wet snow and icy rain, which had begun to fall once again.

The caravan continued through the grasslands for several more days, followed by the blustering wind and freezing rain of the storm. Despite well-built fires protected from the dousing snow and rain by a judicious use of Phathas’ magic, warmth eluded Kaerion. The days rolled by in miserable array, each one more uncomfortable than the last. Even though there were only a few weeks until Readying and the spring thaw, winter still held a tight grip upon the land, unwilling to yield its dominion. After the fourth consecutive afternoon of sleet and hail, Kaerion found himself looking forward to the oppressive heat of the Vast Swamp.

He wasn’t the only one affected by the continually dreary conditions. Spirits had dampened considerably since the expedition had left Rel Mord. The nights were spent in uncharacteristic silence around the fires, with many of the group’s members huddled together for warmth. Even the caravan drovers and guards, whose curses and world-weary comments were usually delivered with professional detachment, had begun complaining in earnest; tempers were ready to snap.

In the late afternoon of the eighth day, during a nasty hailstorm, Kaerion found himself in the midst of a heated discussion. Gerwyth, who had continued to scout ahead of the wagons, had just returned, his winded black gelding blowing plumes of steamy breath in the winter air. The elf had spotted the remains of a burned wagon about a league farther ahead, probably the work of bandits, and was recommending that the expedition circle up its wagons for the evening and make camp, using the remaining light to fortify their position.

“Absolutely not,” Bredeth said. “We still have a fair amount of light left, and I say we push on. We have a long distance to travel, and we shouldn’t waste time. Besides, we have little to fear from a pack of bandits. The scum would be no match for us.”

The incessantly poor disposition of the weather had brought about an equally irritating change in the young noble. The excitement of the journeys beginning had transformed Bredeth into a bearable, if not entirely pleasant traveling companion. He seemed to have left much of his arrogance inside the capital and would often undertake the necessary duties of traveling without too much protest. Unfortunately, the rigors of this trip had brought about the return of the all-too-familiar Bredeth, and Kaerion found himself clenching his fist with the effort of holding back the punch he wanted to deliver right on the highborn snob’s face. Was it possible that many of the nobles he once called friend acted the same way around those they felt as their inferiors?

“Are you so ready to shed blood needlessly?” Gerwyth replied. The elf stroked one hand lightly along his mount’s muzzle. Despite the whistling wind and the sometimes-painful fall of hailstones, the ranger appeared undisturbed by the fierceness of the weather. “If we are cautious and take the time to make camp here for the night, we reduce the chances that we will be attacked. Besides—” he pointed to the caravan drovers—“our team is tired. The men need a chance to rest, as do the animals. We have driven them hard under difficult conditions.”

The young noble bristled as the elf spoke, but he offered no counter argument. Vaxor nodded at Gerwyth’s words. He squinted beneath the wind’s assault, motioning for the grizzled drover who was in charge of the collected wagons. “Tell the rest of your team that we make camp here, and tell Landra to mount a double watch tonight.” He dismissed the drover with a curt nod.

Bredeth sighed and stalked off, no doubt ready to take his temper out on an unsuspecting guard. Kaerion was about to follow when he caught sight of Majandra, sharing a joke with one of the caravan’s teamsters. He had spoken very little to the bard since their brief conversation the other day, and he found that puzzling. Since he had arrived in Rel Mord, the half-elf had always seemed a ready companion, willing to share a tale or, more likely, ask questions that he’d rather not answer. Lately, however, he had seen very little of her—and was surprised by how much that bothered him. He had grown used to the bard’s presence and found himself wondering what she was doing. He’d have to apologize for his rudeness when he had the chance, and hope that she would have the grace to forgive him.

He was about to do just that, when a hand slapped his shoulder companionably. “Well, Kaer,” Gerwyth said, “how about you and I oversee some of the preparations for this evening and then enjoy the comforts of a warm fire?”

Kaerion turned and flashed the ranger a smile. “That sounds good, Ger,” he said. “I’m tired of this damned snow and ice.”

Kaerion cast a quick glance behind him at the red-haired bard before joining his friend, but not before the elf managed to spot the target of his gaze.

“Oh-ho,” Gerwyth said with an arch of an angled eyebrow, “it seems that our friend has found himself a worthy cause after all.”

Kaerion shot his friend a barbed glance. “Leave it alone, Ger. I haven’t found anything.”

The elf nodded, a half smile playing about his lips.

“So,” Kaerion continued, hoping to change the conversation, “how bad was the wagon you found?”

The hail had finally stopped, and the ranger threw back his hood to run slender fingers through his hair, combing out the knots.

“Heavily damaged,” he said after a moment. “Whoever attacked the wagon left nothing behind. The good thing is I don’t think they used magic. The damage to the wagon was extreme, but not enough to indicate the use of spells. There were numerous hoof prints. I tracked them for a while before they became obscured in the falling snow. There were about twelve of them, with another six or so on foot. Dangerous, but like our young whelp said, they’re nothing we can’t handle.”

Kaerion knew he could count on Gerwyth’s judgment. The elf had once tracked a small band of goblins that had overrun a hamlet over ten leagues before surprising them in their lair. He’d truly come to appreciate the ranger’s skill and fierceness.

“This will be the first of many dangers we encounter,” the elf said. “We’ll have to be doubly on guard once we head into Rieuwood.”

Kaerion caught a burst of red out of the corner of his eye and turned just in time to see Majandra talking with another teamster. She flashed him a bright smile, eyes sparkling. The bard’s smile unsettled him. Gerwyth was right. This was just the beginning. They would face many dangers on this journey. Kaerion only wished he knew which dangers would prove the greatest.

10

Blood ran into the silver bowl.

Durgoth sighed with impatience as the sorceress continued with her preparations. Scrying was never an easy task—especially when the target was a mage of the highest caliber. He understood the need for special precautions, but the woman had spent most of the morning locked away. The doddering mage and his foolish companions had left nearly eight days ago, fleeing the city earlier than expected. A thrill ran through Durgoth at the thought of his enemies and their rushed exit from Rel Mord, but now he needed to confirm their path.

A soft knock on the door to the small room presaged Jhagren’s entrance. The monk bowed perfunctorily in his usual not-quite-insolent way and waited for Durgoth to acknowledge him. Durgoth allowed himself a small smile as he continued to watch Sydra and her arcane ministrations. He would let his esteemed companion wait—a reminder of who truly held the power. The ruddy-faced man had said very little since the battle at the Platinum Shield, and Durgoth did not trust the man’s silence. Jhagren was a dangerous tool—perhaps too dangerous. Soon it would be time to cast away such an instrument before it had the opportunity to turn on its wielder.

Sydra’s clear voice interrupted his ramblings. The sorceress had begun a soft chant as she poured more of the sacrificial blood into the ornate bowl that hung suspended from the ceiling by a thin chain. When Sydra was finished, she added a few more bundles of spiced wood to the brazier that burned dully about two feet beneath the bowl. The heat from the brazier would prevent the blood from thickening, thereby extending her ability to scry on their enemies. Frankly, Durgoth didn’t care much for the details. He simply wanted the witch to give him the information he needed—and soon.

When it was clear that he would yet have to wait to fulfill his desire, the cleric turned to Jhagren and acknowledged the silent man with a wave of his hand. “Is everything in readiness?” he asked.

The monk nodded his head slightly. “Yes, blessed one. We have secured wagons and enough horses to carry everyone. The merchant we dealt with was more than happy to provide for our needs, once we explained the alternatives.”

“Excellent,” Durgoth replied, wishing for a moment that he could have been there to see the terror in the merchant’s eyes. “What of Eltanel?”

“The thief has arranged for provisions, though I’m told that the Guild Master was less than pleased to discover that he was funding our expedition.” The monk spoke softly, but Durgoth was sure he could detect a hint of amusement in the man’s voice.

“That old cur shouldn’t complain,” the cleric barked with laughter. “After all, he’ll be drowning in riches.” For all the good it will do him, he added silently, casting a glance at Sydra.

Durgoth turned from Jhagren without another word and rubbed his hands together, imagining the power that would flow through them. Once Tharizdun was free, nothing on Oerth would be able to stand against him.

“It is time, blessed one,” Sydra said suddenly, and for a moment, Durgoth forgot his dreams of power.

Quickly, he moved to stand by the sorceress, peering into the blood-filled bowl. The woman brought her hands together in a sharp clap and exhaled deeply. Durgoth felt the hair on his neck rise. Whatever else he thought of Sydra, the woman was gifted. Eldritch energy filled the room.

Eyes closed, the sorceress waved smooth-skinned hands over the bowl—once, twice. On the third pass, Durgoth saw the dark red liquid shimmer. In a few moments, the shimmering became a crimson radiance that pulsed like the beat of a heart. The cleric stared at the arcane display with great interest, the rhythm of his heart matching the pulsing incandescence.

Eventually, the light within the bowl grew brighter, and in a single powerful flash, resolved itself into startling detail. Sydra opened her eyes and rested her hands at her side. “It is done,” she said simply, and moved to the side, allowing Durgoth full view of the image in the bowl.

The cleric stared down at an image of an old man, wrapped in thick blankets. By the looks of his surroundings, he appeared to be resting within a small wooden structure. It was the mage, Durgoth decided after a moment. The old fool slept peacefully, never dreaming of the danger that haunted his every step.

“Could we not destroy him now, as he sleeps?” the cleric asked.

Sydra shook her head before answering. “There are a few spells I could cast through this mystic link. However, it is likely that a mage as powerful as Phathas would detect the arcane energy and erect a barrier.”

“It is just as well. The senile fool will prove useful to us before we destroy him. Once we are through with him, I leave his fate in your hands.”

The sorceress gave him a grim smile. “As you wish, blessed one.” Durgoth could almost hear the anticipation in her voice.

“I wish to see more,” he informed her after another moment spent examining the mage.

She nodded and stepped forward, this time whispering several words as she traced patterns into the surface of the steaming blood with a single finger. The scene shifted with a disorienting lurch, resolving again into an image of several wagons slogging across a snow-covered landscape.

“Do you recognize where they are?” he asked Sydra.

“Yes,” she replied after spending a few moments peering into the bowl. “They are in the grasslands to the south and east of Rel Mord. It is as you said, blessed one.”

Yes, Durgoth thought. The scrolls that Eltanel had managed to pilfer from their room indicated this route. If they were headed for the Vast Swamp, which was a certainty according to their notes, they would avoid drawing too close to the coastline where the activity off Fairwind Bay would increase the ferocity of the winter weather. More than likely, they were headed for the confluence of the Harp and Lyre Rivers. From there, they would probably turn south, skirt the Bonewood Forest, and follow the river south into Rieuwood. It was a good plan, one that he would have created himself. Perhaps these nobles were not so foolish as he originally had thought. It mattered little, however, as he would make sure that they were all dead before he completed his task.

Durgoth was about to order the sorceress to end the scrying and prepare his followers for their journey when he caught a fiery flash of red. Looking closer, the cleric was pleased to discover that the distracting color was not the result of a torch or other such incendiary device, but it was due to the wind lashing through the hair of an enchanting woman. Her elven ancestry was apparent in the elegant cheekbones and slightly alien features, but these only served to heighten her beauty. Durgoth felt an unfamiliar warmth building in his loins. It had been quite some time since he had deigned to indulge himself in the pleasures of the flesh—perhaps too long. He would keep this one alive after he had dealt with the rest of her companions. He knew he would tire of her in time, but his nights would be filled with sport until then.

The fire-haired beauty turned suddenly and smiled, as if greeting a friend, but Durgoth could see no one else nearby. “What manner of trickery is this?” he asked Sydra.

The sorceress stepped forward and gazed into the bowl. She spoke a single command, and a gray cloud shimmered near the image of the half-elf, but no figure resolved. “I do not understand, blessed one,” Sydra said after a moment of tense concentration. “Something is blocking the effects of my spell, but only in a localized area.” She closed her eyes again, and sweat beaded on her forehead. “It is not a spell, blessed one, but whatever it is, it holds great power. I can feel it working against me.”

“I am not interested in your feelings, Sydra,” the cleric snapped. “I am interested in finding out exactly what this power is and who it’s protecting.”

Swallowing hard, the sorceress closed her eyes and cast another spell. Durgoth ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. They couldn’t afford to be surprised by anything else on this mission. Success was critical. He watched a few moments as Sydra continued her spell, then he turned to Jhagren. The monk had stood silently throughout this scrying. Perhaps he could shed some light on the situation.

Before Durgoth could open his mouth, Sydra screamed and threw her hands up to her temples. The scrying bowl exploded, sending silver shards and splatters of scalding blood across the room. Durgoth raised his own hands instinctively as the crimson rain poured down upon him.

Heavy footsteps came pounding down the hallway soon after, and the cleric could hear the frantic questions of his followers as they gathered beyond the closed door. He ignored the pain of his burns and turned to leave, only to find Jhagren quietly opening the door to address the concerned cultists beyond. Durgoth noted with irritation that the monk had avoided the burning spray and moved with complete calm. Left with nothing else to do, Durgoth surveyed the damage.

Sydra lay in the center of the room, covered in blood and the remains of the silver bowl. It was difficult to tell how much blood was her own and how much was the remains of her scrying medium. Durgoth felt little compunction to find out. The brazier underneath the bowl had somehow managed to remain upright, but the fire in it had been extinguished by the bowl’s contents, which ran steaming down its sides.

So, Durgoth thought bitterly, there yet remains another mystery to be solved. Deep in his heart he knew that these obstacles were merely tests by which the Dark One measured the strength and the commitment of his servants. He would not be found wanting.

Slowly, he walked to the door of the room and opened it, sure of his next move. They would leave tomorrow on the trail of their enemies, and there would be nothing in this world that could stand in Durgoth’s way.

Kaerion slowed his horse to a trot as he neared the line of wagons that stretched before him. Even from this distance he could hear the hum of activity coming from the caravan. Drovers and teamsters exhorted their beasts of burden with sharp cracks of leather whips and equally sharp tongues. Occasionally, he heard the strains of their frank and good-natured banter, which still managed to bring color to his cheeks at its most outrageous points.

The weather had warmed a bit, offering the travelers a respite from the continuous assault of winter, and Kaerion was surprised to note the number of offerings left to Fharlanghn and his divine children before the caravan had started its journey for the day. Even so, the wind still carried a bite, and steam rose off the flanks of his stallion.

Earlier in the day, the expedition had passed the remains of the bandit-razed wagon. Both Gerwyth and Kaerion had decided to take a complement of caravan guards and patrol the area around their vulnerable wagons. Thankfully, there had been no sign of bandits or other dangers in the surrounding plain, and Kaerion made his way back to report the good news.

He slowed the stallion to a walk as he caught up with the caravan, weaving his mount expertly through the press of supply wagons, oxen, and teamsters. The horse snorted once and pranced forward, obviously disappointed that their morning exertions were over so soon. Kaerion smiled at this display of spirit and patted the stallion’s neck.

“There’ll be time enough for running free on this journey, eh Jaxer?” he said, addressing the horse by name. “No sense spoiling it by risking a broken leg on this gods-cursed snow.”

Despite himself, Kaerion couldn’t help his smile from turning bittersweet. Jaxer was a fine stallion with a long, powerful stride and a heart that was a match for any warrior, but thoughts of his qualities only invited comparisons to another steed—Kaerion’s own war-horse, dead these ten long years, killed by the same cowardice that had shattered everything he had held sacred. Memories of the golden-maned stallion came unbidden to his mind, echoes of its grace and power, the almost total union of mind and body that allowed both steed and rider to anticipate the needs and movements of the other. All of it was gone now, lost like so much else.

“I thought druids and elves were the only folk crazy enough to talk to their mounts,” a familiar voice broke through Kaerion’s gloomy ruminations. He looked up to see Majandra flashing the dazzling light of her smile at him.

“How goes the patrols?” she asked as she drew closer.

“Uneventful, thank the gods and anyone else who is willing to listen,” Kaerion replied. “There was no sign of the bandits anywhere within a league of our caravan. Whoever or whatever attacked the wagon has moved on.”

“That is good news,” the half-elf said, “though I fear Bredeth will be disappointed.”

Kaerion was about to answer, but was surprised into silence when Jaxer bucked wildly. He grabbed the reins hard and fought for control of the stallion. Searing pain shot through his left thigh and he gasped with the force of it, nearly unseating himself in the process.

“Kaerion, what’s wrong?” Majandra asked, but he could spare no attention to the bard’s worried question. Every ounce of his skill and experience was turned toward gaining control of his mount.

The pain in Kaerion’s thigh intensified, and he cried out. The distraction was enough to give Jaxer his head. The stallion reared up on his hind legs, sending its hapless rider tumbling to the ground.

Kaerion hit the snow-packed ground hard, knocking all of the wind from his lungs. He lay there doubled up, gasping for breath. Majandra started to run toward him and then stopped, her eyes wide with wonder. Dazed, it took the fighter a few moments to focus on the source of the half-elf’s amazement. What he saw filled him with horror.

