The Tomb of Horrors (22 page)

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that she noticed something was
wrong. Cocking her ear to the side, she listened intently for whatever it was
that had teased her intuition. She heard nothing. Silence filled the swamp, a
brooding absence of sound. She realized then that it was this silence that had
struck her as odd. Only a few moments ago, the area had been filled with the
sounds of life. Now, the swamp seemed frozen, as if waiting for something to
happen.

The hairs on the back of Majandra’s neck stood almost
straight up. The bard couldn’t shake the feeling that somebody was watching her.
She scanned the surrounding vegetation, shielding her eyes with her hand, but
could detect nothing. Unbidden, the memory of her sighting the other day crept
into her mind. Despite the heat, she shuddered. What if someone—or something—was
watching them right now? There were far more dangers in this swamp than
wandering lizard folk and the occasional alligator.

Majandra stood still, scanning the lush undergrowth,
determined to discover this secret threat. The rest of the expedition walked
past her, by now used to the half-elf’s penchant for stopping and appreciating
the grandeur of the Vast Swamp. She could make out the back of the last guard as
he pushed through the thick branches of a thorn bush and disappeared down the
path. Still, she watched—and listened.

There! She heard something off to her right, a rustling in
the bush. Carefully, she crept toward the sound, padding lightly on her feet.
With only a slight scrape of metal on leather, she drew her short sword and sent
a vicious cut into the center of the vegetation. A raucous scream met her
attack, and she stumbled back as a brightly plumed bird exploded from the bush,
taking flight with another harsh cry. Majandra swore as she sheathed her sword
and tried to calm the pounding of her heart.

Still, the feeling of being watched grew. She spun around
once—sure that there must be a hundred hidden eyes peering at her. With one last
backward glance at the trees, she broke into a run.

It was time to find Gerwyth.

* * *

By the time Majandra found the ranger, he was deep in
conversation with Kaerion along the side of the path. The fighter had shrugged
off his pack and was carefully donning his chain mail armor. The normally placid
elf’s face was turned into a frown, and Majandra could see the crease of worry
lines around his mouth. She found her own mood equally as serious as she walked
up to the two warriors.

“Gerwyth, I think something is behind us. It—”

The elf held up his hand. “I know,” he said in a soft voice.
“We have been followed for several days. I couldn’t be sure, for whoever or
whatever it is knows this land exceptionally well. This morning, I found traces
of a viscous slime along the base of several bushes.” He pointed down to the
muddied ground, at a small smear of thick liquid hanging from the bottommost
branches of a marsh bush.

“I will alert Vaxor and Bredeth,” said Kaerion, his voice
heavy with concern. “What about Phathas?”

“He already knows,” replied the ranger. “I informed him of my
concerns this morning. Kaerion, once we have alerted the rest of the expedition,
we must be very careful not to let our guests know that we have discovered their
presence. There is a stand of uprooted trees about a league south and east of
here. I scouted it out earlier. It is the most defensible position I could see
within a half-score of miles. If we can make it there, we have a chance of
surviving whatever surprise is in store for us.”

“Who could be following us?” Majandra asked, worried even
more by the concern that filled the faces of the warriors. If the situation was
tense enough to put Kaerion and Gerwyth ill at ease, then it was serious indeed.
“I thought we had evaded most of the lizard folk patrols in the area.”

The ranger shrugged. “It is difficult to say exactly how
successful one can be in evading the lizard folk,” he said. “Truth be told, I
think that we led those tribes on a merry enough chase that they decided to let
us pass. No, my guess is that we re dealing with another race of swamp
creatures—most likely siv or bullywugs. If it’s the latter, then we should pray
we can reach the relative safety of our prospective camp tonight.”

Majandra turned to help Kaerion adjust his mail. By the time
she finished, Gerwyth had left to inform Landra and the rest of the guards.
Kaerion thanked Majandra for her assistance and then flashed her a brief smile
as he strode toward Bredeth, who was currently adjusting the straps to his own
pack.

