The Tomb of Horrors (19 page)

“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.

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.