The Tomb of Horrors (14 page)

“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.

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.