The contents of his saddlebag lay strewn about the snow—including Galadorn’s jeweled scabbard, which had rolled free from the thick, oily cloth that hid its presence from the rest of the expedition. Worse, the precious stones adorning the scabbard each pulsed with an intense light, the first signs of true life he had seen from the blade in over a decade.

Kaerion wanted to reach out and grab the sword, return it to its humble wrappings and hide it away again, but his body would not respond. He heard Majandra say something, but the words slowed and elongated, as if they were spoken underwater, and Kaerion could not make them out.

He tried to turn his gaze to the bard, but the pulsating light of the scabbard drew his attention like a lodestone. The incandescent stones grew brighter with each rhythmic pulse, until he was sure that he looked upon a collection of fallen stars. The surrounding snow absorbed the illumination, magnifying it until it shone brighter than the sun. The pure white of the stones burned his eyes, searing through thoughts and memories like a fiery blade. He was lost in a landscape of diamond brilliance. Lost and alone.

Until everything, at last, became the light.

11

The nightmare returned, and with it the temple—soaring arches and white marble walls arcing toward the heavens. He heard the singing once again, but this time didn’t revel in it. He knew what was to come.

And it did. All too soon.

He saw the gray-robed procession marching solemnly toward the altar, saw an emaciated figure he knew to be himself kneeling helplessly on the ground. When he looked for the boy again, he found him lying face up on the stone altar. The clerics around him had shed their gray robes. He looked on in disgust as he saw the mottled skin, jagged scales, and oozing pus that made up their naked flesh. These demons wore twisted mockeries of the human form. Many of them sprouted leathery tails that twitched and caressed their infernal companions, while a few possessed great wings that beat in time to the bass rumble of their laughter. The demonic monks reveled in dark joy around the altar, alternately fondling themselves, each other, and the object of their rite.

From this distance, Kaerion could see the boy’s face, frightened but expectant—sure that the paladin would summon forth his holy powers and rescue him. Kaerion reached for Galadorn, only to recoil as the sword’s hilt stung his hand like a giant wasp.

“Heironeous,” he accused the lofty balustrades of the temple, “why have you abandoned me?”

But there was no answer. He didn’t really expect any. He ran toward the altar with a strangled cry as one of the fiends raised a sharply-taloned claw in the air and brought it down across the exposed throat of the boy. The young lad did not even cry out as the demon ripped out his throat.

Kaerion, jolted awake by the splash of cool water on his face, cracked open his eyes to twin slits and surveyed his surroundings. Several lamps burned fitfully, and though their dim light assaulted his vision like three suns, he was able to make out the familiar interior of a caravan wagon.

Boxes and supplies had been moved to make room for the makeshift bed that he currently found himself in. Though soaked with sweat, a deep chill sent aches and shudders through his tired body, and he felt grateful for the pile of warm skins and blankets that covered him.

A shadowy figure moved softly in the wagon’s space, and Kaerion opened his eyes as wide as their crusted lids would allow. Majandra moved closer to his bedridden form, bending forward to dab his sweat-slicked forehead with a rag. He tried to reach out and hold on to the bard’s hand, but he felt entirely disconnected from his body, as if he floated in an empty space somewhere above his supine form; his hand did not respond. Frustrated, he could only lay still as the half-elf continued with her tender ministrations.

She smiled once and said something that resembled his name, but he could not make it out. A dull haze had begun to settle over his thoughts, and he felt himself falling back toward the waiting arms of sleep.

Memories of the events that had led him here washed over Kaerion in a rush, pulling him toward oblivion. He thought bitterly of the sacred sword that had betrayed him in a similar fashion to the way he had betrayed it. “Justice,” he tried to say as the thick blanket of sleep fell over him, but the words never came out.

Time passed as Kaerion drifted in and out of consciousness—though how much time was difficult to determine. He sensed rather than felt the wagon’s movement, for the weakness and disembodiment he had felt earlier stayed with him. Once, he thought he heard the sound of rushing water, but it soon became difficult to tell, as the world around him swam in and out of focus, ending finally in familiar darkness.

He was surprised to notice the regular attendance of nearly every one of his companions. Even Bredeth came to sit with him. The young noble regaled him with his thoughts and hopes for the glorious battles and heroic deeds they would undertake on this journey, and though his visits tired Kaerion, he found himself oddly touched by the normally brusque noble’s concern. Only Vaxor was conspicuous in his absence.

Thoughts of the Heironean priest only served to bring his true situation into complete focus. Surely the arch priest would understand the significance of the sword, and if he hadn’t condemned him to the others yet, he had certainly passed judgment himself. Once his companions learned the true nature of his cowardice, he would be lucky if any of them would even speak to him again. For some reason, this caused Kaerion more sadness than he expected, and he lay there shaking with weakness and anticipated dread.

Kaerion awoke one morning to daylight streaming in through the now-open end of his wagon. A warm breeze blew softly through the space, carrying the perfumed scent of flower buds and grass.

“There he is,” a voice said from somewhere near the opening, and Kaerion recognized Gerwyth’s mocking tone instantly. “Glad to see you’re finally awake long enough to appreciate the weather,” he said, climbing into the wagon and taking a seat next to Kaerion’s bed. “Care to stop lazing about and finally earn your keep?”

Kaerion smiled and looked up at his friend. A thousand retorts came to mind, but the parched desert of his mouth would not let any of these clever barbs escape. His struggles must have been easily noticed, for the elf chuckled once and then produced a skin of water, which he held gently to Kaerion’s mouth.

He drank greedily, letting the cold liquid linger in his mouth before swallowing it. He took several long draughts, surprised at the depth of his own need. Gerwyth let out another laugh and pulled back the skin all too soon.

“Easy, Kaer,” the ranger said, all trace of his former mockery gone. “Phathas says you must not drink too much too soon.”

Kaerion nodded and drew his hand across the cracked and dried tissue of his lips. “H-how long have I been sick?” he asked after a moment, his voice gruff and harsh from disuse.

“For some time,” the elf responded. “It is currently the third day of Coldeven. You gave us all quite a scare.”

Kaerion stared at his friend in shock. Six weeks. He’d been bedridden and sick for six weeks. No wonder the warm weather felt alien. It should still have been the end of winter, and here it was well into spring.

“How far have we traveled?” he asked.

Gerwyth looked at his friend for just a moment, and Kaerion could see the concern in his friend’s eyes. “We traveled across the confluence of the Harp and Lyre rivers, turned south to skirt the Bonewood forest and made our way into the Rieuwood. We are currently about a week or so away from the southern border of the forest and Sunndi.”

So much time lost, so much of their journey completed, and he had spent it lying on his back like an infirm old man.

“Kaerion,” Gerwyth asked, interrupting his bitter thoughts, “what happened out there?”

Kaerion shook his head. “I don’t know. One moment I was having a conversation with Majandra, and the next Galadorn burst into life.” His voice became a whisper. “It hasn’t done that since… since Dorakaa.” Kaerion groaned and tried to roll over, the surprise at being able to feel his body overshadowed by his current situation. “Now that they’ve seen Galadorn, everyone must already know exactly what I am.”

“And what are you?” Gerwyth asked.

“I am a traitor, a coward, and a betrayer. I was once beloved of a god, Ger, a commander of legions, and a hero right out of a bard’s tale. I threw it all away. Turned my back on the god I served. I am nothing.”

“You are my friend,” Gerwyth replied, grabbing Kaerion’s shoulder with startling intensity. “You are brave and strong and noble in every way that truly counts, and I would gladly lay down my life for yours.”

Kaerion lay there, stunned by the deep sincerity present in the ranger’s words and expression. Through ten years’ worth of travel, he had rarely seen this side of the normally quixotic and carefree elf.

“That means more to me than you know, Ger,” Kaerion said, “but now that the rest of them have discovered my secret, they will have to turn their backs on me. It is the Church of Heironeous that sponsors this expedition. Surely you see that.”

“The rest of our companions have not discovered your ‘secret’, Kaer,” Gerwyth replied. “They have seen a sword, nothing more.”

“But they must suspect something, and Vaxor—”

“Suspicions are like goblins, or at least that’s what my mother always told me,” interrupted Gerwyth. “They breed almost everywhere, but fall to a single arrow easily enough. And do not trouble yourself about Vaxor.”

“The significance of Galadorn can’t be lost upon him,” Kaerion said. “He must know, and I’m sure that he will tell the others.”

“The priest has said nothing to the others,” the elf said, “and if he does, it will be your opportunity to confront the very thing you have been running from. That will be the true measure of your courage.”

Kaerion nodded. “Perhaps you’re right, Ger. Though what will the others think of me? I’ve grown used to the rudeness of strangers, but not—”

“Those you care about,” Gerwyth finished. “Is it really the others you care about? Or perhaps it’s the regard of a certain fiery-haired bard that you’re really concerned with.”

Kaerion shifted uncomfortably in his bedding, feeling a hot flush blossoming on his face. He ran pale fingers though his tangled and sweat-crusted hair, hoping the movement would mask the red tinge he was sure marked his cheeks and neck. “Wh-what are you talking about, Ger?” he stammered.

The elf smiled, obviously enjoying his friend’s discomfort. “Come on, Kaer,” Gerwyth said, “I can track a brownie across rock-strewn foothills. Surely I can see the obvious attraction between a man and a woman.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kaerion said in clipped tones. “There is nothing between Majandra and I.”

“And I’m a priestess of Lolth,” Gerwyth replied. “Gods, Kaer, I have eyes. I can see it clearly. You two care for each other—though why Majandra would be interested in a brutish lout like you I’ll never know.”

Kaerion grabbed for the waterskin and took several more long swallows, ignoring the elf. When he was finished, he tossed the skin to the side. “Just leave it alone, Ger,” Kaerion said tersely. “Nothing is going to happen between Majandra and I—especially not now.”

Gerwyth shook his head. “But why, Kaer? You’ve never taken an oath of celibacy. Just tell her how you feel. You must know she cares about you. Besides, if you get your feelings out in the open, you two can stop mooning over each other like a couple of lovesick—”

Kaerion tossed back his blankets in frustration. “Just… leave it be, Ger,” he said between clenched teeth.

The elf looked as if he would say more, but suddenly threw up his hands and stood. “Now I know you’re on the mend,” he said.

“Why’s that?” Kaerion asked, still somewhat sullen.

“Because you’re getting more stubborn and pig-headed every day,” the elf replied. “Pretty soon you’ll be back to the mulish, dull-witted human I’ve come to know so well.”

His friend’s words brought a ghost of a smile to Kaerion’s face. “And don’t you forget it either,” he said after a moment. “Now go—” he waved an imperious hand at the elf—“and let me enjoy this beautiful morning in peace.”

“As you command,” Gerwyth said, offering a mock bow that made Kaerion laugh. “But tomorrow you and I are going for a walk. Phathas says that you should be up and about more often, regaining your strength. Once we’re out of the Rieuwood, it’s a short journey to the borders of the Vast Swamp. I’m going to need the strength of your sword arm and whatever wits have managed to survive in your head if we’re going to make it to the tomb safely.”

Kaerion watched the elf as he stepped nimbly out of the wagon and into the bright spring day. The smile that played upon his face remained for a while, and he realized that his spirits felt lighter than they had in quite some time. Soon he would be out of this damned wagon, a useful member of the expedition again. After that… he grimaced. Well, only time would tell.

Majandra sat enjoying the fire that crackled fitfully in the small clearing. Around her, the members of their expedition shared light conversation and an even lighter skin of wine as they finished up the remains of the thick stew that had sustained them through much of their journey. Occasionally, the sharp laughter of a teamster or the whispered words of passing sentries broke through the pleasant din of conversation, reminding her once again of the serious nature of their expedition. She was glad, however, that such a distraction existed. Though the elves patrolled the forested depths of the Rieuwood regularly, danger still lurked within the shadows of its leafy bowers—dangers that could have followed them all the way from Rel Mord. She felt comforted by the hushed tread of the guards as they stood watch against the night.

A cool breeze blew softly through the trees, rustling branches and limbs heavy with the rounded swell of leaf buds. Majandra closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, grateful for the early spring wind, so redolent with the fragrance of stem and flower and the blossoming scent of new life. A part of her felt deeply at home here in the wild heart of the Rieuwood, and she yearned to slip quietly away from the caravan and find a clear running stream where she could bathe beneath the soft moonlight and fall asleep on its mossy banks.

She opened her eyes and sighed, recognizing the familiar ache for what it was—the stirring of her elven blood. Away from the confines of city life and unrelenting din of civilization, it was easy to imagine herself living permanently under nature’s roof. Not for the first time, she found herself envying her elven cousins. Her own half-elven heritage had often made her feel like an outsider. The elves of this forest, she knew, felt no such separation. Perhaps one day she would follow the call of her blood, but not now. The future of Nyrond was at stake, and she could not deny its need.

Majandra reached for her harp, comforted by its familiar curves and the grain of its polished wood. Half of Luna’s face moved slowly across the sky as the bard idly plucked at the strings of the harp, all the while listening to Phathas and Gerwyth regale the rest of the group with tales from their adventuring days. She enjoyed the distraction, weaving gentle melodies between the measured cadence of the ranger’s voice and the answering retorts of both Bredeth and Vaxor.

It wasn’t until the wineskin had been filled, passed around, and filled again many times that conversation drifted to the topic that had filled Majandra’s mind for many weeks.

“So, Gerwyth, how fares our mysterious friend?” Bredeth asked in a voice roughened by too much alcohol. The young noble sat unsteadily on an old log, leaning across the glowing coals of the fire. In the dull light, his face looked flushed and puffy, the shadows adding years to his normally youthful appearance.

“Kaerion is doing well enough,” Gerwyth responded with a smile. “He grows stronger daily, and he should be strong enough to sit a horse in a few days.”

Majandra stopped playing at the sound of the dark-haired warrior’s name. She gave a quick look around and was glad to see that no one had noticed. The mundane needs of the caravan and the recovering fighter’s own forays into the forest with Gerwyth had kept her from visiting with Kaerion these past few days. Though she tried her best to control her thoughts, she was surprised at how often they had settled on the wounded fighter during that time. She bent graceful hands back to the silver strings and began to play once more.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Bredeth said, “though I’ll be even more glad when we lift the veil of mystery surrounding Kaerion. Exactly who is he, Gerwyth? We are trusting our lives and the success of this expedition to both of you. Don’t you think we have a right to know?”

Majandra hummed softly in accompaniment to her harp, hoping that the others wouldn’t see quite how interested she actually was in the topic at hand. Vaxor, she noted, sat stiffly on the ground, arms crossed before his chest, a grim set to his features.

“You know me, Bredeth,” Gerwyth said. “I have shared freely with all of you, but Kaerion—his story is his own to tell.”

Majandra nearly stopped playing again, for she was sure that the elf had cast a meaningful glance at Vaxor as he spoke.

“For now, he is simply a companion of this group, and hopefully a trusted one at that,” Gerwyth continued. “It was largely due to his efforts that we survived the attack on the inn.”

“He is a skilled warrior,” Majandra found herself agreeing—and nearly clapped her hand over her mouth in horror as Bredeth, Vaxor, and Gerwyth cast her a look. What was she, she thought bitterly, some lovesick serving maid?

“And a leader of men.” This from Phathas, who leaned forward, warming his hands over the glowing coals of the fire. “You can hear it in his voice,” the old mage continued, “he must have led many in battle.”

“Did you see that sword of his?” Bredeth said. “I’ll bet he stole it from some noble. I’ve never seen a blade quite like that. Certainly not in the hands of a commoner.”

Majandra nearly snorted. Before Gerwyth had scooped the sword up and wrapped it back in rags, she’d cast a good look at the blade, catching sight of some of the runes that ran along its shimmering length. Dwarven runes. Ancient ones, dating back from before the Invoked Devastation. It was a weapon crafted by a master smith, and no doubt intended for royalty. Such blades were not so easily stolen.

“Kaerion is many things, Bredeth,” Gerwyth replied, echoing the half-elf’s thoughts, “but he’s no thief.”

“No offense meant,” Bredeth replied to Gerwyth somewhat hastily. “But I don’t understand what he’s hiding.”

“He’s seen more things than most people have to deal with in several lifetimes,” Gerwyth replied. “Give him some time. Besides, you’ll have more important things to worry about in a few days.”

Majandra caught Bredeth’s questioning look.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“He means that we’ll be out of the Rieuwood in a few days and well on our way to the Vast Swamp,” Phathas, who had quietly risen to his feet, said in a soft voice. “And that’s when things will become dangerous.”

Gerwyth offered the aging wizard a hand as he started back to his wagon. “Once we’re in the swamp, I’ll need everyone focused on survival. No distractions. Can you do that?” he asked the noble.

“Of course,” Bredeth said, and Majandra was startled by the solemnity of the young fighter’s tone.

“Good,” Gerwyth replied before he and Phathas disappeared beyond the firelight. “Do me a favor and make sure the sentries don’t need anything before you turn in.”

Majandra smiled as Bredeth mumbled a curse and stumbled off into the darkness, leaving her alone with Vaxor. The bard finished playing and wrapped her harp in its leather case. She had her own suspicions about Kaerion, based on her observations and Vaxor’s strange behavior, but nothing definite. The mysterious warrior’s story was beginning to unfold, she thought, but there was still a long way to go to reach the ending.

