“And what are you?” Gerwyth asked.
“I am a traitor, a coward, and a betrayer. I was once beloved of a god, Ger, a commander of legions, and a hero right out of a bard’s tale. I threw it all away. Turned my back on the god I served. I am nothing.”
“You are my friend,” Gerwyth replied, grabbing Kaerion’s shoulder with startling intensity. “You are brave and strong and noble in every way that truly counts, and I would gladly lay down my life for yours.”
Kaerion lay there, stunned by the deep sincerity present in the ranger’s words and expression. Through ten years’ worth of travel, he had rarely seen this side of the normally quixotic and carefree elf.
“That means more to me than you know, Ger,” Kaerion said, “but now that the rest of them have discovered my secret, they will have to turn their backs on me. It is the Church of Heironeous that sponsors this expedition. Surely you see that.”
“The rest of our companions have not discovered your ‘secret’, Kaer,” Gerwyth replied. “They have seen a sword, nothing more.”
“But they must suspect something, and Vaxor—”
“Suspicions are like goblins, or at least that’s what my mother always told me,” interrupted Gerwyth. “They breed almost everywhere, but fall to a single arrow easily enough. And do not trouble yourself about Vaxor.”
“The significance of Galadorn can’t be lost upon him,” Kaerion said. “He must know, and I’m sure that he will tell the others.”
“The priest has said nothing to the others,” the elf said, “and if he does, it will be your opportunity to confront the very thing you have been running from. That will be the true measure of your courage.”
Kaerion nodded. “Perhaps you’re right, Ger. Though what will the others think of me? I’ve grown used to the rudeness of strangers, but not—”
“Those you care about,” Gerwyth finished. “Is it really the others you care about? Or perhaps it’s the regard of a certain fiery-haired bard that you’re really concerned with.”
Kaerion shifted uncomfortably in his bedding, feeling a hot flush blossoming on his face. He ran pale fingers though his tangled and sweat-crusted hair, hoping the movement would mask the red tinge he was sure marked his cheeks and neck. “Wh-what are you talking about, Ger?” he stammered.
The elf smiled, obviously enjoying his friend’s discomfort. “Come on, Kaer,” Gerwyth said, “I can track a brownie across rock-strewn foothills. Surely I can see the obvious attraction between a man and a woman.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kaerion said in clipped tones. “There is nothing between Majandra and I.”
“And I’m a priestess of Lolth,” Gerwyth replied. “Gods, Kaer, I have eyes. I can see it clearly. You two care for each other—though why Majandra would be interested in a brutish lout like you I’ll never know.”
Kaerion grabbed for the waterskin and took several more long swallows, ignoring the elf. When he was finished, he tossed the skin to the side. “Just leave it alone, Ger,” Kaerion said tersely. “Nothing is going to happen between Majandra and I—especially not now.”
Gerwyth shook his head. “But why, Kaer? You’ve never taken an oath of celibacy. Just tell her how you feel. You must know she cares about you. Besides, if you get your feelings out in the open, you two can stop mooning over each other like a couple of lovesick—”
Kaerion tossed back his blankets in frustration. “Just… leave it be, Ger,” he said between clenched teeth.
The elf looked as if he would say more, but suddenly threw up his hands and stood. “Now I know you’re on the mend,” he said.
“Why’s that?” Kaerion asked, still somewhat sullen.
“Because you’re getting more stubborn and pig-headed every day,” the elf replied. “Pretty soon you’ll be back to the mulish, dull-witted human I’ve come to know so well.”
His friend’s words brought a ghost of a smile to Kaerion’s face. “And don’t you forget it either,” he said after a moment. “Now go—” he waved an imperious hand at the elf—“and let me enjoy this beautiful morning in peace.”
“As you command,” Gerwyth said, offering a mock bow that made Kaerion laugh. “But tomorrow you and I are going for a walk. Phathas says that you should be up and about more often, regaining your strength. Once we’re out of the Rieuwood, it’s a short journey to the borders of the Vast Swamp. I’m going to need the strength of your sword arm and whatever wits have managed to survive in your head if we’re going to make it to the tomb safely.”
Kaerion watched the elf as he stepped nimbly out of the wagon and into the bright spring day. The smile that played upon his face remained for a while, and he realized that his spirits felt lighter than they had in quite some time. Soon he would be out of this damned wagon, a useful member of the expedition again. After that… he grimaced. Well, only time would tell.
* * *
Majandra sat enjoying the fire that crackled fitfully in the small clearing. Around her, the members of their expedition shared light conversation and an even lighter skin of wine as they finished up the remains of the thick stew that had sustained them through much of their journey. Occasionally, the sharp laughter of a teamster or the whispered words of passing sentries broke through the pleasant din of conversation, reminding her once again of the serious nature of their expedition. She was glad, however, that such a distraction existed. Though the elves patrolled the forested depths of the Rieuwood regularly, danger still lurked within the shadows of its leafy bowers—dangers that could have followed them all the way from Rel Mord. She felt comforted by the hushed tread of the guards as they stood watch against the night.
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 int
o 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 t
he 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—”
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