The Tomb of Horrors (23 page)

A shift in the night air brought all of his senses to
attention. Kaerion looked about quickly, searching for the source of this
disturbance. His heart raced faster than a war-horse in a joust, and a feeling
of dread crept up his spine. What in the Nine Hells could be unsettling him so?

And then he realized it.

It hadn’t been the night air that had changed. It was the
music. As he listened to the opening strains of a song he hadn’t heard in over
ten years, he felt as if a sharp arrow had imbedded itself deep in his chest.
Someone had discovered his secret, and now the bard was revealing it to the
entire expedition. Panic gripped him, as the words to the song rang out with
accusation.

Betrayer!

Coward!

Child-killer!

Out of the darkness, he could see leering faces appear,
demons and demon-spawn as familiar to him as the unrelenting press of hatred and
grief over his own cowardly actions. The healing scabs that had formed over his
wounds during the past few months were ripped open, and he felt soul-tearing
pain as the memories of his abominable disgrace poured forth. Kaerion knew that
he was unworthy of the friendships bestowed upon him, and he prayed for the
first time in nearly a decade, that the god he betrayed would strike him dead.

Even the great moon cast its judgment upon him, for in its
face he saw the features of an innocent boy smiling expectantly down on him—a
boy he knew now lay dead, his desiccated corpse rotting in a demon-cursed
dungeon.

Oblivious to his own pain, the song continued. Each word was
like a glass-tipped whip lashed against the raw wounds of his spirit. Kaerion
closed his eyes and threw his hands up to cover his ears in an attempt to shut
out the music—but to no avail. When he opened his eyes again, he was surprised
to see Majandra’s face staring up at him from her seat on the ground. His own
legs had betrayed him, carrying him to the source of his pain, like a sacrifice.

As he met the equally surprised and horrified gaze of the
bard, Kaerion felt his anger build into white-hot rage. Not content simply to
excoriate the shattered dregs of his own soul, his anger now found an external
focus—the cause of his current pain. Unable to stop himself, the warrior felt
his arm pull steel from its scabbard and raise up the blade for a killing blow.

Silence filled the camp as Majandra’s fingers stopped
playing. Her wide-eyed gaze never wavered from his, yet Kaerion felt as if he
were on a precipice. One simple motion would send him tumbling, irrevocably,
down.

The bard’s eyes softened, moving from fear to that familiar
compassionate look that Kaerion had often longed to have aimed at him. Still,
his rage drove him on. Sword held high, he battled for control of his own body.

At last, it was the bard herself who saved him. Slowly, she
stood, seemingly oblivious to the death that hung above her, and placed one hand
gently upon his face. “I am so very sorry, Kaerion,” she said in a measured tone
soft enough to reach only his ears.

The half-elf’s voice was warm, its timbre a rich, dulcet,
earthy tone that absorbed the heat of his rage, enfolding him in its
compassionate embrace. Kaerion knew now, in the part of his mind still capable
of rational thought, that the bard had never intended this to happen, had never
played “Whitehart’s Hope” as a means of exposing his shame.

With a heaving shudder, he sheathed the naked blade. As if
this motion released them all from a powerful spell, his companions moved
forward. Kaerion was surprised to see Gerwyth stand abruptly and bar their way.

Kaerion looked back at Majandra, whose gentle fingers now
traced the curve of his jaw. The half-elf appeared as stunned as he felt. With a
slow swallow, she spoke again, “Kaerion, I—”

“No, Majandra,” he growled. “Not here.” And with that, he
pulled her, far less gently than he should have, away from the center of the
camp, back toward the shadows and relative privacy of the supply rafts.

Once there, the thousand things he had wanted to say swirled
around in his head, getting in each others way. Dully, he gaped at the half-elf,
who regarded him with a slight smile upon her face. His own mouth worked
absently, opening and closing despite the silence that issued forth from it.