Majandra stifled a yawn and watched the cleric for a few moments before getting up and heading toward her pack. By the time she returned with her bedroll, Vaxor had left. As she lay beneath the shining dome of stars waiting for sleep to come, she thought about their journey. She did not know what they would find within the ancient corridors of the wizard’s tomb, but she was glad that they would have the protection of a certain dark-haired warrior.

The screech of a night owl echoed in the distance. “Good hunting, sister,” Majandra said softly, turning toward the remaining warmth of the fire.

12

Durgoth Shem sat in the cramped confines of the wagon, jotting down notes and commentaries on several scrolls that lay heaped upon the wooden crate that had functioned as his makeshift desk since he had left Rel Mord. A brass lamp sat on a crate to his right, casting flickering illumination throughout the rude space. Its thick oil burned smokily, filling the wagon with an acrid stench. A light rain fell outside, tapping steadily on the tarp that protected the wooden roof of the wagon.

The cleric put down his quill with a sigh and stretched fingers that were cramped and sweaty from long hours of writing. Deciphering prophecy was never an easy task. When the gods spoke, their words came as riddles, laden with metaphor and signs and symbols—nearly incomprehensible to the mortal mind. He stared for a moment at the collection of scrolls before him that contained the words of the crucified seer. Penned in the flowing, elegant script of young Adrys, the ultimate meaning of the seer’s prophecy nevertheless lay shrouded behind a thick layer of riddles. Only the wisdom he had wrested from the Minthexian Codex had allowed him to pierce the veil even as far as he had, revealing the ultimate location of Acererak’s tomb. Using the ancient codex as his guide, Durgoth struggled to unlock the prophecy’s remaining secrets—the exact location of the key, the spells to wrest the artifact from Acererak’s tomb, the ritual to unlock its powers. All of these things lay just beyond his reach, safely resting within the very words the crucified seer had spoken in his monastery.

Durgoth smiled as he stood up, relieving the strain on his back. They had journeyed for quite some distance in pursuit of this goal, and according to the scrolls they had managed to take from the grasp of those gods-damned nobles, their quarry was heading in the same direction as the prophecy was leading his group. It was only a matter of time before they met up, and then Durgoth would have the pleasure of stealing their triumph out from under their noses.

His smile grew broader. After the disastrous attempt at scrying several weeks earlier, the cleric had relied on more mundane methods of tracking the Nyrondese fools’ progress. Gold, he thought, loosens lips easier than any spell. It had been simple to flash some coins at travelers coming from farther up the trade road and inquire after another caravan. So far, according to their sources, they had managed to stay about a week behind the Nyrondese wagons. Once out of the Rieuwood, they would increase their pace until they were able to shadow the nobles through the Vast Swamp.

An urgent knock at the wagon’s wooden doors interrupted Durgoth’s thoughts. He spun and called out gruffly for whomever it was to enter. He had left strict orders not to be interrupted during this part of the day and was about to dress down the man who had dared intrude on his sacred work, when he caught sight of Adrys entering the wagon. The novice’s sandy brown hair was matted to his head from the spring shower, and a mixture of sweat and rainwater ran down his face. The lad bowed once.

“Pardon my intrusion, blessed one,” he said in a voice tight with urgency, “but we seem to have a situation.”

“Speak then, lad,” Durgoth said sharply, not willing to waste any more of his time than he had to.

“Sir, a patrol of elves has blocked the road ahead. We will reach them in just a few moments. Jhagren sent me to alert you. Though your followers are trying to pretend they are honest teamsters, many of them seem frightened and unsure of what to do. My master feels that they may attempt something rash.”

Durgoth gave a soft curse. Elves. That’s all they needed right now. They had traveled for several weeks within the Rieuwood and he had half hoped they would pass through the forest untroubled by these damned elven patrols.

“You’ve done well, lad,” Durgoth said finally. “Go tell Sydra and Eltanel to prepare for an attack. And then go to the second wagon and quietly unlatch the door.”

The boy nodded in understanding. Hopefully, the two guild members would provide enough protection for their caravan. If not, the golem sat quiescent within their other wagon. Even now, the cleric could feel its dark life-force brooding, waiting to spring into action. If they struck quickly, they could kill these damned elves and push hard for the edge of the Rieuwood before other elven patrols would find them out. If not, their next few weeks within the forest would be one bloody battle.

“Go now, Adrys,” he said as he realized that the novice still stood before him. “I will go to Jhagren and see what is developing.”

The boy moved with surprising speed. Durgoth placed the Minthexian Codex within its hidden resting place before wrapping his cloak tight about him and stepping out of the wagon and into the rain.

By the time Durgoth plodded through the mud-churned road, his wagons had already stopped. Seven figures in forest-green cloaks stood in the center of the trail, talking to the caravan master. From this distance, Durgoth could see the stamp of elven blood on these warriors. Each had long hair wound tightly into warrior’s braids, and the silvery glint of polished mail peeked out through their cloaks. One of the elves, taller by almost a head than the rest of the band, stepped forward. His cloak was thrown back and secured by a clasp of silver oak leaves, and he wore a finely worked leather scabbard belted to his waist. Behind the elves, Durgoth could see the furtive movement of archers hidden within the trees. He moved closer to catch more of the conversation between the elf leader and his caravan master.

“But my lord,” the human protested, “we are simply a caravan bound for Sunndi. I can show you our trade manifests and merchant seals if you need them. We just—”

The elf cut the caravan masters explanation off with a sharp wave of his hand. “Save it, human. There is little room for pretense here.”

The elf’s voice was high and light, like most of his kind, but Durgoth could hear the menacing tones beneath it. They would probably have very little chance of talking their way out of this one.

“The forest has been uneasy for several weeks,” the elf continued, “and we have searched since then for the cause of its unrest.” He motioned with his other hand and two figures robed in white moved silently from the thick underbrush that hung closely on either side of the trade road. They flowed out of the underbrush as though emerging from water. Druids, most likely, Durgoth thought as he caught sight of the silver-white hair that fell unbound from their heads. Each carried a wooden staff tipped with a circle of holly leaf and berries. Silver scythes hung from their belt.

“The spirit of the forest recoils from every tread of your wagons,” one of the druids said. His voice, though soft as the spring wind that had followed their caravan through the Rieuwood, carried clearly to Durgoth.

“Whatever unnatural force you carry through our homeland,” the second druid said, “you will not be permitted to travel any farther. The spirit of this place and the will of Ehlonna bid you to begone.”

Durgoth crept closer, keeping himself out of sight of the elves. Silently, he prayed that the cultist he had placed in charge of the caravan would hold together just a few more moments—at least until he knew that Eltanel and Sydra were ready for an attack.

The leader of the patrol stepped forward once more. “You are instructed to turn your wagons and follow the trade road back the way you came. We will escort you to the borders of the Rieuwood. If you make no trouble and harm no living thing on this journey, we will allow you to live. Break this law, and we will kill you and drag your corpses out of the forest so that your taint will not trouble our homes. Is this understood?”

The caravan master stammered for a few moments, clearly too scared to answer the elf leader. Durgoth cursed, but stopped as he caught sight of Adrys. The young monk walked slowly and silently toward the front of the caravan, catching the cleric’s eye and nodding slightly. Durgoth gave a nod back, understanding that the guild members were in place. Moving forward swiftly now, he approached the gathered elves, his rain-soaked cloak trailing behind him.

“Perhaps we can come to some other agreement,” Durgoth said in a strong voice.

The leader of the elves turned at the sound of the clerics voice, obviously stunned by this new arrival, but he recovered soon enough as the second druid hissed something in his ear. Swifter than Durgoth thought possible, the elf drew the length of his gleaming steel sword from its scabbard.

“Archers in the trees!” Durgoth shouted as he drew his obsidian mace, trusting that Sydra would neutralize this threat.

He wasn’t disappointed. A fiery ball of energy flew out over the head of the patrol as Durgoth closed with the elf leader. A moment later, a vicious burst of flames exploded in the treetops where the archers lay hidden. Durgoth could hear their screams as he parried a viper-quick thrust from his opponent. Both sword and mace hummed with power as they clashed.

Though the muddy ground around him churned and oozed with each step, it became clear to Durgoth that his opponent suffered no disadvantage from the terrain, moving with perfect balance and near blinding speed. Durgoth barely managed to raise up his mace in time to deflect a killing stroke. He cried out as the blade bit deeply into his shoulder, and in desperation, he called upon Tharizdun as he grabbed the elf’s sword arm. The stench of burning flesh assailed his nostrils as the cleric withdrew his hand. The elf stumbled backward, clutching his arm and screaming in agony.

Durgoth took that moment to withdraw a few feet, turning his attention to the rest of the battle. The shadowy form of Jhagren leapt forward to engage the wounded elf. He was pleased to see that Adrys was harrying two elves with a flurry of kicks and punches; both of those beleaguered fighters seemed surprised at the ferocity of this human child, and neither was able to mount a serious attack.

“Durgoth, beware the druids!” Sydra shouted.

He turned his attention to the two druids. One of them had drawn his scythe and was laying about with the sharpened edge, cutting the throats and chests of several cultists. The second, however, chanted something in a sharp voice and struck the ground with his staff. For a moment nothing happened, and then the limbs, branches, and trunks of the surrounding foliage writhed and grew before his eyes. If he didn’t do something soon, most of his forces would be trapped within a verdant prison. Quickly, Durgoth recalled the ancient gestures to his spell and summoned the dark power of his Master once again. As he clapped his hands together, a small bubble of energy sprang forth before him, growing swiftly to encompass the caravan and the combatants. Wherever the druids writhing foliage touched the bubble, the plants blackened and died.

Durgoth wiped the sweat and rain from his brow and cast about the battle. Though Adrys had felled one of his opponents, a new one had stepped up, and it was clear that the young monk would soon be overmatched. His master fared little better. Jhagren struck furiously at the elf leader, but even wounded, the elf managed to avoid the blows. Meanwhile, Durgoth noticed that the remaining elven warriors were quickly cutting down his cultists.

Durgoth called on the golem, knowing that the construct’s power would turn the tide of battle. He felt clearly its answering acknowledgement a few moments before its dark-cloaked mass came running up to the front lines, crashing into the knot of elves that fought with his followers. The warriors stumbled back beneath the ferocity of the golems attack, and one fell to the ground, head split open by the tremendous force behind the monsters closed fist.

The cleric nodded, satisfied, and made his way toward the druids, smiling grimly at what he found there. Sydra had kept both priests off-balance by sending wave after wave of glowing missiles at them. This had allowed Eltanel to position himself for a clear shot with his crossbow. His first bolt struck one of the druids squarely in the back of the neck. Durgoth heard the elf’s spine snap under the force of the blow as the druid fell to the ground. As the second priest turned to gape at his fallen companion, Durgoth moved forward and brought his mace down upon the druid’s head. Blood and gray liquid spattered everywhere as the elf’s skull splintered.

Durgoth turned to find the golem lifting two elves by the throat. The construct cast a dark gaze at the cleric before crushing the windpipes of his opponents and casting their bloodied corpses at the remaining two elves, who were still locked in combat with Adrys.

“Help Jhagren!” Durgoth shouted to the golem as he ran past to aid the young monk. The golem moved quickly to Jhagren’s side, and Durgoth caught a glimpse of the elf striking desperately at the hulking mass of flesh.

Still a few yards away from Adrys, Durgoth watched as the novice dropped to the ground and lashed out with a booted foot at his nearest attacker, tripping the elf. The lad’s second opponent swung his sword downward, hoping to spit the monk as he tried to get back up. Adrys clearly saw the attack and brought his left leg up in a snapping kick that knocked the sword from his attacker’s hand. Durgoth closed in and finished off the elf who had fallen under the novice’s original attack.

Confident that the monk could defeat his last unarmed opponent, Durgoth turned back to the elf leader. Bruised and bleeding from several gaping wounds, the valiant elf nevertheless continued to fend off both the golem and Jhagren. The cleric was even surprised to see several gashes in the golem’s flesh, where the warrior’s magical sword had managed to penetrate the golem’s defenses.

While that battle continued, Durgoth motioned for Eltanel to take a contingent of cultists and make sure that the archers or any other remnant of the elven patrol did not survive. The thief nodded grimly and took off with several bloodied cultists to carry out his will.

A strangled cry made Durgoth turn back to the elf leader. Jhagren had finally managed to break the elf’s sword arm, and his continuing attacks pushed the warrior into the waiting arms of the golem. The patrol leader struggled valiantly to free himself, but the creatures strength was too much. The elf made a few more feeble attempts before the golem’s inexorable grip crushed the life out of him. His corpse slid noiselessly to the ground.

Durgoth stood in the center of the road, blood streaming from the cut in his shoulder. He felt lightheaded and more than a little battered. For a few moments, he could hear the short gurgled cries of the wounded as Eltanel and his group administered killing blows, and then a deep silence fell over the forest. The cleric looked around worriedly. It felt as if the silence bore down upon him, as if the forest impaled him with its ancient gaze.

And then, suddenly, he laughed. Softly at first, and then finally in explosive bursts of gut-heaving mirth that echoed wildly across the trade road. He caught several of his followers glancing at him with worried looks on their faces, and for some reason, he found this even funnier. The laughter held on to him for several more moments, until Jhagren moved toward him and stood silently, obviously waiting for his next command. Durgoth wiped tears from his eyes and began to exert control over himself.

“Jhagren,” he spoke between gasps of breath, “gather all of the corpses and pile them into the second wagon. Make sure to hide, gather, or erase all signs of this battle. And be quick about it.”

The monk nodded and ran off. Durgoth wiped a final tear from his eye and sent a prayer of thanksgiving to Tharizdun. They had to move quickly now. Once the elves discovered this treachery, they would send out patrols in force. But once free of this blasted place, there would be nothing that could stop him from retrieving the key.

He turned back toward his wagon and made his way through the carnage. The eyes of the dead stared at him accusingly.

He ignored them.

13

Steel burned with silver fire in the harsh sun as Kaerion raised his blade to meet the descending attack. He cursed as the shock of the blow jarred fever-weakened tendons and muscle. He stepped forward and slightly to the side of his opponent, allowing the attacker’s sword to force his own toward the ground. At the last moment, he withdrew his blade and spun away, hoping to catch his breath.

Sweat that had only very little to do with the blazing sun overhead streamed down his face, stinging eyes and leaving a sharp salty taste on lips pursed in frustration. He had discarded his normal mail shirt in favor of a lighter armor made from leather, but Kaerion still felt as if he were parading around in a set of full plate. Knees and shoulders protested, and breath came grudgingly, in ragged gasps. It felt as if a giant had him in a deadly bear hug.

Damned convalescence, he thought, all the while keeping a careful eye on his opponent. During the days since they had left the sheltered confines of the Rieuwood Forest, his strength had returned, slowly at first and then with more speed. Walks with Gerwyth, begun so gingerly at first, had turned into long, bone jarring rides, as the ravages of nearly two months of bed rest gave way before the restorative properties of warm spring winds and the rugged beauty of the Sunndi countryside. As the caravan continued on its journey, finally wending down into the humid arms of the Pawluck River Valley and its lush basin of trees and thick green undergrowth, Kaerion had begun his weapons practice in earnest, first privately and then with anyone who cared to test his returning skills. And here it was, just a few days before the expedition would reach the border of the Vast Swamp, and he still wasn’t at his best.

Kaerion grunted and shifted the grip on his sword. His wrists throbbed with an ache he hadn’t felt since his first days of sword training as a squire. He only hoped that his returning strength would be sufficient to protect his companions.

“Pay attention!” Gerwyth shouted, obviously mimicking the tones of an arms master rebuking a nettlesome novice.

A chorus of laughter and catcalls erupted from the knot of guardsmen who had come, with surprising regularity, to these daily training sessions—some to test their mettle against the recovering fighter, but most to watch two masters of the sword polish and hone their own breathtaking skills.

The weary fighter cast the guards a fierce glare, but they continued to jeer, some even offering him advice on his grip or his stance. He scowled again and shook his head. The early formality between the caravan guards and the rest of the expedition had dissolved beneath the tread of many miles and the assault of the elements, replaced now by an easy camaraderie. There were times, however, where he yearned for the quiet distance of those early days.

“Are you finally ready to yield, old man?” Gerwyth called out again. “I’ll understand if your rather delicate nature gets the better of you.”

This brought another round of laughter from the assembled guards—laughter that ceased as Kaerion summoned his last reserves of strength and launched a series of blinding attacks. The metallic clash of steel rang through the small clearing as the two combatants traded blows almost too fast for anyone to see.

Kaerion pressed forward, weaving a net of sun-kissed steel before him, trying to use his greater size and reach to his advantage. Sweat continued to pour from his brow, but he ignored it, concentrating only on his opponent. The elf crafted an almost perfect defense, meeting each of the fighter’s attacks with an economical grace. Kaerion could feel himself weakening past the point of his own endurance. He analyzed his opponent for any weakness, any misstep—for he knew that he had to end this fight in the next few moments.