Fully aware now of the unseen enemy that dogged their steps,
the expedition set out again at a brisk pace. Though no one gave any outward
sign that possible death lurked just beyond the screen of vegetation rising up
on either side of the rough trail, Majandra couldn’t help tossing a few glances
backward, sure that she would see a spear or crossbow bolt arcing toward her
unprotected back.

She saw nothing.

The group plodded on in silence, occasionally marking the
sun’s slow, lazy arc in the sky. As the evening shadows grew, so did the
tension. Each step brought an image of fearsome swamp creatures jumping out of
the growing darkness to rend the flesh of friends and comrades. When Gerwyth led
the expedition up a sharp rise into the waiting arms of their campsite Majandra
dropped her pack and let out an explosive sigh as she ducked under the twisted
wall of roots that blocked the main approach to their site.

Gerwyth called the guards to unload the rafts and lash them
up against several of the fallen trunks on the sides of the camp. Once
completed, the group would have a makeshift fortress that would offer them
additional protection against assault.

The entire camp hustled with purpose as first Gerwyth and
then Kaerion issued orders. It wasn’t long before Bredeth came by, enlisting
Majandra’s aid in gathering wood and starting the large watchfire at the center
of the site. The half-elf could see Vaxor and Phathas conferring in quiet tones
as she bent under the weight of her load, but the rest of the camp’s
preparations were lost to her beneath the countless repetition of snatching wood
with deft fingers and scooping it into an orderly pile near the hastily dug fire
pit.

Several hours later, Majandra sat bathed in soft light as the
moons dangled in the night sky like jewels. With the camp’s defensive measures
in place and a solid network of sentries posted, the level of tension among the
members of the expedition had dissipated somewhat, settling into an uneasy
wariness. Dinner that evening consisted of a thick root soup and dried beef.
Stomachs full and boots removed, most of the guards not on watch had already
settled into their bedrolls.

The bard yawned once, stretched, and grabbed the leather case
that protected her harp from the sting of the elements. She stifled another
yawn. The unrelenting tensions and exertions of the day had definitely taken
their toll on her. She had spent far too much time away from the instrument that
had been her guiding passion for so many years. Gently, almost reverently, she
unlaced the strings of the case and removed the harp. Its rich, stained wood
melted into the evening darkness, but its strings caught the silvered moonlight,
held it for a brief moment, and then cast it back like soft, jeweled fire.

The half-elf ran nimble, calloused fingertips across the
glowing strings and winced at the jangle of sounds. Master Parvus would likely
throw an apoplectic fit if he had heard what her neglect had done to the tuning
of his harp. Deftly, she adjusted the tautness of each string with minute turns
of the instrument’s wooden pegs, until at last, a chord of almost heartbreaking
purity thrummed from the vibrating strings.

Majandra smiled softly as she noticed several of the
previously sleeping guards, as well as her own companions, angle their bedrolls
toward her, eager expressions on their faces. Gently, she ran her fingers across
the harp strings, loosening muscles stiff with fatigue and disuse. Music tumbled
forth from the instrument like rain, falling in playful patches as the half-elf
wove several different melodies together, tantalizing her listeners.

The bard smiled again as her fingers moved faster and faster
across the strings. Still, she searched with a performer’s covert eye for the
one person for whom she really wanted to play this night. She found him, a
hulking shadow patrolling the edges of the camp, implacable and tireless.
Beneath the warrior’s cloak, the links of a mail shirt gleamed brightly. Seeing
this, Majandra recalled the words of a song made popular during the Greyhawk
Wars.

Mantled still in light-forged mail,

Whitehart held the crumbling line;

Though thousands strong fell ’neath the touch

Of Iuz’s claws and demon throng.

The half-elf almost gasped out loud as the truth came
crashing down upon her. How could she have been so blind? All of it made sense
now: the mysterious presence of the sword, Vaxor’s cold attitude, the warrior’s
own reticence. It fit perfectly.