When at last someone spoke, it was Majandra. “So, it’s true,”
she said in a gentle voice. “You are the Whitehart.”

Kaerion wanted to deny the accusation. Instead, he felt his
shoulders slump under the weight of acceptance as he nodded.

“But how is that possible?” Majandra asked. “You were
supposed to have died during the expedition that was sent to free Earl Holmer
from Dorakaa. There’s even a song of lament about how you sacrificed yourself so
that the others could escape with the earl.”

Kaerion bowed his head at the bard’s pronouncement. When he
finally found his voice, it was tinged with bitterness. “There isn’t a day that
has gone past since that cursed expedition when I don’t wish I was dead,” he
said, “but there was no heroic sacrifice. You of all people should know the
unreliability of bard’s tales.”

Majandra’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

“No,” he spoke again, shuddering as the memories ripped
through him, “that expedition was doomed from the start. We were betrayed. Iuz
knew we were coming and he set a trap. He let the others go and… and
prepared a special place for me.”

Majandra shifted in her place and placed her hand in his.
“But Kaerion, you beat Iuz. You escaped from his clutches, and now you’re
alive.”

“You call this living?” Kaerion shouted, shrugging off the
bard’s attempt at comfort. “At first, I thought Heironeous would save me, but
then that demon-spawned bastard buried me in an oubliette. I sat there in the
stinking darkness for so long I lost track of time as his minions whispered
their foul wisdom into my ear. At one point, I can remember trying to pray, and
the words of my prayer tasted like ash in my mouth. I wasn’t sure if Heironeous
was listening, and after a while, I wasn’t sure if he was even real. All I could
remember was fear, and darkness, and a soul-numbing chill that sucked every last
bit of heat from my body. I was alone for the first time in my life.”

“You’re not alone anymore, Kaerion,” the bard said, moving
closer. “You have Gerwyth, Bredeth, the others—and me.” Majandra’s voice became
tremulous. “You have me.”

Despite himself, Kaerion barked with bitter laughter. “And
why would they want me?” he asked. “Why would you want me? Don’t you know what
I’ve done? Can’t you see what I am? After all this time traveling together,
Majandra, are you truly so blind?” The words spilled out of him, ugly, hateful,
and yet he could not stop them, wasn’t sure he wanted to stop them.

“No, damn you. I’m not the blind one!” It was Majandra’s turn
to shout, and despite his own anger, Kaerion was taken aback at the depth of the
bard’s own feelings. “I’m not the one who clutches to this isolation all the
while refusing the hand of true friendship and companionship being offered. So I
don’t know what you’ve done. So what? If you want to put me to the test, then
tell me what happened in Dorakaa. Give me the chance to make a decision about
it, rather than constantly making one for me!”

She threw this last out like a challenge, and Kaerion found
himself accepting. It wasn’t because he needed to share the burden of his grief
with someone. Not by a long shot. Rather, he knew that he deserved to be reviled
for his actions, and what better way than to be reviled by someone he truly
cared about. Let Majandra feel the shock and disgust as he listed the details of
his own sins. In a perverse way, he knew he would take pleasure in shattering
the faith and trust she had placed in him.

They stood there for a few moments, breathing heavily in
their anger, staring at each other. He could see the challenge still in the
bard’s eyes. When he began, Kaerion held his voice steady, as if retelling a
simple tavern story. “Eventually, they let me out of the circular hole that
defined my world. I remember blinking hard at the light, as if I had never seen
it before. I stank of fear and human waste. Several of Iuz’s servants led me to
a large chamber, a shrine of some sort. Even now it is difficult to remember the
details.

“As they marched me toward this chamber, the foul demons
whispered to me again, but this time, they told me of the ways I would be used
and tortured for Iuz’s own pleasure. At this point, I no longer recalled my life
before Dorakaa. For me, there was only misery and fear. By the time we reached
the door to the shrine, I was shaking in terror. Thoughts of escape were beyond
me, but I knew, despite my misery, that I would do anything to avoid the horror
that awaited me.

