“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, fastenin
g 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.
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 prepar
ed 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!”
The Tomb of Horrors Page 16