The Tomb of Horrors (17 page)

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.

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.”