He found his opportunity as he aimed a horizontal blow at the ranger’s head. Years of fighting alongside his friend had given him insight into the elf’s style; he knew it almost as well as he knew his own. Thus, it was easy to predict Gerwyth’s response to the head blow. The elf dropped to his knees—where he would aim a deadly thrust at his opponent’s unprotected belly.

Kaerion shifted his stance and redirected his attack as soon as he felt the elf commit to his defense. His blade slashed downward, meeting the elf’s outthrust sword and driving its point into the ground. Before Gerwyth could react, Kaerion lashed out with a booted foot and caught the elf in the chest. Gerwyth fell backward, his sword falling from his hands. The fighter moved forward quickly and laid the point of his sword at his friend’s throat.

Silence filled the clearing, broken only by Kaerion’s gasps as he forced air into his lungs. The two opponents held their position for a few moments, eyes blazing.

“Rather inelegantly done,” Gerwyth remarked after another moment, “but effective.”

A cheer rang out from the assembled guards, and Kaerion could hear the sound of money changing hands. Despite his own aversion to gambling, he couldn’t keep a wicked smile from his face. He wasn’t surprised to see that same smile appear on Gerwyth’s face as the elf motioned for some aid in getting up.

His smile never faltered as they pushed their way through the press of guards who offered their congratulations and good-natured sympathy to both victor and defeated alike. Kaerion accepted his accolades with shrugs as he fumbled with the straps that held his now sweat-soaked armor.

“You fought well,” Gerwyth acknowledged in a not-quite rueful tone. He led the exhausted fighter down a small path that meandered away from the clearing. “I’m thinking that you are almost fully recovered, my friend.”

Kaerion, distracted by the effort of walking and shedding his seemingly cursed armor, only grunted at the elf’s praise.

“I mean it, Kaer,” Gerwyth said, turning to assist him. “I don’t mind saying now that I was very worried about you while you were ill. I’ve never seen anything like it—not even magic seemed to help. And Galadorn, well let’s just say that sword of yours has stirred quite a bit of interest.” This last was uttered through gritted teeth as the elf wrestled with the final attachment.

Kaerion let out a contented sigh, as much to distract Gerwyth from talk of his ancient blade as from the sheer pleasure of shedding the thick leather armor and underpadding he’d worn the last hour. The ensuing weeks of sundrenched activity following his illness had darkened his skin to a rich, bronze hue, the even tan broken only by the puckered edges of battle scars that stood out angrily in the harsh noon glare. He stretched luxuriously, enjoying the cool sensation of wind across the sweat-covered expanse of chest, shoulders, and back, before clapping the elf companionably about the shoulder.

“I understand, Ger,” he said, “and I appreciate all that you’ve done for me. But—” Kaerion stopped, unable to put voice to his thoughts. He was indeed touched and grateful for the elf’s companionship. Even had he not recognized the elf’s deep affection for him long ago, the ranger’s actions since his illness made it very clear. But there was still part of him that ached with a grief so deep he’d spent the last ten years trying to drown it with ale and spirits. Though he was surprised that his other companions hadn’t yet called him out, he waited in dread for the moment of revelation, the moment when the discovery of what he had done would shatter the fragile peace he’d found, and his newfound friends would turn their backs on him. No. He wasn’t quite ready to face them.

The elf seemed to sense his mood and lifted one corner of his mouth in a smile. “It is I who understand, Kaerion,” the elf said softly, then in a louder voice, “Come my loutish friend! Let’s see if you can move that hulking human frame of yours as fast as you move your mouth.” He pointed down the path, where somewhere in the distance the burbling call of a swift-moving stream promised relief from the unrelenting heat of the afternoon. “First one to the stream fetches dinner for the loser,” he said, and then swiftly disappeared down a bend in the path.

Kaerion cursed and dropped his armor in an undisciplined heap on the rock-strewn trail. A few moments later, both he and the elf were wrestling at the edge of the stream, each declaring the other defeated. The ranger wrapped one leg around Kaerion and pushed, hoping to trip the less-agile human, but the stubborn fighter held on and both plunged into the stream.

“No fair!” Kaerion sputtered. The shock of the still-cool stream water on his sun-warmed body nearly made him gasp again, but he contented himself with sending a cascade of water into the surprised elf’s face instead. The sight of the normally immaculate elf, hair drenched and ears dripping water, sent him into paroxysms of laughter that continued for quite some time.

“It appears,” Gerwyth finally said after he’d attempted to quiet his giggling friend with a stern glare for the third time, “that the sun and spring wind have healed more than just an illness.”

Sobered by his friends words, Kaerion stared thoughtfully at the elf. “Leave it be, Ger,” he said after a moment, but smiled to soften the remark. He really wasn’t ready to talk about it, but it was difficult to stay angry at an elf who resembled a dried grape. His laughter soon returned, and with it, another round of splashing. Bush and tree alike were soon soaked as the combatants continued their heroic combat.

“So, I see now why Phathas insisted that we hire you two as our guides and guardians,” a voice broke through the sounds of battle. “We’ve nothing to fear with both of your prodigious talents to protect us.”

Kaerion stopped his attack and turned to stare in horror at the source of the voice. Majandra leaned indolently against a tree, arms crossed, one brow arched high. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—and nearly choked as Gerwyth sent another wave of liquid streaming into his face.

“Does the fair lady wish to join me in my battle against this grave evil?” the elf asked as Kaerion sputtered and wheezed, trying to clear his throat and lungs of water. He could hear his friend’s slightly wistful tone and fought back a wave of annoyance. He was surprisingly relieved when the bard begged off, citing duty.

“And that goes for you two as well,” she said, still with a trace of humor in her voice. “Phathas wants you both to recheck the supplies we’ll be taking into the swamp. ‘No sense coming all this way just to go into the Vast Swamp unprepared,’” the bard mimicked the old mage’s didactic tone perfectly, and Kaerion found himself smiling despite the water running down his face.

“We’ll be there in a few moments, Majandra,” he said, finally overcoming the last effects of Gerwyth’s surprise attack.

“See that you do,” she said with a smile and turned to walk up the path toward the clearing. “I wouldn’t want to earn Phathas’ scolding at the moment. He’s positively impossible when he’s this close to the object of his labors.”

Kaerion cast a final look at the bard’s retreating back, only to be surprised when she quickly spun and returned his gaze, her smile even deeper. Shaking his head at his folly, he turned from the bard and finally stood up. Gerwyth had already moved to the stream bank and had begun to don his soft leather boots. By the time Kaerion had joined him, the ranger was already fully clothed; he shrugged once in apology and made as if to wait for his friend.

Kaerion waved his friend on. “Don’t worry about me, Ger,” he said. “I’ll follow shortly.”

The elf nodded and shot Kaerion another wicked smile. “Just see that you don’t tarry too long. I don’t fancy having to root through those stifling wagons all afternoon by myself.”

Kaerion laughed and pushed Gerwyth playfully toward the path. “I’ll be there soon enough,” he said. “Besides, you’ll need someone to help you count past ten.”

The elf chuckled and headed up the path, leaving Kaerion alone. The fighter stood for a moment, inhaling the rich scents of the river valley. By the time he reached the place where he had thrown down his armor, the sun had nearly dried all of the stream water from his body, leaving his skin feeling tight and slightly itchy.

Bending down to scoop up his hastily discarded armor, he reflected on his friend’s words. Perhaps the friendships that he had formed and the peacefulness of the past several weeks had done what the last ten years couldn’t. As he had all but admitted to Gerwyth just a little while ago, he still grieved bitterly for what he’d done. And yet, he’d not even been tempted to drown his sorrows in cheap wine since his illness. He felt those old wounds clearly, but it was as if they were not quite so raw and open.

Most surprising of all, Kaerion had even caught himself unwrapping Galadorn from its ragged hiding place and staring at it—willing it to demonstrate some sign of life, anything that would help him explain what had happened across the Nyrondese grasslands. The ancient blade represented everything he had lost, yet lately, he’d found himself absently tracing the hilt with his finger, eager to feel its great weight in his hands.

When Kaerion finally reached the camp, his mind was caught in bemused thought. He looked at the faces that greeted him and saw friendship, good humor, and even respect—something he hadn’t ever dreamed of seeing again. Perhaps Gerwyth was right. Perhaps it was time for him to face his grief once and for all. The elf had proven a true friend and accepted him for all of his faults. Maybe his new companions would do the same. He walked toward the center of camp feeling more at peace than he had in a very long time—

Only to be brought up short by Vaxor’s intense scowl. The Heironean priest had emerged from one of the caravan wagons and now fixed Kaerion with a furrowed gaze. His deeply lined face and set jaw reminded the fighter of the statue of Heironeous meting out justice in the High Temple at Critwall. In the grizzled cleric’s eyes, he could see condemnation and judgment—anger at his impudence to try and hold a place in this company for which he wasn’t worthy.

Kaerion shuddered beneath that gaze as if the coldest winter wind had swept through the clearing, and in one moment, he knew that all of his hopes and imaginings were just that. He nearly stumbled as the familiar, cold hands of despair clutched around his heart. Muscles strained from exertion and immersion in cold water sent aches all throughout his body.

Hastily averting his gaze, he threw on an old shirt, tucking it into his breeches as surely as if it were the finest of armors. He had been a fool to think he could be forgiven. A damned fool.

He would not make that mistake again.

14

Kaerion rubbed the thick beads of sweat from his face and stared at the broad expanse of the swamp that lay before him. Thick sheets of sawgrass carpeted the moist ground, and hummocks of pine and cypress erupted from the dense foliage that sucked greedily of the wetlands dank waters. Occasionally, he caught sight of the brightly colored leaves of the manga trees that were so prevalent in parts of the Tilvanot Peninsula. A ripple of movement drew his eye, and he found himself squinting against the angry glare of the sun as it reflected off the surface of a brackish pool.

Nothing.

A brooding silence lay over the swamp, pierced by the harsh shrill of a distant bird. The air hung thick and fetid, like an oily blanket he couldn’t cast off. Somewhere in the dark heart of this terrible place lay the ancient tomb of one of the worlds most infamous wizards. Despite heat that almost seared the breath from his lungs, Kaerion shuddered. Sunndi’s fertile river valley had been peaceful, almost pastoral in its spring splendor. He’d enjoyed the caravan’s slow but steady progression across its verdant length, but this—he almost made a sign against evil—this was something else indeed.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he heard Majandra’s voice from behind him.

Turning to face her, he shrugged. “Beautiful wouldn’t be the word I would choose, but then again, my lady,” he said with a smile on his face, “I’m not a bard, nor am I of elven blood.”

Majandra chuckled at the statement, and Kaerion could feel the smile stretch across his face. The half-elf’s crows and exclamations of delight at the natural wonders that had presented themselves on this journey were the subject of much good-natured bantering. As were the long, solemn walks she’d often taken with Gerwyth, the two conversing deeply in Elvish. He felt an irrational surge of jealousy at this memory and expelled his breath sharply in an attempt to quash it.

He failed.

The half-elf looked at him for just a moment before her own smile crept across the delicate expanse of her face. Kaerion was surprised to notice that the constant exposure to sun had tanned her face a golden brown and dusted her thin nose with freckles. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?

“No, my dear Kaerion, you are indeed not a bard,” the half-elf replied, interrupting his thoughts, “and you certainly are no kin of mine.” She laughed a moment before continuing. “But even humans have their mysteries.”

This last was said softly, almost questioningly, and Kaerion found himself once again staring into golden eyes almost piercing in their earnestness. He regarded the half-elf for a few moments more, caught between an urgent desire to reveal his true face to the bard and an ardent need to retreat from her presence.

Reason won out.

He coughed once and averted his gaze. Too much was at stake here for him to give in to foolish notions. The mood broken, he pushed past the questioning bard and mumbled something about returning to Phathas and the others.

Majandra stepped lightly out of his way. If she was offended by his brusqueness, she gave no sign. “Phathas is in the center of the camp by the wagons. Gerwyth and the others are with him,” she said as she broke into stride with him. “The mage asked me to fetch you,” she said unapologetically.

As the two approached the camp, Kaerion could hear the sounds of labor. Phathas had sent the entire party out in groups earlier that morning to fell the thick-trunked trees that filled the surrounding valley. The plan was to lash together the trunks with thick rope to form makeshift rafts. Kaerion smiled as he recalled his own observations. The rafts were a fine idea to transport their supplies across the more submerged parts of the swamp, but they would be next to useless over the wetlands roughly uneven and densely foliated ground. Upon voicing his concerns, the old mage had produced several smooth, rounded stones that he said would, once attached to the rafts, cause each of them to levitate a few feet above the ground.

Reaching the outskirts of the camp, Kaerion noted that work crews had indeed been busy. Several of the rafts had already been assembled, and more lumber was making its way into the camp at a steady pace. Caravan drovers and guards alike had both been drafted into service, and the laboring men and women moved about in ordered groups. Most of them had cast off outer tunics and shirts, sweat glistening off bare backs, and wrapped their heads with the light materials to protect them from the sun.

Gerwyth caught sight of Kaerion and Majandra and waved them over to the thin tarp pitched in the center of a small circle of wagons. When they reached the assembled group, they found Phathas hunched over the sturdy cloth map that had been their guide on this journey. The others nodded in greeting but otherwise stood silently, obviously waiting for the old mage to finish his examination. The silver-haired wizard mumbled softly as he traced a gnarled finger across the faded parchment, seemingly oblivious to the piercing heat.

“What’s the status of the rafts, Vaxor?” the mage asked, not looking up from the object of his intense scrutiny.

The cleric finished taking a long swallow from the waterskin before replying. “Three rafts have already been completed,” his deep voice rumbled, “and the remainder should be done before nightfall.”

Kaerion stole glances at the Heironean priest. Despite the searing temperature, the cleric still wore the chainmail armor that was as much a badge of his office as the silver lightning bolt that hung about his neck, gleaming brightly in the harsh sunlight.

Unaware of the fighter’s scrutiny, Vaxor continued. “Once the construction has been completed, I suggest we double the watch. I have an uneasy feeling. There’s no telling what manner of beast will be about, looking for trouble.” He turned to his companions. “Gerwyth, Bredeth, I’ll leave it to the both of you to inform Landra of my orders and see to it that the watch is kept.”

The elf nodded, but Kaerion almost laughed at the rebellious scowl that marred Bredeth’s handsome features. The pampered upbringing of the young noble had obviously not prepared him for the rigors of this trip. Unlike the rest of the group, his skin had reddened and split under the unrelenting glare of the sun, and not even the thick salve that Vaxor had offered the peeling noble was enough to soothe the lad’s burns—or his temper.

Phathas stood and cast a piercing eye around the assembled group. If he was pleased with Vaxor’s report, he gave no sign. Instead, the tired mage rubbed a withered hand across the back of his neck and spoke his mind. “There is still plenty to be done before we enter the Vast Swamp, and not much time to do it. By my calculations, we still have about ten to fourteen days of hard travel before we’re even near Acererak’s tomb—and that’s if we can avoid the worst dangers of this forsaken stretch of land.” He pointed a finger at Majandra. “I need you to oversee the disbursement of supplies to the rafts. And see that you have mind enough to bring the herbs and poultices we’ve laid in to aid in case of injury. I’ll not waste Heironeous’ blessings on bug bites and those foolish enough to injure an ankle or leg because they were too lazy to watch where they were going.”

Majandra gave the wizened mage a smile, and Kaerion, to his own annoyance, found himself wondering how to elicit such a response from the half-elf—a line of thought he abandoned once he heard the old mage call out his name.

“Yes, you,” Phathas blurted as Kaerion once again gave the mage his full attention. “Pay attention, lad. I don’t have all day to explain these things. I need you to take these stones—” he opened his hand to reveal the enchanted stones he had spoken about earlier—“and lash them securely to the underside of each of the rafts. If for some reason the rafts don’t immediately rise into the air—”the mage’s tone indicated to Kaerion that such an occurrence would only happen by his own mistake—“come find me immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” Kaerion found himself responding, and wondered just when he had started to feel like he was a squire back under Sir Trindan’s tutelage. He caught Gerwyth’s eye and realized by the wink that the elf gave him that his friend was highly amused by the whole situation.

Just then, Vaxor’s gruff voice broke in. “Tomorrow, we enter the Vast Swamp. We’ll leave the drovers and six guards behind to protect the wagons. Once in the swamp, our largest danger will come from the lizard folk who consider the lands as their territory. I’ve spoken with Gerwyth, and we both agree that if we keep to the general direction we’ve traced on our map, we’re likely to avoid most of the danger. But be on your guard. And no heroics.” This last was delivered with a grim eye toward Bredeth, but before the noble could spit out his protest, the cleric waved his hand for silence, deftly sketching the traditional blessing of Heironeous in the air. “May the Valorous Knight watch over each of us,” he said in an oddly gentle voice.

Kaerion held himself completely still under the blessing, hoping that no one would notice his lack of response. It had been many years since he had heard the words of the Blessing Ritual, and many more since he had believed in them. As the group broke up to attend to their duties, he was once again conscious of the cleric’s gaze upon him. Had Vaxor seen his reaction? He hurried away in the opposite direction, eager to escape the cleric’s watchful eye.

