Eventually, the light within the bowl grew brighter, and in a single powerful flash, resolved itself into startling detail. Sydra opened her eyes and rested her hands at her side. “It is done,” she said simply, and moved to the side, allowing Durgoth full view of the image in the bowl.
The cleric stared down at an image of an old man, wrapped in thick blankets. By the looks of his surroundings, he appeared to be resting within a small wooden structure. It was the mage, Durgoth decided after a moment. The old fool slept peacefully, never dreaming of the danger that haunted his every step.
“Could we not destroy him now, as he sleeps?” the cleric asked.
Sydra shook her head before answering. “There are a few spells I could cast through this mystic link. However, it is likely that a mage as powerful as Phathas would detect the arcane energy and erect a barrier.”
“It is just as well. The senile fool will prove useful to us before we destroy him. Once we are through with him, I leave his fate in your hands.”
The sorceress gave him a grim smile. “As you wish, blessed one.” Durgoth could almost hear the anticipation in her voice.
“I wish to see more,” he informed her after another moment spent examining the mage.
She nodded and stepped forward, this time whispering several words as she traced patterns into the surface of the steaming blood with a single finger. The scene shifted with a disorienting lurch, resolving again into an image of several wagons slogging across a snow-covered landscape.
“Do you recognize where they are?” he asked Sydra.
“Yes,” she replied after spending a few moments peering into the bowl. “They are in the grasslands to the south and east of Rel Mord. It is as you said, blessed one.”
Yes, Durgoth thought. The scrolls that Eltanel had managed to pilfer from their room indicated this route. If they were headed for the Vast Swamp, which was a certainty according to their notes, they would avoid drawing too close to the coastline where the activity off Fairwind Bay would increase the ferocity of the winter weather. More than likely, they were headed for the confluence of the Harp and Lyre Rivers. From there, they would probably turn south, skirt the Bonewood Forest, and follow the river south into Rieuwood. It was a good plan, one that he would have created himself. Perhaps these nobles were not so foolish as he originally had thought. It mattered little, however, as he would make sure that they were all dead before he completed his task.
Durgoth was about to order the sorceress to end the scrying and prepare his followers for their journey when he caught a fiery flash of red. Looking closer, the cleric was pleased to discover that the distracting color was not the result of a torch or other such incendiary device, but it was due to the wind lashing through the hair of an enchanting woman. Her elven ancestry was apparent in the elegant cheekbones and slightly alien features, but these only served to heighten her beauty. Durgoth felt an unfamiliar warmth building in his loins. It had been quite some time since he had deigned to indulge himself in the pleasures of the flesh—perhaps too long. He would keep this one alive after he had dealt with the rest of her companions. He knew he would tire of her in time, but his nights would be filled with sport until then.
The fire-haired beauty turned suddenly and smiled, as if greeting a friend, but Durgoth could see no one else nearby. “What manner of trickery is this?” he asked Sydra.
The sorceress stepped forward and gazed into the bowl. She spoke a single command, and a gray cloud shimmered near the image of the half-elf, but no figure resolved. “I do not understand, blessed one,” Sydra said after a moment of tense concentration. “Something is blocking the effects of my spell, but only in a localized area.” She closed her eyes again, and sweat beaded on her forehead. “It is not a spell, blessed one, but whatever it is, it holds great power. I can feel it working against me.”
“I am not interested in your feelings, Sydra,” the cleric snapped. “I am interested in finding out exactly what this power is and who it’s protecting.”
Swallowing hard, the sorceress closed her eyes and cast another spell. Durgoth ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. They couldn’t afford to be surprised by anything else on this mission. Success was critical. He watched a few moments as Sydra continued her spell, then he turned to Jhagren. The monk had stood silently throughout this scrying. Perhaps he could shed some light on the situation.
Before Durgoth could open his mouth, Sydra screamed and threw her hands up to her temples. The scrying bowl exploded, sending silver shards and splatters of scalding blood across the room. Durgoth raised his own hands instinctively as the crimson rain poured down upon him.