“When they opened the door—” Kaerion’s voice broke as he
sputtered and choked on the memories.

Without hesitation, Majandra opened her arms, and he could
feel the bard drawing him toward her. He didn’t resist.

“When they opened the door,” Kaerion continued, his voice a
bit stronger, “I saw a pack of the foulest demons the Nine Hells had ever
spawned. They surrounded a stone slab. As my captors drew me into the room, the
hellspawn parted, revealing a boy, no more than eight years old, splayed out
like a sacrifice. One of the beasts hopped toward me, its vestigial wings
flapping wetly, and gave me a choice. I could either offer myself in the boy’s
stead, exchanging my life for his, or they would spare my life and take the
boys. I—”

Kaerion’s body nearly convulsed as heaving shudders racked
his frame. He could feel hot tears scalding his cheeks and jaw as he relived
that memory once again. “Don’t you see?” he nearly shrieked, pulling away from
Majandra’s embrace. “I
let
them kill the boy. I watched as a demon claw
ripped the child’s throat apart and the demon pack feasted on his blood. It was
my fault!
Mine!”

Majandra’s mouth hung open, but she did not leave.

“It was my fault!” he shouted, and then he collapsed in a
sobbing heap.

He felt Majandra’s arms wrap themselves around him, her hands
gently lifting his tear-stained face up. At first, he closed his eyes, unwilling
to see the condemnation he knew would be there, but at last, he forced them
open—and was amazed to see compassion and forgiveness in the half-elf’s face.

“It was then I knew Heironeous had never forsaken me,” he
said in a much softer voice. “It was I who had walked away from him.”

Tears continued to roll down Kaerion’s face, and he,
powerless to stop it, let them fall unchallenged down his face. Gradually, the
shudders lessened and the great heaving sobs withdrew, leaving him weakened and
empty. Despite his emotional state, he was almost painfully aware of Majandra’s
arms as they wrapped gently around his neck. His heart beat in an unfamiliar
rhythm.

“Majandra, I—” he began, but was quickly silenced by the
press of the half-elf’s lips to his own. He stiffened at first in surprise, but
gradually relaxed as the soft touch of her tear-salted lips sent delicious
warmth through his grief-spent body. For a brief moment, he felt weightless,
suspended in a private universe beyond his own inner demons, a world whose
boundaries began and ended in the arms that surrounded him.

Kaerion sighed and returned the kiss deeply—only to be flung
out of his contentment by the gurgling scream of a dying guardsman. He looked at
the equally stunned bard as shouts and other screams filled the camp.

The attack had begun.

The dark recesses of the swamp came alive with snarling,
hissing cries. Kaerion leapt up from his comfortable perch near the half-elf and
drew his sword. The final look he cast the bard before running into battle was
all too brief, but he was relieved to see the same expression on her face.
Later,
it seemed to say, and he found himself grinning as he went to meet
their enemies.

The camp itself heaved with the press of bodies and naked
steel. Despite the seeming chaos, Kaerion’s battle-trained awareness quickly
recognized solid defensive tactics employed by the guards as they formed a ring
around Phathas and Vaxor. Landra had obviously called in the remaining sentries
and Kaerion felt some measure of relief at the captain’s prudent command.

Beneath the red-gold glare of the watch fire, Kaerion caught
glimpses of the heretofore-unseen predators that had stalked them through the
swamp for days. Even as he neared the battle, he couldn’t keep his gorge from
rising at the site of their blunt, wide-lipped heads and bulbous eyes.

A cry off to his left broke Kaerion’s forward charge. In the
flickering light, he saw a slouching humanoid raise a steel-tipped spear at a
fallen sentry. Three bounding steps brought the bulk of his body crashing into
the bullywug, whose own slime-covered form went crashing into the underbrush
with an angry hiss. A quick hand helped the guard to her feet before Kaerion
turned and ran back to the center of camp.