The Tomb of Horrors (21 page)

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.