Majandra’s discovery brought a surge of emotion welling up,
and she wanted to crow with delight Instead, her fingers quickly strummed the
opening chords to the song. Raising her voice only slightly, for they were still
in the middle of a dangerous swamp, possibly surrounded by enemies, the half-elf
began to sing the first stanza of “Whitehart’s Hope.” Knowing the power of this
song, and knowing the depths of her own talent, the bard was unsurprised to see
the rest of the camp caught up in the driving pulse of the music. Here, engulfed
in a forbidding land, surrounded by darkness and an unseen enemy, the members of
the expedition could take strength in the courage, nobility, and valor of the
Whitehart, one of the most celebrated paladins in all the Shield Lands.

She smiled at the thought that this legend was even closer to
them than they had dared realize, but the smile faded, replaced by the focused
demeanor of a consummate musician—head cocked slightly to the side, eyes closed
as if listening to a ratified stream of music undetectable by the normal ear—as
she played through one of the most difficult passages in the song. Absorbed
completely by the demands of the tune, still Majandra could sense the hope and
courage rising in her audience, could feel the give and take, the marvelous
interplay of energy as performer and listener were enfolded in the music, made
one, however briefly, by the crystalline purity of each note.

It was only when a shadow fell over her and Majandra looked
up into Kaerion’s stricken face, eyes white with equal parts fury and agony,
that she realized her mistake.

* * *

“Calm night out there, isn’t it?” the guard to Kaerion’s left
whispered, not quite masking his apprehensive tone.

Kaerion grunted and threw a thin cloak about his shoulders,
fastening it with the metal clasp. Despite the heat, he had ordered all of the
sentries to cover their armor. Moonlight on mail made for an inviting target. As
sweat began to drip from his neck, he once again cursed the necessity. If
whatever was following them didn’t kill them, the thick, humid air and
unrelenting heat certainly would.

“It’s calm enough,” he said, “but you can rest assured that
our friends are out there, waiting for their moment.”

“What do you think they are?” another whispered. This time,
surprisingly, from Bredeth, who had volunteered for second watch.

Kaerion shrugged and offered another grunt. “Gerwyth believes
they’re bullywugs, some type of swamp humanoid with a nasty disposition. Never
fought against any myself.”

“I don’t care what they are,” said the first guard, “as long
as they bleed when I cut ’em.” He punctuated his statement with a twist of his
sword.

Despite the tension of the situation, Kaerion found himself
smiling, and was even more surprised to note that Bredeth had also captured the
mood. The young noble bore a fierce grin of his own. These are good warriors,
Kaerion thought. I would hate too lose any of them to this cursed swamp.

A sudden morbidity, at odds with the spirit of the moment,
crept over him. Shaking off his negative thoughts, he clapped Bredeth and the
guard lightly on the shoulders. “Both of you spread out,” he said softly, “but
remain within each other’s hearing. If either of you sense anything out of the
ordinary, alert the other before going to investigate. I’ll spread the word to
the rest of the watch.” With that, Kaerion moved silently away from the two men,
confident in their training and skill to see them through.

As he wandered from sentry post to sentry post, Kaerion
observed the camp, wondering how long the expedition could continue to function
under the strain of ever-present danger. Looking at the camp from the perimeter,
it was evident that the men and women within its bounds had undergone a forced
march for several days. Exhaustion had finally taken its toll, and Kaerion could
see by the weary way his companions stumbled into their bedrolls or hung their
heads that they had reached the end of their endurance. Living under the
constant threat of attack brought its own attendant dangers to morale, as well
as tempers. It was only a matter of time before either frayed past the point of
restraint. Someone would do something foolish; mistakes, possibly life
threatening ones, would be made. If their enemies were going to attack, Kaerion
thought, they had better do it soon.

The breathtaking sounds of a harp drifted lightly through the
thick night air, and Kaerion smiled as he recognized Majandra’s masterful
playing. For a moment, his warrior’s instincts objected to the superfluous noise
that could draw unwanted attention to their camp. But they already had unwanted
attention. It was unlikely that their pursuers didn’t already know where they
were.