The Tomb of Horrors (16 page)

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.