There was indeed much to do before tomorrows journey began. And much to think about, he mused, recalling the smiling face of the half-elf. He pushed the image of the bard out of his mind. One thing at a time, he thought, and headed toward the first raft.

Durgoth Shem cursed the heat and the elves—in no particular order—as he surveyed the encampment before him. Peering through the thick foliage, he could see the circular ring of wagons, spaced evenly to afford the camp’s inhabitants the greatest possible cover, and the regular sweep of sentries. Of their principal quarry there was no sign.

He let out another muffled curse and fought down the urge to send his golem down to kill the unsuspecting fools below. Their blood would do much to sooth his anger, but little to make up for lost time. His earlier encounter with those pathetic druids had set his own expedition back, but the whole situation was made worse by the seemingly endless array of elven strike patrols that tracked them well into Sunndi. Perhaps he would ask the Dark One to watch as he slaughtered the elves and their puny gods. Yes, he thought, that would almost make up for the inconvenience those gods-blasted creatures had caused him.

A slight rustling in the thick undergrowth to his left caught Durgoth’s attention, followed by the emergence of Eltanel’s shadowy form. The thief pulled back his black cloak and emerged into plain view, executing a bow that was ail-too perfunctory. Durgoth scowled once at the insolent man and signaled that he should proceed with his report.

“I have been to their camp, blessed one,” Eltanel said. His voice had the gentle intonation of one who is used to the furtive communications of the dark alleyways and rooftops of Rel Mord. “They have posted regular sentries and will likely remain on guard throughout the night.”

“I can see as much, you fool,” Durgoth hissed between clenched teeth, regretting, not for the first time, that he would no doubt need to rely on this wretch’s skills to bypass some of the deadlier surprises awaiting the unwary in Acererak’s tomb. “What of that cursed mage and his half-witted noble lackeys?”

Eltanel shifted his stance slightly, but regarded the cleric evenly. “I overheard two of the guards talking. Their expedition left but two mornings ago, heading south and then east into the Vast Swamp. With a small enough group, we should have no trouble catching up to them.”

“Good,” Durgoth replied. He was pleased by the news, but he had no intention of betraying his thoughts to the thief. Let the man guess as to whether or not he currently had Durgoth’s favor. Such tactics were useful when dealing with someone as cunning as Eltanel. “Return to our wagons and inform Jhagren that I wish to speak with him, and see to it that he prepares a small group of my followers to accompany us on our journey. We’ll have to hurry if we are to keep pace with those Nyrondese fools.”

The thief nodded once and swept off into the undergrowth. Durgoth stared after him for a few moments, before turning back to watch the encampment, his gaze as intense as the deadly marsh panthers that were said to hunt the brackish heart of the vast Swamp.

By the time he returned to his own camp, he had calmed enough so that he no longer took the oppressive heat as a personal affront—though he couldn’t quite fight down his annoyance as he accepted Jhagren’s deep bow and noticed that the monk appeared unaffected by the brutal weather.

“You have received Eltanel’s reconnaissance?” he asked, wanting to end this conversation quickly so that he could slip out of his sweat-sopped clothes and affect some relief from the miserable heat.

“I have, blessed one,” the monk replied, “and I have consulted the Seer’s prophecy.” He unrolled a thin vellum parchment upon which was drawn the rough outlines of a crude map. “We can enter the Vast Swamp a day’s march east of here—” he pointed at a black mark upon the scroll—“and then travel south. If your translation of the Seer’s words is accurate, we should meet up with the Nyrondese expedition within four or five days.”

Durgoth stroked his chin, ignoring the monk’s pointed barb at the possibility of his own fallibility. It was a good plan, and it offered the best chance of making up lost time. He would forgive Jhagren’s insolence this time—but not always. No, his devotion to the Scarlet Brotherhood would not save him when Durgoth’s Master laid the entire world at his feet. He almost shuddered with delight at the thought, but he knew that now was not the time to think about the victory to come. There was still much to do. Instead, he grabbed the vellum parchment from the monk’s hands and strode purposefully toward his wagon. “Finish the preparations for our journey,” he shouted to Jhagren without looking back. “We leave at first light. And send young Adrys to my wagon. I have need of relief from this gods-blasted heat.”

So intent was Durgoth on scuttling out of the harsh sun, that he never saw the scowl cut across Jhagren’s face, only to be replaced a moment later by the monk’s usual solemn gaze.

“It will be done according to your will, blessed one,” the monk said, but Jhagren had already closed the door of his wagon.

15

Majandra stumbled once again over the knotted clump of vegetation that covered the muddy ground. A quick grab of Vaxor’s mailed shoulder steadied her before she landed face first in the muck—though she still managed to twist her ankle slightly. The pain brought a rather ignoble curse hissing forth from her lips. She smiled wanly at Vaxor and shrugged her shoulders in apology as the cleric turned a concerned gaze her way. The Heironean priest remained silent, for which the half-elf was grateful. She didn’t think she had the breath to spare for conversation.

The expedition had spent the past several days slogging through the treacherous landscape of the Vast Swamp, carefully avoiding the mud traps, dragging sand, and carnivorous plants that were an essential component of the land’s deadly geography. Twice they had fought twisted, misshapen beasts that resembled fanged alligators with thick, batlike wings, and once they’d had to rescue one of their party from the clutches of a choking creeper. Everyone was bone-weary, their eyes red from sweat-sting and exhaustion. Days spent under the harsh glare of the sun pulling the levitating rafts behind them while avoiding patrols of lizard folk had taken their toll on the small group.

Even the normally tireless Vaxor had slowed his step. Looking at him now, Majandra could see the pinched lines of fatigue running like spider webs around his eyes and mouth. She was grateful once again that the cleric had prevailed upon Phathas to rest and ride on one of the rafts. The sharp-tongued mage had had a few choice words to say, but in the end, he had acquiesced. She hoped he was resting comfortably. This was not the best place for a man at the twilight of his life—even if that man was one of the most celebrated mages in all of Nyrond.

The coughing hiss of a large predator echoed in the distance, sending an involuntary shudder through Majandra’s body. It was clear yet again that they wouldn’t have survived more than a day in the confines of this swamp without the guidance of Gerwyth. The elf was uncanny in his ability to choose the swiftest and easiest path through the maze of rank pools and twisted trees, and his expertise had already thrown one lizard folk patrol off their scent. Even now, she could make out the ranger’s lithe form up ahead, tirelessly leading their expedition forward.

As usual, thoughts of Gerwyth summoned images of his raven-haired companion, and the half-elf felt a different kind of warmth spread through her limbs. It wasn’t just the fighter’s handsome face and muscled body—though she’d be lying if she denied her physical attraction to the man. Nor was it simply the promise of mystery that surrounded him. At least not anymore. Over the course of their journey, Majandra had watched Kaerion change. The volatile anger and self-loathing that lurked so close to the surface was softened, burned away perhaps by the man’s mysterious illness, or the steadily growing companionship between him and the rest of the Nyrondese expedition.

Not that the man had healed completely, or cast off the anger and grief that worried at him like the jaws of a blood-raged mastiff. Such quick transformations only occurred in the lines of the poorest sagas. But beneath his healing wounds, the half-elf felt as if she had glimpsed a spark of the man’s true soul, and that spark held such purity that she was drawn to it like a glowbeetle to Lima’s crystalline light.

A soft voice interrupted her thoughts. Majandra turned and saw one of the guards conferring with Vaxor. After a moment, the guard nodded once and moved farther back down the line. The half-elf fixed the cleric with an inquisitive gaze.

“Gerwyth has called a halt,” the Heironean priest responded. “Apparently, there is a defensible rise about a quarter of mile farther south where we will make camp for the night.”

Majandra sighed softly in relief and rubbed the sweat from her face. “Gods, but I’m tired,” she said after a moment. “I could use a meal and a few hours of sleep.”

“As could we all,” Vaxor said, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I think I’ll take advantage of this respite and check on Phathas. No doubt the old fool has gone and ignored my advice.” He smiled briefly and then took his leave.

Majandra uncorked the wineskin at her belt and took a few deep draughts of its contents. Despite its sun-warmed temperature, the tart liquid washed away the acrid sweat and metallic tang of her heat-seared mouth. Another swig and the skin was corked and placed back on her belt. With a sigh, she wiped her mouth and stared idly into the evening sky. The sun hung like a thick orange ball near the horizon, its steadily weakening rays creating pools of shadow among the gnarled, twisted trees and thick vegetation of the swamp.

To her left, the bent trunks and angled branches formed a spiny wall as thick and forbidding as any fortress, and beyond that, she could see the broad expanse of the stagnant lake whose edge they had been following throughout the day. In the fading light, its still surface burned with bronzed incandescence, like the glowing embers of an unbelievably large hearth fire. Even from this distance, she could smell the stench of its dank waters, redolent with the musky odor of decay.

The others had complained incessantly throughout the day about the unpleasant aroma, but Majandra hadn’t really minded it at all. Beneath the acrid tang of rot, her refined elven senses detected the heady bouquet of life. What was occurring in and around the standing water was a continuation of a cycle so ingenious and complex, so delicate and yet so relentless that it pulled at her heart. What was, to humans, an awful assault on their senses, was to one of her blood a doorway into a communion with something far deeper and mysterious than words would allow her to express.

Out here, even in the deadly embrace of one of the world’s most dangerous places, she felt free. What would life be like once they completed their quest and she returned to the cold, dead walls of Rel Mord? The answer did not come to her. She only knew she no longer hoped for a speedy end to their expedition.

A faint rustle in the undergrowth off to her left drew her attention back to the moment at hand. The sound repeated itself as the bard scanned the dense expanse of vegetation. Majandra caught her breath. For a split second, beneath the wizened height of a tangle of manga trees, she could have sworn she’d seen the burnished gleam of two large, round eyes reflecting the dying light of the sun. She peered intently at the spot again.

Nothing.

Cursing herself for a nervous child, the half-elf lifted her traveling pack and made her way toward the front of the line. A few moments later, Gerwyth gave the order to move out. Thoughts of food and a chance to sleep beneath the stars filled her mind as the expedition trudged relentlessly forward. Beneath the steady tread of the caravan, Majandra soon forgot the memory of those cold eyes peering out from the underbrush.

Above her, the stars flickered to life, shedding their cold fire upon the earth.

Durgoth Shem looked in disgust at the creature huddled before the small fire. The beasts mottled yellow skin shimmered and pulsed sickeningly in the firelight. Thankfully, rotting leather armor covered most of its humanoid form—though he could still make out the layer of mucous that covered arms, legs, and the creatures froglike face. Occasionally, gobs of the stuff rolled off the bullywug’s body and hit the muddy ground with a stomach-heaving splorch.

“What ish it you want from ush?” the creature asked, its bulbous eyes regarding the cleric gravely. “Why have you not deshtroyed ush?”

The dark priest stared in sickening fascination at the bloated length of the creature’s tongue as it lolled about in its wide, thin-lipped mouth. Even with the power of his spell allowing him to understand the frothing consonants, clicks, and squeals that the bullywug used for its language, his human ears had a difficult time comprehending the beasts thick-tongued words.

Finally able to tear his eyes away from its disgusting features, Durgoth looked around at the pile of broken, amphibious bodies that surrounded the fire. Around him in a circle stood Eltanel, Sydra, Jhagren, and Adrys—along with the fear-filled cultists who remained alive. The cleric cast another glance to the left of the firepot, where the golem stood, still holding the cracked and bloodied spine of a bullywug between its meaty hands.

The attack had come swiftly, without warning. At first, Durgoth thought it simply the predations of a hungry beast, for that was what had crashed into their lines. It had only taken a few moments for the defenders to react to this attack, and the furred creature was already put down when humanoid figures had erupted violently from the surrounding trees. More furred beasts had appeared in the fray, and Durgoth watched as these beasts had turned on the bullywugs, killing almost as many of them as he and his cultists. It hadn’t been very long until the battle was over and several creatures, including the one that huddled before his fire, had been captured.

“I did not destroy you,” the cleric replied at last, “because I believe that you and your companions can be of some use to me.”

The creature nodded. “Yesh. Jusht tell Braggsh what it ish that you wish,” it said. “Braggsh will make sure that Braggsh’sh pondmates obey.”

Durgoth’s lip curled at the bullywugs pathetic mewling. Disgusting creatures, he thought, half-considering whether he should just kill the ones who remained and be done with it. “That is good, Braggsh. I see we understand each other. Very well. There are other intruders to your lands, about a day’s march to the east. See to it that not a single one of them leaves this swamp alive.”

Braggsh’s eyes blinked slowly beneath the flickering light of the fire. “Yesh. Braggsh knows the intruders you shpeak of. They are led by a pointy earsh. It ish very shkilled. Pond deshide to let them passh. Too much trouble to kill.”

“I want them dead,” the cleric said again, nearly shouting at the vile humanoid. “Is that clear?”

The bullywug nodded once more, but Durgoth could hear the wet smack of Braggsh’s throat as the creature swallowed hard. “But the pond—”

“I care nothing for the whims of your stupid pond,” Durgoth shouted. “You will do exactly as I say, or I shall stake your entire pond on the driest ground beneath the heat of the noon sun. Do I make myself clear?”

He uncurled his fist and held it before him. With a whispered prayer, Durgoth channeled the smallest fraction of his god’s power through his upturned hand. Waves of darkness reached out to the frightened bullywug, and the creature writhed in pain, emitting a horrifying sound somewhere between a scream and a gurgle.

Durgoth almost groaned in pleasure as he felt the dreaded hooks of Tharizdun’s power tear into the creature’s spirit. He held the contact for a moment more and then, with a sharp wave of his hand, he released the tortured beast.

It rolled around on the muddy ground for quite some time before huddling once more at the cleric’s feet. “So,” Durgoth said as Braggsh shook with fear, “do we have a deal?”

“Yesh,” Braggsh said. “The intrudersh will be deshtroyed ash you command.”

Durgoth scowled at the pathetic beast. He knew that the creature’s first thoughts would be to betray him. Such base animals always did. He slowly let his scowl turn into a smile. “One more thing, Braggsh,” he said as sweetly as he could, “if you even think about betraying me, I will allow my master to feast upon your soul slowly, and the pain you felt just now will feel like the sweetest pleasure next to the Dark One’s kiss. Now begone, and take your pathetic pondmates with you.”

Braggsh let out another long, screeching gurgle—whether from fear, anger, frustration, or all three, Durgoth did not know or care.

He knew the disgusting creatures couldn’t destroy the Nyrondese band. But, he thought, they will slow them down enough so that we might catch up. He turned his back on the bullywugs, closed his eyes, and smiled.

The next five days passed in a haze of heat and almost constant motion for Majandra. Rest stops were infrequent and taken only as a necessity—mostly to apply herbs to insect bites and treat the odd wound. Despite their precaution, the expedition was forced to battle its way past several more fanged alligators and even one vampire vine. Lizard folk were, thankfully, not in evidence.

Throughout the long days and seemingly instantaneous nights, the half-elf’s fingers itched to pluck at the graceful strings of her harp. Unfortunately, her body’s exhaustion forced her to throw herself into her bedroll as soon as the evening meal was complete, rousing only when prodded forcefully by the rest of her companions. As a result, Majandra’s instrument remained silent, packed carefully away in its waterproof case.

On the ninth day since the expedition entered the Vast Swamp, dawn woke bright and clear. Majandra groaned as she extricated herself from the bedroll in what had become a regular morning ritual. After a sullen breakfast of hard biscuits and dried meat, she gathered her pack and set off after the third rank of travelers in the expedition. By midmorning, the heat had become a fist that pounded into her body with each step. Despite the oppressive temperature, the half-elf couldn’t help but smile. The trees in this part of the Vast Swamp were thicker, their branches sprouting thick green leaves and colorful buds. Taking advantage of this bounty, more than threescore birds sat atop the tall trees, flitting quickly from branch to branch and filling the air with the melodic chatter of their song.

It didn’t take long for Majandra to add her own voice to the ever-present music that swelled around her. Gently at first, and then with more confidence, she wove her rich alto tone around and beneath the nattering birds, providing a harmonic base that added depth to the natural chorus. She felt her step lighten. The oppressive weight of the marsh air lifted, and she was gratified to notice that those around her were feeling the same effects.

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that she noticed something was wrong. Cocking her ear to the side, she listened intently for whatever it was that had teased her intuition. She heard nothing. Silence filled the swamp, a brooding absence of sound. She realized then that it was this silence that had struck her as odd. Only a few moments ago, the area had been filled with the sounds of life. Now, the swamp seemed frozen, as if waiting for something to happen.

The hairs on the back of Majandra’s neck stood almost straight up. The bard couldn’t shake the feeling that somebody was watching her. She scanned the surrounding vegetation, shielding her eyes with her hand, but could detect nothing. Unbidden, the memory of her sighting the other day crept into her mind. Despite the heat, she shuddered. What if someone—or something—was watching them right now? There were far more dangers in this swamp than wandering lizard folk and the occasional alligator.