Heavy footsteps came pounding down the hallway soon after, and the cleric could hear the frantic questions of his followers as they gathered beyond the closed door. He ignored the pain of his burns and turned to leave, only to find Jhagren quietly opening the door to address the concerned cultists beyond. Durgoth noted with irritation that the monk had avoided the burning spray and moved with complete calm. Left with nothing else to do, Durgoth surveyed the damage.
Sydra lay in the center of the room, covered in blood and the remains of the silver bowl. It was difficult to tell how much blood was her own and how much was the remains of her scrying medium. Durgoth felt little compunction to find out. The brazier underneath the bowl had somehow managed to remain upright, but the fire in it had been extinguished by the bowl’s contents, which ran steaming down its sides.
So, Durgoth thought bitterly, there yet remains another mystery to be solved. Deep in his heart he knew that these obstacles were merely tests by which the Dark One measured the strength and the commitment of his servants. He would not be found wanting.
Slowly, he walked to the door of the room and opened it, sure of his next move. They would leave tomorrow on the trail of their enemies, and there would be nothing in this world that could stand in Durgoth’s way.
* * *
Kaerion slowed his horse to a trot as he neared the line of wagons that stretched before him. Even from this distance he could hear the hum of activity coming from the caravan. Drovers and teamsters exhorted their beasts of burden with sharp cracks of leather whips and equally sharp tongues. Occasionally, he heard the strains of their frank and good-natured banter, which still managed to bring color to his cheeks at its most outrageous points.
The weather had warmed a bit, offering the travelers a respite from the continuous assault of winter, and Kaerion was surprised to note the number of offerings left to Fharlanghn and his divine children before the caravan had started its journey for the day. Even so, the wind still carried a bite, and steam rose off the flanks of his stallion.
Earlier in the day, the expedition had passed the remains of the bandit-razed wagon. Both Gerwyth and Kaerion had decided to take a complement of caravan guards and patrol the area around their vulnerable wagons. Thankfully, there had been no sign of bandits or other dangers in the surrounding plain, and Kaerion made his way back to report the good news.
He slowed the stallion to a walk as he caught up with the caravan, weaving his mount expertly through the press of supply wagons, oxen, and teamsters. The horse snorted once and pranced forward, obviously disappointed that their morning exertions were over so soon. Kaerion smiled at this display of spirit and patted the stallion’s neck.
“There’ll be time enough for running free on this journey, eh Jaxer?” he said, addressing the horse by name. “No sense spoiling it by risking a broken leg on this gods-cursed snow.”
Despite himself, Kaerion couldn’t help his smile from turning bittersweet. Jaxer was a fine stallion with a long, powerful stride and a heart that was a match for any warrior, but thoughts of his qualities only invited comparisons to another steed—Kaerion’s own war-horse, dead these ten long years, killed by the same cowardice that had shattered everything he had held sacred. Memories of the golden-maned stallion came unbidden to his mind, echoes of its grace and power, the almost total union of mind and body that
allowed both steed and rider to anticipate the needs and movements of the other. All of it was gone now, lost like so much else.
“I thought druids and elves were the only folk crazy enough to talk to their mounts,” a familiar voice broke through Kaerion’s gloomy ruminations. He looked up to see Majandra flashing the dazzling light of her smile at him.
“How goes the patrols?” she asked as she drew closer.
“Uneventful, thank the gods and anyone else who is willing to listen,” Kaerion replied. “There was no sign of the bandits anywhere within a league of our caravan. Whoever or whatever attacked the wagon has moved on.”
“That is good news,” the half-elf said, “though I fear Bredeth will be disappointed.”
Kaerion was about to answer, but was surprised into silence when Jaxer bucked wildly. He grabbed the reins hard and fought for control of the stallion. Searing pain shot through his left thigh and he gasped with the force of it, nearly unseating himself in the process.