Majandra stood still, scanning the lush undergrowth, determined to discover this secret threat. The rest of the expedition walked past her, by now used to the half-elf’s penchant for stopping and appreciating the grandeur of the Vast Swamp. She could make out the back of the last guard as he pushed through the thick branches of a thorn bush and disappeared down the path. Still, she watched—and listened.

There! She heard something off to her right, a rustling in the bush. Carefully, she crept toward the sound, padding lightly on her feet. With only a slight scrape of metal on leather, she drew her short sword and sent a vicious cut into the center of the vegetation. A raucous scream met her attack, and she stumbled back as a brightly plumed bird exploded from the bush, taking flight with another harsh cry. Majandra swore as she sheathed her sword and tried to calm the pounding of her heart.

Still, the feeling of being watched grew. She spun around once—sure that there must be a hundred hidden eyes peering at her. With one last backward glance at the trees, she broke into a run.

It was time to find Gerwyth.

By the time Majandra found the ranger, he was deep in conversation with Kaerion along the side of the path. The fighter had shrugged off his pack and was carefully donning his chain mail armor. The normally placid elf’s face was turned into a frown, and Majandra could see the crease of worry lines around his mouth. She found her own mood equally as serious as she walked up to the two warriors.

“Gerwyth, I think something is behind us. It—”

The elf held up his hand. “I know,” he said in a soft voice. “We have been followed for several days. I couldn’t be sure, for whoever or whatever it is knows this land exceptionally well. This morning, I found traces of a viscous slime along the base of several bushes.” He pointed down to the muddied ground, at a small smear of thick liquid hanging from the bottommost branches of a marsh bush.

“I will alert Vaxor and Bredeth,” said Kaerion, his voice heavy with concern. “What about Phathas?”

“He already knows,” replied the ranger. “I informed him of my concerns this morning. Kaerion, once we have alerted the rest of the expedition, we must be very careful not to let our guests know that we have discovered their presence. There is a stand of uprooted trees about a league south and east of here. I scouted it out earlier. It is the most defensible position I could see within a half-score of miles. If we can make it there, we have a chance of surviving whatever surprise is in store for us.”

“Who could be following us?” Majandra asked, worried even more by the concern that filled the faces of the warriors. If the situation was tense enough to put Kaerion and Gerwyth ill at ease, then it was serious indeed. “I thought we had evaded most of the lizard folk patrols in the area.”

The ranger shrugged. “It is difficult to say exactly how successful one can be in evading the lizard folk,” he said. “Truth be told, I think that we led those tribes on a merry enough chase that they decided to let us pass. No, my guess is that we re dealing with another race of swamp creatures—most likely siv or bullywugs. If it’s the latter, then we should pray we can reach the relative safety of our prospective camp tonight.”

Majandra turned to help Kaerion adjust his mail. By the time she finished, Gerwyth had left to inform Landra and the rest of the guards. Kaerion thanked Majandra for her assistance and then flashed her a brief smile as he strode toward Bredeth, who was currently adjusting the straps to his own pack.

Fully aware now of the unseen enemy that dogged their steps, the expedition set out again at a brisk pace. Though no one gave any outward sign that possible death lurked just beyond the screen of vegetation rising up on either side of the rough trail, Majandra couldn’t help tossing a few glances backward, sure that she would see a spear or crossbow bolt arcing toward her unprotected back.

She saw nothing.

The group plodded on in silence, occasionally marking the sun’s slow, lazy arc in the sky. As the evening shadows grew, so did the tension. Each step brought an image of fearsome swamp creatures jumping out of the growing darkness to rend the flesh of friends and comrades. When Gerwyth led the expedition up a sharp rise into the waiting arms of their campsite Majandra dropped her pack and let out an explosive sigh as she ducked under the twisted wall of roots that blocked the main approach to their site.

Gerwyth called the guards to unload the rafts and lash them up against several of the fallen trunks on the sides of the camp. Once completed, the group would have a makeshift fortress that would offer them additional protection against assault.

The entire camp hustled with purpose as first Gerwyth and then Kaerion issued orders. It wasn’t long before Bredeth came by, enlisting Majandra’s aid in gathering wood and starting the large watchfire at the center of the site. The half-elf could see Vaxor and Phathas conferring in quiet tones as she bent under the weight of her load, but the rest of the camp’s preparations were lost to her beneath the countless repetition of snatching wood with deft fingers and scooping it into an orderly pile near the hastily dug fire pit.

Several hours later, Majandra sat bathed in soft light as the moons dangled in the night sky like jewels. With the camp’s defensive measures in place and a solid network of sentries posted, the level of tension among the members of the expedition had dissipated somewhat, settling into an uneasy wariness. Dinner that evening consisted of a thick root soup and dried beef. Stomachs full and boots removed, most of the guards not on watch had already settled into their bedrolls.

The bard yawned once, stretched, and grabbed the leather case that protected her harp from the sting of the elements. She stifled another yawn. The unrelenting tensions and exertions of the day had definitely taken their toll on her. She had spent far too much time away from the instrument that had been her guiding passion for so many years. Gently, almost reverently, she unlaced the strings of the case and removed the harp. Its rich, stained wood melted into the evening darkness, but its strings caught the silvered moonlight, held it for a brief moment, and then cast it back like soft, jeweled fire.

The half-elf ran nimble, calloused fingertips across the glowing strings and winced at the jangle of sounds. Master Parvus would likely throw an apoplectic fit if he had heard what her neglect had done to the tuning of his harp. Deftly, she adjusted the tautness of each string with minute turns of the instrument’s wooden pegs, until at last, a chord of almost heartbreaking purity thrummed from the vibrating strings.

Majandra smiled softly as she noticed several of the previously sleeping guards, as well as her own companions, angle their bedrolls toward her, eager expressions on their faces. Gently, she ran her fingers across the harp strings, loosening muscles stiff with fatigue and disuse. Music tumbled forth from the instrument like rain, falling in playful patches as the half-elf wove several different melodies together, tantalizing her listeners.

The bard smiled again as her fingers moved faster and faster across the strings. Still, she searched with a performer’s covert eye for the one person for whom she really wanted to play this night. She found him, a hulking shadow patrolling the edges of the camp, implacable and tireless. Beneath the warrior’s cloak, the links of a mail shirt gleamed brightly. Seeing this, Majandra recalled the words of a song made popular during the Greyhawk Wars.

The half-elf almost gasped out loud as the truth came crashing down upon her. How could she have been so blind? All of it made sense now: the mysterious presence of the sword, Vaxor’s cold attitude, the warrior’s own reticence. It fit perfectly.

Majandra’s discovery brought a surge of emotion welling up, and she wanted to crow with delight Instead, her fingers quickly strummed the opening chords to the song. Raising her voice only slightly, for they were still in the middle of a dangerous swamp, possibly surrounded by enemies, the half-elf began to sing the first stanza of “Whitehart’s Hope.” Knowing the power of this song, and knowing the depths of her own talent, the bard was unsurprised to see the rest of the camp caught up in the driving pulse of the music. Here, engulfed in a forbidding land, surrounded by darkness and an unseen enemy, the members of the expedition could take strength in the courage, nobility, and valor of the Whitehart, one of the most celebrated paladins in all the Shield Lands.

She smiled at the thought that this legend was even closer to them than they had dared realize, but the smile faded, replaced by the focused demeanor of a consummate musician—head cocked slightly to the side, eyes closed as if listening to a ratified stream of music undetectable by the normal ear—as she played through one of the most difficult passages in the song. Absorbed completely by the demands of the tune, still Majandra could sense the hope and courage rising in her audience, could feel the give and take, the marvelous interplay of energy as performer and listener were enfolded in the music, made one, however briefly, by the crystalline purity of each note.

It was only when a shadow fell over her and Majandra looked up into Kaerion’s stricken face, eyes white with equal parts fury and agony, that she realized her mistake.

“Calm night out there, isn’t it?” the guard to Kaerion’s left whispered, not quite masking his apprehensive tone.

Kaerion grunted and threw a thin cloak about his shoulders, fastening it with the metal clasp. Despite the heat, he had ordered all of the sentries to cover their armor. Moonlight on mail made for an inviting target. As sweat began to drip from his neck, he once again cursed the necessity. If whatever was following them didn’t kill them, the thick, humid air and unrelenting heat certainly would.

“It’s calm enough,” he said, “but you can rest assured that our friends are out there, waiting for their moment.”

“What do you think they are?” another whispered. This time, surprisingly, from Bredeth, who had volunteered for second watch.

Kaerion shrugged and offered another grunt. “Gerwyth believes they’re bullywugs, some type of swamp humanoid with a nasty disposition. Never fought against any myself.”

“I don’t care what they are,” said the first guard, “as long as they bleed when I cut ’em.” He punctuated his statement with a twist of his sword.

Despite the tension of the situation, Kaerion found himself smiling, and was even more surprised to note that Bredeth had also captured the mood. The young noble bore a fierce grin of his own. These are good warriors, Kaerion thought. I would hate too lose any of them to this cursed swamp.

A sudden morbidity, at odds with the spirit of the moment, crept over him. Shaking off his negative thoughts, he clapped Bredeth and the guard lightly on the shoulders. “Both of you spread out,” he said softly, “but remain within each other’s hearing. If either of you sense anything out of the ordinary, alert the other before going to investigate. I’ll spread the word to the rest of the watch.” With that, Kaerion moved silently away from the two men, confident in their training and skill to see them through.

As he wandered from sentry post to sentry post, Kaerion observed the camp, wondering how long the expedition could continue to function under the strain of ever-present danger. Looking at the camp from the perimeter, it was evident that the men and women within its bounds had undergone a forced march for several days. Exhaustion had finally taken its toll, and Kaerion could see by the weary way his companions stumbled into their bedrolls or hung their heads that they had reached the end of their endurance. Living under the constant threat of attack brought its own attendant dangers to morale, as well as tempers. It was only a matter of time before either frayed past the point of restraint. Someone would do something foolish; mistakes, possibly life threatening ones, would be made. If their enemies were going to attack, Kaerion thought, they had better do it soon.

The breathtaking sounds of a harp drifted lightly through the thick night air, and Kaerion smiled as he recognized Majandra’s masterful playing. For a moment, his warrior’s instincts objected to the superfluous noise that could draw unwanted attention to their camp. But they already had unwanted attention. It was unlikely that their pursuers didn’t already know where they were.

A shift in the night air brought all of his senses to attention. Kaerion looked about quickly, searching for the source of this disturbance. His heart raced faster than a war-horse in a joust, and a feeling of dread crept up his spine. What in the Nine Hells could be unsettling him so?

And then he realized it.

It hadn’t been the night air that had changed. It was the music. As he listened to the opening strains of a song he hadn’t heard in over ten years, he felt as if a sharp arrow had imbedded itself deep in his chest. Someone had discovered his secret, and now the bard was revealing it to the entire expedition. Panic gripped him, as the words to the song rang out with accusation.

Betrayer!

Coward!

Child-killer!

Out of the darkness, he could see leering faces appear, demons and demon-spawn as familiar to him as the unrelenting press of hatred and grief over his own cowardly actions. The healing scabs that had formed over his wounds during the past few months were ripped open, and he felt soul-tearing pain as the memories of his abominable disgrace poured forth. Kaerion knew that he was unworthy of the friendships bestowed upon him, and he prayed for the first time in nearly a decade, that the god he betrayed would strike him dead.

Even the great moon cast its judgment upon him, for in its face he saw the features of an innocent boy smiling expectantly down on him—a boy he knew now lay dead, his desiccated corpse rotting in a demon-cursed dungeon.

Oblivious to his own pain, the song continued. Each word was like a glass-tipped whip lashed against the raw wounds of his spirit. Kaerion closed his eyes and threw his hands up to cover his ears in an attempt to shut out the music—but to no avail. When he opened his eyes again, he was surprised to see Majandra’s face staring up at him from her seat on the ground. His own legs had betrayed him, carrying him to the source of his pain, like a sacrifice.

As he met the equally surprised and horrified gaze of the bard, Kaerion felt his anger build into white-hot rage. Not content simply to excoriate the shattered dregs of his own soul, his anger now found an external focus—the cause of his current pain. Unable to stop himself, the warrior felt his arm pull steel from its scabbard and raise up the blade for a killing blow.

Silence filled the camp as Majandra’s fingers stopped playing. Her wide-eyed gaze never wavered from his, yet Kaerion felt as if he were on a precipice. One simple motion would send him tumbling, irrevocably, down.

The bard’s eyes softened, moving from fear to that familiar compassionate look that Kaerion had often longed to have aimed at him. Still, his rage drove him on. Sword held high, he battled for control of his own body.

At last, it was the bard herself who saved him. Slowly, she stood, seemingly oblivious to the death that hung above her, and placed one hand gently upon his face. “I am so very sorry, Kaerion,” she said in a measured tone soft enough to reach only his ears.

The half-elf’s voice was warm, its timbre a rich, dulcet, earthy tone that absorbed the heat of his rage, enfolding him in its compassionate embrace. Kaerion knew now, in the part of his mind still capable of rational thought, that the bard had never intended this to happen, had never played “Whitehart’s Hope” as a means of exposing his shame.

With a heaving shudder, he sheathed the naked blade. As if this motion released them all from a powerful spell, his companions moved forward. Kaerion was surprised to see Gerwyth stand abruptly and bar their way.

Kaerion looked back at Majandra, whose gentle fingers now traced the curve of his jaw. The half-elf appeared as stunned as he felt. With a slow swallow, she spoke again, “Kaerion, I—”

“No, Majandra,” he growled. “Not here.” And with that, he pulled her, far less gently than he should have, away from the center of the camp, back toward the shadows and relative privacy of the supply rafts.

Once there, the thousand things he had wanted to say swirled around in his head, getting in each others way. Dully, he gaped at the half-elf, who regarded him with a slight smile upon her face. His own mouth worked absently, opening and closing despite the silence that issued forth from it.

When at last someone spoke, it was Majandra. “So, it’s true,” she said in a gentle voice. “You are the Whitehart.”

Kaerion wanted to deny the accusation. Instead, he felt his shoulders slump under the weight of acceptance as he nodded.

“But how is that possible?” Majandra asked. “You were supposed to have died during the expedition that was sent to free Earl Holmer from Dorakaa. There’s even a song of lament about how you sacrificed yourself so that the others could escape with the earl.”

Kaerion bowed his head at the bard’s pronouncement. When he finally found his voice, it was tinged with bitterness. “There isn’t a day that has gone past since that cursed expedition when I don’t wish I was dead,” he said, “but there was no heroic sacrifice. You of all people should know the unreliability of bard’s tales.”

Majandra’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

“No,” he spoke again, shuddering as the memories ripped through him, “that expedition was doomed from the start. We were betrayed. Iuz knew we were coming and he set a trap. He let the others go and… and prepared a special place for me.”

Majandra shifted in her place and placed her hand in his. “But Kaerion, you beat Iuz. You escaped from his clutches, and now you’re alive.”

“You call this living?” Kaerion shouted, shrugging off the bard’s attempt at comfort. “At first, I thought Heironeous would save me, but then that demon-spawned bastard buried me in an oubliette. I sat there in the stinking darkness for so long I lost track of time as his minions whispered their foul wisdom into my ear. At one point, I can remember trying to pray, and the words of my prayer tasted like ash in my mouth. I wasn’t sure if Heironeous was listening, and after a while, I wasn’t sure if he was even real. All I could remember was fear, and darkness, and a soul-numbing chill that sucked every last bit of heat from my body. I was alone for the first time in my life.”

“You’re not alone anymore, Kaerion,” the bard said, moving closer. “You have Gerwyth, Bredeth, the others—and me.” Majandra’s voice became tremulous. “You have me.”

Despite himself, Kaerion barked with bitter laughter. “And why would they want me?” he asked. “Why would you want me? Don’t you know what I’ve done? Can’t you see what I am? After all this time traveling together, Majandra, are you truly so blind?” The words spilled out of him, ugly, hateful, and yet he could not stop them, wasn’t sure he wanted to stop them.

“No, damn you. I’m not the blind one!” It was Majandra’s turn to shout, and despite his own anger, Kaerion was taken aback at the depth of the bard’s own feelings. “I’m not the one who clutches to this isolation all the while refusing the hand of true friendship and companionship being offered. So I don’t know what you’ve done. So what? If you want to put me to the test, then tell me what happened in Dorakaa. Give me the chance to make a decision about it, rather than constantly making one for me!”

She threw this last out like a challenge, and Kaerion found himself accepting. It wasn’t because he needed to share the burden of his grief with someone. Not by a long shot. Rather, he knew that he deserved to be reviled for his actions, and what better way than to be reviled by someone he truly cared about. Let Majandra feel the shock and disgust as he listed the details of his own sins. In a perverse way, he knew he would take pleasure in shattering the faith and trust she had placed in him.

They stood there for a few moments, breathing heavily in their anger, staring at each other. He could see the challenge still in the bard’s eyes. When he began, Kaerion held his voice steady, as if retelling a simple tavern story. “Eventually, they let me out of the circular hole that defined my world. I remember blinking hard at the light, as if I had never seen it before. I stank of fear and human waste. Several of Iuz’s servants led me to a large chamber, a shrine of some sort. Even now it is difficult to remember the details.

“As they marched me toward this chamber, the foul demons whispered to me again, but this time, they told me of the ways I would be used and tortured for Iuz’s own pleasure. At this point, I no longer recalled my life before Dorakaa. For me, there was only misery and fear. By the time we reached the door to the shrine, I was shaking in terror. Thoughts of escape were beyond me, but I knew, despite my misery, that I would do anything to avoid the horror that awaited me.

“When they opened the door—” Kaerion’s voice broke as he sputtered and choked on the memories.

Without hesitation, Majandra opened her arms, and he could feel the bard drawing him toward her. He didn’t resist.

“When they opened the door,” Kaerion continued, his voice a bit stronger, “I saw a pack of the foulest demons the Nine Hells had ever spawned. They surrounded a stone slab. As my captors drew me into the room, the hellspawn parted, revealing a boy, no more than eight years old, splayed out like a sacrifice. One of the beasts hopped toward me, its vestigial wings flapping wetly, and gave me a choice. I could either offer myself in the boy’s stead, exchanging my life for his, or they would spare my life and take the boys. I—”

Kaerion’s body nearly convulsed as heaving shudders racked his frame. He could feel hot tears scalding his cheeks and jaw as he relived that memory once again. “Don’t you see?” he nearly shrieked, pulling away from Majandra’s embrace. “I let them kill the boy. I watched as a demon claw ripped the child’s throat apart and the demon pack feasted on his blood. It was my fault! Mine!”

Majandra’s mouth hung open, but she did not leave.

“It was my fault!” he shouted, and then he collapsed in a sobbing heap.

He felt Majandra’s arms wrap themselves around him, her hands gently lifting his tear-stained face up. At first, he closed his eyes, unwilling to see the condemnation he knew would be there, but at last, he forced them open—and was amazed to see compassion and forgiveness in the half-elf’s face.

“It was then I knew Heironeous had never forsaken me,” he said in a much softer voice. “It was I who had walked away from him.”

Tears continued to roll down Kaerion’s face, and he, powerless to stop it, let them fall unchallenged down his face. Gradually, the shudders lessened and the great heaving sobs withdrew, leaving him weakened and empty. Despite his emotional state, he was almost painfully aware of Majandra’s arms as they wrapped gently around his neck. His heart beat in an unfamiliar rhythm.

“Majandra, I—” he began, but was quickly silenced by the press of the half-elf’s lips to his own. He stiffened at first in surprise, but gradually relaxed as the soft touch of her tear-salted lips sent delicious warmth through his grief-spent body. For a brief moment, he felt weightless, suspended in a private universe beyond his own inner demons, a world whose boundaries began and ended in the arms that surrounded him.

Kaerion sighed and returned the kiss deeply—only to be flung out of his contentment by the gurgling scream of a dying guardsman. He looked at the equally stunned bard as shouts and other screams filled the camp.

The attack had begun.

16

The dark recesses of the swamp came alive with snarling, hissing cries. Kaerion leapt up from his comfortable perch near the half-elf and drew his sword. The final look he cast the bard before running into battle was all too brief, but he was relieved to see the same expression on her face. Later, it seemed to say, and he found himself grinning as he went to meet their enemies.

The camp itself heaved with the press of bodies and naked steel. Despite the seeming chaos, Kaerion’s battle-trained awareness quickly recognized solid defensive tactics employed by the guards as they formed a ring around Phathas and Vaxor. Landra had obviously called in the remaining sentries and Kaerion felt some measure of relief at the captain’s prudent command.

Beneath the red-gold glare of the watch fire, Kaerion caught glimpses of the heretofore-unseen predators that had stalked them through the swamp for days. Even as he neared the battle, he couldn’t keep his gorge from rising at the site of their blunt, wide-lipped heads and bulbous eyes.

A cry off to his left broke Kaerion’s forward charge. In the flickering light, he saw a slouching humanoid raise a steel-tipped spear at a fallen sentry. Three bounding steps brought the bulk of his body crashing into the bullywug, whose own slime-covered form went crashing into the underbrush with an angry hiss. A quick hand helped the guard to her feet before Kaerion turned and ran back to the center of camp.

“Kaerion, to me!” he heard Phathas call from the center of the ringed guards.

With a shout of acknowledgement at the mage’s summons, Kaerion turned the swift thrust of a spear aside with his blade and ducked beneath the wild swing of another opponents sword. Cursing, he realized his path was now blocked by three of the noisome creatures. Raising his sword, he charged into the center of his attackers, taking one through the eye and doubling another over with a sharp kick to the ribs. The third managed a sharp spear jab that caught Kaerion on the side. He cried out as the steel tip of the spear ripped through his cloak and rebounded off of the hard metal surface of his armor. Despite his luck, Kaerion knew he’d have a nasty bruise come morning—if he survived.

The ring of guards had drawn tighter now, collapsing inward with the growing press of humanoid bodies. In the circle’s center, Kaerion saw Vaxor clap his hands together while uttering a sharp prayer to Heironeous. Golden light emanated from his joined fingertips, falling over the beleaguered guards. Kaerion felt a cold stab of guilt at this reminder of the god’s power.

A moment later, an angry buzzing filled the air. One of the creatures gave out a gurgling hiss as an arrow struck it in the back. Four more streaks of death followed in quick succession, and Kaerion knew that Gerwyth lay somewhere in the gnarled trees above the camp, raining arrows upon the attackers. Six more fell dead or dying before Kaerion fought his way through the circle’s center. A moment later, he was relieved to see Majandra’s lithe form bound through the ring of soldiers.

Breathing heavily, he acknowledged Phathas’ reassuring smile with a quick nod of his own. The mage reached out ancient, weathered hands, placed them gently upon his shoulders, and closed thin-lidded eyes in concentration. The hairs on Kaerion’s neck prickled as a string of unintelligible words flowed out of the spellcaster’s mouth in stately rhythm. The old mage’s eyes flew open as he reached the end of his phrase. Raising a feeble hand, he struck Kaerion a surprisingly sharp blow upon the cheek, intoning a single harsh word as flesh struck flesh.

Kaerion blinked once in surprise and then felt energy course from the point of contact to cover his entire body.

“I have made your body harder than the hardest stone,” Phathas said. “Go now and take the battle to our enemies.” The mage gave Kaerion another smile before raising his hands above his head, obviously preparing to cast another spell.

Relieved by the had of arrows and god-wrought aid, the circle of guards was no longer merely on the defensive. Kaerion watched again with satisfaction as Landra, calmly dispatching two bullywugs with neat, economical strokes, held her charges to an even, ordered extension of their ring. Satisfied that the main body of their force had things under control, Kaerion burst from the circle, sword flashing in the firelight, and charged the knot of creatures still streaming into their camp.

A downward slash of his blade severed a spear tip from its wood body. Kaerion spun, letting his momentum carry him forward, and was gratified to feel the dull thunk as his sword bit deeply into the bloated neck of a bullywug, nearly severing its spine. Pulling the sword quickly from the shattered bone, he thrust his blade into the chest of a creature already hissing with outrage. As his opponent fell, Kaerion saw another opening and sent his sword slicing downward, laying open the stomach of a second bullywug.

Kaerion heard a now-familiar screaming gurgle off to his right and was surprised to see Vaxor laying about with his sword. In his left hand, the cleric held a shield embossed with the lightning symbol of Heironeous. Its metallic surface erupted into bright golden light, blinding the priest’s opponents as he drew near. Kaerion could spare no additional thought to Vaxor’s presence, for he found himself surrounded by a circle of bloodthirsty foes.

Ducking a hastily swung sword, Kaerion’s fist lashed out, catching a bullywug on the side of its slime-covered head. The creature stumbled back, disoriented, but before Kaerion could press the attack, the remaining monsters thrust their bristling spears at him. He twisted sharply, nearly dislocating his knee, to avoid the first spear, and deflected the second and third ones with an expertly timed slash of his blade. The final two attacks burst through his guard, striking exposed flesh—only to be repelled by the thin layer of spell-wrought energy covering his body.

The bullywugs stopped their victory scream in mid-gurgle as Kaerion stood in their midst unscathed. Taking advantage of their surprise, Kaerion quickly dispatched two before a rain of arrows killed the remaining ones where they stood, wide-lipped mouths gaping.

“A little late, don’t you think?” Kaerion shouted at Gerwyth, knowing full well that the ranger wouldn’t give away his position to reply.

A quick look at the unfolding battle made it clear to Kaerion that the defenders now had the upper hand, but before he could do more than catch a few breaths, an eerie ululation erupted from the swelling throats of the attacking bullywugs. Instinctively, Kaerion clapped a hand over one ear to shield himself from the effects of the piercing sound. Moments later, one of the rafts used as a makeshift wall shattered beneath the force of a thunderous blow. Splinters of wood flew out like cyclone-tossed darts. A moment of stunned silence settled over the camp as defenders and attackers alike gaped at the source of the disturbance.

Out of the mist-covered shadows of the swamp lumbered a giant, reptilian beast. Each step sent slight tremors through the gore-soaked ground. Two lizardlike heads raised themselves into the air, snapping tooth-filled jaws with an ear-splitting hiss. Before anyone could react, the monster darted out and snared the stunned body of a hapless guard in one of its mouths.

Majandra was the first to react as the screams of the beasts victim crescendoed and then, just as suddenly, stopped. Bolts of blue energy lanced from her extended fingertips, striking the beast with mystical accuracy. The giant lizard roared in pain but continued its forward progress.

With a muffled curse, Kaerion leapt toward the monster.

It was then that he saw the figure riding upon the beast’s back. Nearly half again as tall as the other bullywugs, this snarling humanoid sat easily upon a saddle of horn and black leather. Thickly corded muscles ran from webbed foot to broad shoulder, hidden only by scaled armor that seemed to absorb the firelight. Kaerion could see the curving edge of a large, blood-red axe held confidently in each hand. Around its neck hung a chain of skulls, some animal, some human; each stared vacantly out of empty eye sockets.

Darting in between the snapping jaws of the slavering lizard, Kaerion aimed his sword for a deep cut to the beast’s shoulder—only to be forced to duck as one of its rider’s axes whistled just inches from where his had been. Moving faster than he could recover, one of the lizard’s heads rammed into Kaerion’s body, knocking him off balance. He cried out as the larger bullywugs second axe bit deeply into his own shoulder. Kaerion rolled away, eyeing his opponent warily. He had felt that blow even with the added protection of Phathas’ spell!

He caught sight of Vaxor preparing a spell of his own, and was about to guard the priest’s flank when Phathas shouted, “Kaerion, out of the way! Quickly!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, the fighter threw himself off to the left, rolling to his knees as he hit the ground. A bright flash of light filled the campsite, and the air hummed with tension as a bolt of electrical energy blasted at the lizard and its axe-wielding rider. Though the beast reared up in obvious pain, Kaerion was amazed to see that the mounted bullywug had avoided most of the spell’s effects.

Not wanting to waste the opportunity, Kaerion ran in and laid a deep gash across the now-reeling lizards front leg. As he raised his sword for another blow, Vaxor completed his own spell, and with the name of Heironeous on his lips, he raised his holy symbol into the air. A ray of golden light burst forth from the silver symbol with searing intensity. As it struck the giant lizard, the creature gave out a roaring hiss and then stumbled At that moment, two arrows arced out of the darkness, both taking the creature in the right eye. It gave out another hissing cry before it crashed to the ground dead.

The beasts rider threw himself from the saddle before the giant lizard fell to the ground. Kaerion watched in amazement as the creature rolled gracefully to his feet and charged Vaxor. Such was its speed that the priest barely had time to raise his shield before one of the axes struck the metal device with a sharp clang. The second one snuck under his sword’s guard and lodged deeply in his thigh. The cleric cried out as his attacker, heedless of the danger at his back, pulled out his bloodied axe and kicked the wounded priest to the ground.

Kaerion had started to run toward Vaxor at the first sign of the bullywug’s attack, and he now had a clear shot at the creature’s back. Nearly two decades of training, however, caused him to hesitate. Striking an opponent from behind was never an option—even when the opponent in question had just felled a companion.

The fighter’s hesitation cost him dearly. Both axes free, the bullywug spun to face his latest attacker, lashing downward with both weapons faster than, Kaerion could react. The fighter grimaced as the twin edge’s cut into the flesh in his left shoulder and chest. He would have to remember to thank the mage when this was all over, for those blows would have no doubt left him crippled if it hadn’t been for the wizard’s spell.

The bullywug advanced as Kaerion fell back, hoping to gain some breathing room. As he withdrew, he managed to cut the creature several times, but with no effect. Looking into the bullywug’s eyes confirmed his worst fears—the creature was berserk. Kaerion would have to end this fight quickly.

Grasping his sword with both hands, Kaerion sidestepped one of the bullywug’s axes and brought his sword downward, cutting the creature’s shoulder and splintering its shoulder blade.

It kept coming.

Kaerion landed several cuts on the berserker’s exposed side, but the hideous beast kept advancing. Twice more he felt the sting of its axe, as powerful blows bypassed his magical protection. He could feel Phathas’ spell beginning to falter.

Exhausted and wounded, Kaerion was unable to avoid stumbling on an exposed root. As he fell, his opponent raised a blood-drenched axe into the air and gave a scream of pure hatred. Several arrows thudded into the berserker’s chest, but to no visible effect. Kaerion rolled hard to the left as the axe descended, but he felt no pain from the blow.

Kaerion looked up at his opponent, only to see the bluish glow of Majandra’s blade protruding from its throat. The creature looked as surprised as he—its long, bloated tongue lolling from the side of its gruesome mouth. The creature pitched forward, quite dead, as Majandra removed her blade. Kaerion noted with grudging admiration that the bullywug hadn’t let go of its weapon even in death.

At the fall of their hero, the remaining bullywugs let out a despairing wail and withdrew from the camp. Their amphibious forms melted back into the shadows of the swamp. Kaerion could hear the labored breathing of the defenders and the anguished groan of the wounded. Grimly, he accepted Majandra’s aid in rising, and the two walked slowly toward the center of the camp.

Landra had, he noted, already sent several of her people to gather the dead and wounded, including Vaxor, who hobbled over to the knot of people surrounding Phathas. But it was the grim face of Gerwyth that caught everyone’s attention as he melted out of the shadows, holding an object in his hands.

“We have a problem,” he said simply, noting with a nod the elegantly fashioned blade he held between his hands.

“What now?” Kaerion responded, in no mood for additional surprises this night.

“They’ve taken Bredeth,” the elf said, anger and bitterness apparent in his voice.

The companions greeted this announcement in stunned silence. All around them, the mist-filled night reached out its fetid tendrils.

17

“To the Nine Hells with you and your cursed creatures!” the arrogant noble said through swollen lips.

Durgoth Shem smiled cruelly as the Nyrondese scion offered feeble struggle against his bullywug captors. The cleric drew close to their prisoner and ran the back of an immaculately groomed hand across the man’s bruised face—rough enough to elicit an involuntary hiss of pain.

He had been positively enraged when Braggsh and a contingent of his sniveling pondmates had burst into their camp, screaming and hissing about their defeat at the hands of those noble fools. He was halfway toward eviscerating the entire worthless group of the disgusting creatures when he had caught sight of the drooping figure two of the bullywug warriors held between them. All had not been lost. Now, as Durgoth probed their captive for information, plans upon plans swirled around in his head.

“Boy,” he said at last, contempt for the bastard’s misplaced arrogance dripping from every word, “when I am through with this world, the Nine Hells will seem like Beory’s own paradise in comparison.”

The warrior grinned. “Bold words,” he said, “for someone who needs talking frogs to do his dirty work for him.”

“Fool!” Durgoth shouted, immediately regretting his loss of temper. Then, in more measured tones he said, “You dare mock me, the bearer of Tharizdun’s will? For that, I will feed you to the Dark One myself… after you have served your purpose.”

“This for your pathetic godling,” the captive said, and then he hawked bloodied spittle into the dark cleric’s face.

Durgoth spun away in outrage, hastily wiping the spit from his brow. Such insolence! Anger building, he turned back toward the warrior with raised fist and was gratified to see the captured noble wince in expectation of the blow. A smile slowly spread across the dark priest’s features, and he held his attack.

“There will come a time,” he said to the glaring prisoner, “when you will remember my clenched fist, and your agony will be so great that you would trade your very soul to feel its weight upon your face rather than suffer for one more moment. When that happens, I want you to remember that it was your blasphemy that brought you there.”

“Let me spend some time with the boy, Durgoth,” broke in a husky voice from behind him. “I’m sure I can loosen his… tongue and make him more amenable to cooperation.”

Durgoth turned and acknowledged Sydra’s offer with a nod. The sorceress lounged indolently against a fallen marsh tree, her hair bound off of her tanned shoulders with a silver cord that reflected the rays of the rising sun.

“You shall have your opportunity in a few moments, my dear,” the cleric said.