“Kaerion, what’s wrong?” Majandra asked, but he could spare no attention to the bard’s worried question. Every ounce of his skill and experience was turned toward gaining control of his mount.
The pain in Kaerion’s thigh intensified, and he cried out. The distraction was enough to give Jaxer his head. The stallion reared up on his hind legs, sending its hapless rider tumbling to the ground.
Kaerion hit the snow-packed ground hard, knocking all of the wind from his lungs. He lay there doubled up, gasping for breath. Majandra started to run toward him and then stopped, her eyes wide with wonder. Dazed, it took the fighter a few moments to focus on the source of the half-elf’s amazement. What he saw filled him with horror.
The contents of his saddlebag lay strewn about the snow—including Galadorn’s jeweled scabbard, which had rolled free from the thick, oily cloth that hid its presence from the rest of the expedition. Worse, the precious stones adorning the scabbard each pulsed with an intense light, the first signs of true life he had seen from the blade in over a decade.
Kaerion wanted to reach out and grab the sword, return it to its humble wrappings and hide it away again, but his body would not respond. He heard Majandra say something, but the words slowed and elongated, as if they were spoken underwater, and Kaerion could not make them out.
He tried to turn his gaze to the bard, but the pulsating light of the scabbard drew his attention like a lodestone. The incandescent stones grew brighter with each rhythmic pulse, until he was sure that he looked upon a collection of fallen stars. The surrounding snow absorbed the illumination, magnifying it until it shone brighter than the sun. The pure white of the stones burned his eyes, searing through thoughts and memories like a fiery blade. He was lost in a landscape of diamond brilliance. Lost and alone.
Until everything, at last, became the light.
The nightmare returned, and with it the temple—soaring arches and white marble walls arcing toward the heavens. He heard the singing once again, but this time didn’t revel in it. He knew what was to come.
And it did. All too soon.
He saw the gray-robed procession marching solemnly toward the altar, saw an emaciated figure he knew to be himself kneeling helplessly on the ground. When he looked for the boy again, he found him lying face up on the stone altar. The clerics around him had shed their gray robes. He looked on in disgust as he saw the mottled skin, jagged scales, and oozing pus that made up their naked flesh. These demons wore twisted mockeries of the human form. Many of them sprouted leathery tails that twitched and caressed their infernal companions, while a few possessed great wings that beat in time to the bass rumble of their laughter. The demonic monks reveled in dark joy around the altar, alternately fondling themselves, each other, and the object of their rite.
From this distance, Kaerion could see the boy’s face, frightened but expectant—sure that the paladin would summon forth his holy powers and rescue him. Kaerion reached for Galadorn, only to recoil as the sword’s hilt stung his hand like a giant wasp.
“Heironeous,” he accused the lofty balustrades of the temple, “why have you abandoned me?”
But there was no answer. He didn’t really expect any. He ran toward the altar with a strangled cry as one of the fiends raised a sharply-taloned claw in the air and brought it down across the exposed throat of the boy. The young lad did not even cry out as the demon ripped out his throat.
Kaerion, jolted awake by the splash of cool water on his face, cracked open his eyes to twin slits and surveyed his surroundings. Several lamps burned fitfully, and though their dim light assaulted his vision like three suns, he was able to make out the familiar interior of a caravan wagon.
Boxes and supplies had been moved to make room for the makeshift bed that he currently found himself in. Though soaked with sweat, a deep chill sent aches and shudders through his tired body, and he felt grateful for the pile of warm skins and blankets that covered him.
A shadowy figure moved softly in the wagon’s space, and Kaerion opened his eyes as wide as their crusted lids would allow. Majandra moved closer to his bedridden form, bending forward to dab his sweat-slicked forehead with a rag. He tried to reach out and hold on to the bard’s hand, but he felt entirely disconnected from his body, as if he floated in an empty space somewhere above his supine form; his hand did not respond. Frustrated, he could only lay still as the half-elf continued with her tender ministrations.