“I don’t see why we have to waste time on that,” Eltanel cut in. “It’s clear these nobles will come after their companion. Why not set a trap and kill them?”

Durgoth remained quiet a moment, carefully studying the two guild members. What had begun as simple competitiveness after their defeat in Rel Mord had grown into open antipathy. The discord pleased the cleric. While the two spent their energies against each other, they had less time to plot against him.

“You forget, my shadowy friend,” he said, his inflection leaving no doubt that he considered Eltanel anything but, “I require these fools alive until they bypass the tomb’s deadly traps. Then we shall dispose of them.”

Eltanel, obviously angered by his public error, spoke again. “They have proven difficult to kill on several occasions… blessed one,” he added hastily. “Surely an open assault would fail.”

Durgoth offered another in a seemingly endless array of silent curses to Reynard and his damned guild. Once the key was liberated from Acererak’s tomb, the priest’s erstwhile allies would find themselves paying for every snide comment and insolent remark—Eltanel in particular.

“Though your lack of faith is unfortunate,” Durgoth responded, “you are partially correct in that an open assault would be very dangerous. That is why we will have hidden weapons.”

The cleric looked around the gathered assembly until he caught the eye of Jhagren Syn. Motioning the monk toward him, the dark priest continued, “Our young friend here will be the unseen knife poised to strike at the backs of our enemies.”

“I will not betray my friends, you beggaring scum-spawn!” the captive warrior shouted. “I’ll die before I let you use me against them.”

Durgoth turned slightly toward the wounded warrior. “What you want or don’t want is irrelevant,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Sydra, it is time.” He gestured toward the prisoner, who heightened his own struggles against the two bullywugs holding him fast.

“With pleasure,” the sorceress purred, as she knelt in front of the noble and placed elegant hands upon his head.

“What if he fails?” questioned Eltanel, the thief’s distaste for what was about to happen poorly concealed beneath his aggressive questioning.

Durgoth noted the guildsman’s weakness and vowed to remember it for future use. “Such questions, my dear Eltanel!” he responded with silken tones. “If he fads, there is another.”

With that, the cleric turned to face Jhagren Syn. The monk had gathered his apprentice and both stood calmly to his left. “Will the boy serve?” he asked.

“Yes, blessed one,” Jhagren responded evenly. “He will serve.”

Durgoth smiled down at the boy, who looked up at him with inscrutable blue eyes. “You know that he will need to look as if he’s been captured,” he said. “Are you prepared?”

“Yes, my lord,” the monk replied in his gravelly voice.

“Then proceed,” he said as he turned back toward the questioning thief. Durgoth didn’t flinch as the sound of snapping bone echoed sharply through the camp.

Kaerion peered into the deepening gloom of the swamp, alert for any sign of their quarry. Below him, crouched low to the ground, Gerwyth examined the mud-soft path they had been following for most of the day. Twice now they had nearly lost the trail, for the creatures’ webbed feet ran lightly across the earth, and the foul beasts seemed to know every twist and turn of the gods-blasted swamp. Kaerion feared the worst as the elven ranger continued his examination, but he was too experienced to disrupt his friend’s concentration by voicing his suspicions.

Despite the gravity of their situation, Kaerion found himself settling into the familiar and companionable silence that had characterized most of the day’s journey. It had been several months since the two of them had traveled together with only each other for support and comfort. Though he had grown to appreciate the friendship and trust of the Nyrondese—especially a certain fire-haired bard—there was a deeper bond that had grown between he and Gerwyth across their years of travel and struggle together. It was simple and almost elemental. Kaerion had not known how much he missed it until now.

Not that their current journey was simply a pleasure jaunt he reminded himself. The bullywugs had taken Bredeth, and somewhere in the deepness of the swamp, their companion was held against his will. There had been quite an argument as the remaining Nyrondese nobles had discussed who should go after their friend. Kaerion still winced at Majandra’s words. The bard had a tongue as sharp as any blade when she wished it. In the end, it had only been Phathas’ surprisingly hard-edged insistence that the two guides should go and retrieve the captured noble that had convinced the bard to remain behind. He smiled briefly as he remembered the rebellious set of Majandra’s shoulders as she acquiesced to the old mage’s wishes. In fact, he had half-expected to see the bard waiting for them at a juncture of their trail several times during the day.

“Ahh, I see that your mind is focused completely on our task as usual,” Gerwyth said.

Kaerion, startled by his friend’s sudden speech, half drew his sword before realizing that he had not been paying attention for some time. The elf had risen from his crouch and now stood close behind him. Confusion quickly became anger and embarrassment at his own lack of attention.

“What have you found, Ger?” he snapped at the smiling ranger.

Gerwyth wiped the gathering sweat from his brow before pointing back toward the ground. “The bullywugs we’ve been following met up with another group in this area not too long ago,” he reported.

“Then we’re close,” Kaerion responded, eagerness tingeing his voice.

“Well, yes, we’re close,” Gerwyth said, “but there is a complication. After the two groups met here, they split up. One group headed south, and the other went north.”

Kaerion’s heart sank. With two separate groups, there was no way to know exactly where Bredeth was. He feared that time was running out. If they didn’t find the young noble soon, it would be too late to save him. When he relayed his thoughts to Gerwyth, the ranger smiled.

“I never said I didn’t know where Bredeth was,” he said.

Kaerion looked sharply at the elf’s face, noting the way the ranger’s eyes twinkled mischievously, and he soon found himself returning the smile.

Old times indeed.

“This group,” Gerwyth said after a moment, pointing to the trail heading north, “was carrying something fairly heavy, which you can see quite plainly by the deeper indentations of the prints left in the mud.”

“Yes, quite plainly. I agree,” Kaerion responded with more than a trace of humor in his voice as he looked at the barely visible—and to his eyes, completely inscrutable—indentations in the muck.

“Furthermore,” Gerwyth continued, obviously choosing to ignore the fighter’s sarcasm, “our friends have left something behind for us.” With that, the ranger bent down and plucked a small strip of bloodied cloth from the thin branches of a bush.

Kaerion easily recognized the material of Bredeth’s cloak. “How long ago did they pass, Ger?” he asked.

“Less than an hour ago, I’d guess, or I’m a blind son of an unwashed orc,” the ranger responded.

Kaerion nodded at his friend’s estimate and gazed at the sky. “Then we must hurry,” he said. “We don’t have too much longer before nightfall.”

After taking a few quick swigs from their waterskins, the two set out once more along the winding trail. Sweat poured freely down Kaerion’s face, and his breath came in even, deep rhythms as he followed the long-limbed ranger, who ran with easy, loping strides across the sawgrass and dark mud of the swamp floor. Around them, the twilight deepened. Kaerion’s hopes began to fall with each passing minute. Once full night fell, it would be exceedingly difficult for them to follow the bullywugs’ trail. They were so close. It would be painful to have to wait until morning to continue the search.

The first sentry took them by surprise. Movement off to his right sent a tingle of warning down Kaerion’s spine. He motioned for his companion to slow down and the two crept toward the watchful creature. With a quick lift of his chin, Gerwyth sent Kaerion clamoring off to the sentry’s left side. The creature spun as the fighter’s bulk crashed through the brush, but before it could sound the alarm, the ranger stood and threw two daggers in quick succession. The blades imbedded themselves deep in the creature’s throat, and it fell, choking, to the ground.

Gerwyth retrieved his daggers and caught up with Kaerion. The two crept forward, alert for any more guards. It was clear that they were close to the bullywugs’ camp. They would have to dispose of any opposition as quickly and silently as possible if they were to have any chance of rescuing Bredeth.

Twice more they encountered sentries, and twice more Gerwyth released steel in a deadly arc, silencing any opposition. Now, from the cover of thick brush, the two friends looked out upon a small, still lake. Several bullywugs lay upon the shore, eating sloppily or conversing in an indecipherable language. Kaerion watched a few moments more before he felt Gerwyth’s hand on his shoulder.

“There,” the ranger whispered softly, pointing to the opposite side of the camp. “Bredeth is over there.”

Kaerion gazed in the direction the ranger indicated. In the gloom, he could just make out Bredeth, his sagging form bound to a thin-trunked tree. Kaerion reached into his belt pouch and withdrew the small silver vial that Phathas had given him before they left the Nyrondese camp. Breaking the vial’s thick wax seal, he smiled at Gerwyth and downed the syrupy liquid within. There was a brief instant of disorientation and then the world settled back into focus. A few moments later, the rangers nod confirmed that the potion had taken effect. Invisible to the naked eye, Kaerion would sneak into the bullywug encampment and free Bredeth, while the elf used his bow to create a distraction. With any luck, the companions would meet up the trail and then travel back toward their friends, who were even now closing in on the location of Acererak’s tomb.

As silently as possible, Kaerion crept around the camp, heading with every step closer to the captured noble. As long as any remaining sentries didn’t stumble onto the corpses of their mates, he should have enough time to untie Bredeth and spirit him away.

The sound of twigs snapping in the shadows brought Kaerion to a complete stop. He held his breath as a bullywug stumbled out of the brush. The creature stopped and peered with bulbous eyes into the growing darkness. The beast stood several feet away from Kaerion, and the fighter was sure he would be detected. He started to draw his sword, careful lest the sound give away his presence, but before he could free his weapon, the bullywug blinked twice and continued toward the stagnant waters of the lake.

Kaerion let out his breath slowly and took a few moments for his heart to resume its normal beat before continuing. Several more minutes of careful travel brought him nearly up to the imprisoned noble. He winced as he saw the deep cuts and bruises that marred Bredeth’s body. Obviously, his captors had spent some time interrogating the noble. By the looks of things, the young man had not easily revealed what the bullywugs were looking for.

“Careful now,” he whispered to Bredeth as he began to saw through the thick rope that bound him to the tree.

“W-what? Wh-who is it?” Bredeth asked through swollen lips and deeply bruised cheeks.

“Shhh,” Kaerion warned. “It’s me, Kaerion. Gerwyth and I are here to rescue you.” His knife, sharp though it was, did not bite easily through the slime-covered rope. This would take a few minutes of work.

Bredeth made a soft sound, somewhere between a groan and a sob as Kaerion continued cutting the rope. “Never mind me,” the noble whispered huskily. “Rescue the boy.”

Kaerion studied Bredeth closely, sure that he was delirious. But the young man kept repeating himself. It wasn’t until Bredeth, one hand finally free from the rope, pointed a mud-covered hand off to his left that Kaerion saw the small figure lying inert on the muddy ground. He cursed once and placed the knife gently into Bredeth’s swollen hand before moving toward the figure.

Gently, he rolled the figure over and was surprised to see the battered face of a young lad, surely not more than fifteen years old. Unlike Bredeth, the boy was not tied to a tree, but Kaerion could clearly see that his arm hung at a gruesome angle. Carefully, Kaerion sat the boy up and dribbled a small stream of water into his mouth.

The young prisoner swallowed reflexively and blinked grime encrusted eyes open. For a moment, Kaerion found himself back inside the gruesome walls of an ancient shrine, looking down upon the piercing blue eyes of a trusting child. Terror gripped him—and guilt, but, as if from somewhere far away, he heard the thrum of arrows being loosed from a bow and the defiant ring of a familiar elven war cry. The sounds grew louder and he found himself crawling free from the clutches of the vision. As one who emerges from the utter blackness of a dungeon out into the bright light of day, Kaerion blinked quickly. The young lad still stared at him blankly, and Kaerion realized he was still invisible.

“Rest easy, son,” Kaerion whispered. “I’m a friend. We’ll be out of here soon. Just keep quiet.”

The boy blinked but said nothing. With an almost imperceptible grunt, Kaerion gathered the boy in his arms, lifted him off the ground, and turned toward the original target of this rescue. Bredeth, though wounded and mistreated, had managed to grasp the knife in his free hand and carve through the remaining bonds that tied him. Rubbing his wrists to restore circulation, the young noble smiled at the wounded boy seemingly floating toward him. All around them, the bullywug camp filled with the sounds of chaos.

“We must hurry now,” Kaerion said. “Gerwyth cannot distract them for too much longer.”

He stepped into the darkness of the surrounding bush, confidant that Bredeth would follow.

Kaerion ran.

Beneath the lidless eyes of the gazing moons, the Vast Swamp was aglow with witchlight. Shadows limned with silver, a mingling of darkness and light so deep that every border blurred. Grass or wind or even stagnant pool—it made no difference to Kaerion. He ran upon them all—or the dream of them. Bathed in the crystalline light of the moons, everything bled into one single reality.

He ran.

Somewhere ahead, he knew Gerwyth watched over the wounded figure of Bredeth, who despite the hesitance of his own battered body, pushed on, refusing to be carried. The noble had courage, that much was clear.

Kaerion drew in a deep breath as his own body ached for relief. Beside him, the young boy, apparently freed from the stupor of his own wounds, matched his pace. Throughout the last several hours, the lad had kept up, and Kaerion was surprised to find him exceptionally fleet of foot.

They had discovered, during the infrequent and all-too-brief-rest stops, a little bit more about the former captive. Through heaving breaths he identified himself as Adrys, a merchants son from Sunndi. His fathers caravan had been attacked by the bullywugs near the swamps edge and he’d been carried off. He had no idea whether or not his family was still alive.

Kaerion stumbled once over the gnarled root of a tree and would have fallen had Adrys not thrown his good arm in front of the fighter for support. Not stopping, he gave the lad a brief smile of appreciation before returning his concentration to combat the fatigue and pain of their forced pace. Three times they had almost been discovered by patrols of bullywugs who now scoured the swamp in search of them. Only Gerwyth’s consummate skill allowed the fugitives to escape detection. Even now, the Vast Swamp echoed with the hissing calls and screeches of the enraged bullywugs. Kaerion knew they were only one step ahead of their pursuers, and it would take every ounce of strength and endurance to see them safely to their companions.

Hours passed, and the moons fell lower in the night sky, and the shadows deepened. Kaerion felt danger lurking behind every tree or shaded bush. Doggedly he pushed on, memories of Majandra’s lips on his mind, fueling muscles already pushed beyond the brink of exhaustion.

When Gerwyth called their next halt, Kaerion was surprised to see the rosy pink of dawn pushing up on the horizon. His lungs sucked in air greedily as he stood bent with hands on knees. Beside him, Adrys drank deeply from their waterskin, and even the normally unflappable elf looked exhausted as he examined Bredeth, who had collapsed in a heap.

Ahead, the path widened and descended at a fairly steep angle. Looking through the ragged wall of trees and brush before him, Kaerion could see that the trail dipped into a large plain of stagnant water. In the distance, several flat-topped hills rose out from the plain. But before he could take time to examine them in more detail, a triumphant gurgling hiss broke the silence of the dawn.

Kaerion cursed as he saw four bullywugs emerge from either side of the undergrowth ahead of him, blocking their way. Turning to warn his companions, he was reassured to see that Gerwyth had already identified their danger. The elf had drawn both of his short swords—though his hands shook with exhaustion. Kaerion was no better. He drew his own blade and stifled another curse at the weakness in his limbs. This would be a difficult battle. They’d have to push past these creatures before others could come and reinforce them.

With an incoherent battle cry, Kaerion launched himself at the bullywugs, the arc of his sword catching the newly risen sun. Confident that Gerwyth was no more than a few steps behind, he crashed into the nearest opponent, aiming a slash at the creatures neck. Exhaustion and lack of water had taken their toll, however. The bullywug knocked the feeble attack aside with its own spear and then brought the shaft of the weapon down hard on Kaerion’s skull. The world swam as he reeled beneath the force of the blow. His opponent connected a vicious kick to his stomach. Kaerion was knocked backward and rolled hard down the steep incline of the path. As he fell, he caught glimpses of his companions fighting their way past the bullywugs and running down the path.

The breath left Kaerion’s chest with a whumph as he landed face first into the muck. Desperately, he tried to pull himself up and collect his sword, sure that death would soon follow. What he saw almost caused him to drop his weapon in surprise.

Along the top of the hilly path, the four bullywugs raised their own weapons in the air, hissing angrily at the intruders. Another line of bullywugs emerged behind them, covering the length of the hillside. One by one each of the creatures turned its bloated head to the dawn sky and emitted a horrifying cry. The ululation echoed wildly across the plain.

As Kaerion, still gasping for breath, stumbled toward his own companions, who now stared dumbfounded halfway up the path, he wondered why the bullywugs hadn’t attacked. Surely there was no way that the four of them, wounded and exhausted as they were, could prevail in the face of such overwhelming odds.

Then, as the sun peeked over the horizon, Kaerion caught a glint of reflection from somewhere behind him. He turned and surveyed the scene. In the distance, along one of the flat-topped hills, he could make out a strange formation. Black rocks erupted like daggers from the top of the hill, forming the shape of a grinning skull.

Suddenly, Kaerion knew why the bullywugs refused to move any closer, knew why the entire plain before them lay silent and brooding beneath the newly risen sun. Kaerion shuddered at his discovery. He and his companions were safe for the moment.

They had found it.

Before them, marked with a gruesome symbol, lay Acererak’s unholy resting place—the Tomb of Horrors.