She smiled once and said something that resembled his name, but he could not make it out. A dull haze had begun to settle over his thoughts, and he felt himself falling back toward the waiting arms of sleep.
Memories of the events that had led him here washed over Kaerion in a rush, pulling him toward oblivion. He thought bitterly of the sacred sword that had betrayed him in a similar fashion to the way he had betrayed it. “Justice,” he tried to say as the thick blanket of sleep fell over him, but the words never came out.
* * *
Time passed as Kaerion drifted in and out of consciousness—though how much time was difficult to determine. He sensed rather than felt the wagon’s movement, for the weakness and disembodiment he had felt earlier stayed with him. Once, he thought he heard the sound of rushing water, but it soon became difficult to tell, as the world around him swam in and out of focus, ending finally in familiar darkness.
He was surprised to notice the regular attendance of nearly every one of his companions. Even Bredeth came to sit with him. The young noble regaled him with his thoughts and hopes for the glorious battles and heroic deeds they would undertake on this journey, and though his visits tired Kaerion, he found himself oddly touched by the normally brusque noble’s concern. Only Vaxor was conspicuous in his absence.
Thoughts of the Heironean priest only served to bring his true situation into complete focus. Surely the arch priest would understand the significance of the sword, and if he hadn’t condemned him to the others yet, he had certainly passed judgment himself. Once his companions learned the true nature of his cowardice, he would be lucky if any of them would even speak to him again. For some reason, this caused Kaerion more sadness than he expected, and he lay there shaking with weakness and anticipated dread.
Kaerion awoke one morning to daylight streaming in through the now-open end of his wagon. A warm breeze blew softly through the space, carrying the perfumed scent of flower buds and grass.
“There he is,” a voice said from somewhere near the opening, and Kaerion recognized Gerwyth’s mocking tone instantly. “Glad to see you’re finally awake long enough to appreciate the weather,” he said, climbing into the wagon and taking a seat next to Kaerion’s bed. “Care to stop lazing about and finally earn your keep?”
Kaerion smiled and looked up at his friend. A thousand retorts came to mind, but the parched desert of his mouth would not let any of these clever barbs escape. His struggles must have been easily noticed, for the elf chuckled once and then produced a skin of water, which he held gently to Kaerion’s mouth.
He drank
greedily, letting the cold liquid linger in his mouth before swallowing it. He took several long draughts, surprised at the depth of his own need. Gerwyth let out another laugh and pulled back the skin all too soon.
“Easy, Kaer,” the ranger said, all trace of his former mockery gone. “Phathas says you must not drink too much too soon.”
Kaerion nodded and drew his hand across the cracked and dried tissue of his lips. “H-how long have I been sick?” he asked after a moment, his voice gruff and harsh from disuse.
“For some time,” the elf responded. “It is currently the third day of Coldeven. You gave us all quite a scare.”
Kaerion stared at his friend in shock. Six weeks. He’d been bedridden and sick for six weeks. No wonder the warm weather felt alien. It should still have been the end of winter, and here it was well into spring.
“How far have we traveled?” he asked.
Gerwyth looked at his friend for just a moment, and Kaerion could see the concern in his friend’s eyes. “We traveled across the confluence of the Harp and Lyre rivers, turned south to skirt the Bonewood forest and made our way into the Rieuwood. We are currently about a week or so away from the southern border of the forest and Sunndi.”
So much time lost, so much of their journey completed, and he had spent it lying on his back like an infirm old man.
“Kaerion,” Gerwyth asked, interrupting his bitter thoughts, “what happened out there?”
Kaerion shook his head. “I don’t know. One moment I was having a conversation with Majandra, and the next Galadorn burst into life.” His voice became a whisper. “It hasn’t done that since… since Dorakaa.” Kaerion groaned and tried to roll over, the surprise at being able to feel his body overshadowed by his current situation. “Now that they’ve seen Galadorn, everyone must already know exactly what I am.”
The Tomb of Horrors Page 11