“Boy,” he said at last, contempt for the bastard’s misplaced arrogance dripping from every word, “when I am through with this world, the Nine Hells will seem like Beory’s own paradise in comparison.”
The warrior grinned. “Bold words,” he said, “for someone who needs talking frogs to do his dirty work for him.”
“Fool!” Durgoth shouted, immediately regretting his loss of temper. Then, in more measured tones he said, “You dare mock me, the bearer of Tharizdun’s will? For that, I will feed you to the Dark One myself… after you have served your purpose.”
“This for your pathetic godling,” the captive said, and then he hawked bloodied spittle into the dark cleric’s face.
Durgoth spun away in outrage, hastily wiping the spit from his brow. Such insolence! Anger building, he turned back toward the warrior with raised fist and was gratified to see the captured noble wince in expectation of the blow. A smile slowly spread across the dark priest’s features, and he held his attack.
“There will come a time,” he said to the glaring prisoner, “when you will remember my clenched fist, and your agony will be so great that you would trade your very soul to feel its weight upon your face rather than suffer for one more moment. When that happens, I want you to remember that it was your blasphemy that brought you there.”
“Let me spend some time with the boy, Durgoth,” broke in a husky voice from behind him. “I’m sure I can loosen his… tongue and make him more amenable to cooperation.”
Durgoth turned and acknowledged Sydra’s offer with a nod. The sorceress lounged indolently against a fallen marsh tree, her hair bound off of her tanned shoulders with a silver cord that reflected the rays of the rising sun.
“You shall have your opportunity in a few moments, my dear,” the cleric said.
“I don’t see why we have to waste time on that,” Eltanel cut in. “It’s clear these nobles will come after their companion. Why not set a trap and kill them?”
Durgoth remained quiet a moment, carefully studying the two guild members. What had begun as simple competitiveness after their defeat in Rel Mord had grown into open antipathy. The discord pleased the cleric. While the two spent their energies against each other, they had less time to plot against him.
“You forget, my shadowy friend,” he said, his inflection leaving no doubt that he considered Eltanel anything but, “I require these fools alive until they bypass the tomb’s deadly traps. Then we shall dispose of them.”
Eltanel, obviously angered by his public error, spoke again. “They have proven difficult to kill on several occasions… blessed one,” he added hastily. “Surely an open assault would fail.”
Durgoth offered another in a seemingly endless array of silent curses to Reynard and his damned guild. Once the key was liberated from Acererak’s tomb, the priest’s erstwhile allies would find themselves paying for every snide comment and insolent remark—Eltanel in particular.
“Though your lack of faith is unfortunate,” Durgoth responded, “you are partially correct in that an open assault would be very dangerous. That is why we will have hidden weapons.”
The cleric looked around the gathered assembly until he caught the eye of Jhagren Syn. Motioning the monk toward him, the dark priest continued, “Our young friend here will be the unseen knife poised to strike at the backs of our enemies.”
“I will not betray my friends, you beggaring scum-spawn!” the captive warrior shouted. “I’ll die before I let you use me against them.”
Durgoth turned slightly toward the wounded warrior. “What you want or don’t want is irrelevant,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Sydra, it is time.” He gestured toward the prisoner, who heightened his own struggles against the two bullywugs holding him fast.
“With pleasure,” the sorceress purred, as she knelt in front of the noble and placed elegant hands upon his head.
“What if he fails?” questioned Eltanel, the thief’s distaste for what was about to happen poorly concealed beneath his aggressive questioning.
Durgoth noted the guildsman’s weakness and vowed to remember it for future use. “Such questions, my dear Eltanel!” he responded with silken tones. “If he fads, there is another.”
With that, the cleric turned to face Jhagren Syn. The monk had gathered his apprentice and both stood calmly to his left. “Will the boy serve?” he asked.
“Yes, blessed one,” Jhagren responded evenly. “He will serve.”
Durgoth smiled down at the boy, who looked up at him with inscrutable blue eyes. “You know that he will need to look as if he’s been captured,” he said. “Are you prepared?”
“Yes, my lord,” the monk replied in his gravelly voice.
“Then proceed,” he said as he turned back toward the questioning thief. Durgoth didn’t flinch as the sound of snapping bone echoed sharply through the camp.
* * *
Kaerion peered into the deepening gloom of the swamp, alert for any sign of their quarry. Below him, crouched low to the ground, Gerwyth examined the mud-soft path they had been following for most of the day. Twice now they had nearly lost the trail, for the creatures’ webbed feet ran lightly across the earth, and the foul beasts seemed to know every twist and turn of the gods-blasted swamp. Kaerion feared the worst as the elven ranger continued his examination, but he was too experienced to disrupt his friend’s concentration by voicing his suspicions.
Despite the gravity of their situation, Kaerion found himself settling into the familiar and companionable silence that had characterized most of the day’s journey. It had been several months since the two of them had traveled together with only each other for support and comfort. Though he had grown to appreciate the friendship and trust of the Nyrondese—especially a certain fire-haired bard—there was a deeper bond that had grown between he and Gerwyth across their years of travel and struggle together. It was simple and almost elemental. Kaerion had not known how much he missed it until now.
Not that their current journey was simply a pleasure jaunt he reminded himself. The bullywugs had taken Bredeth, and somewhere in the deepness of the swamp, their companion was held against his will. There had been quite an argument as the remaining Nyrondese nobles had discussed who should go after their friend. Kaerion still winced at Majandra’s words. The bard had a tongue as sharp as any blade when she wished it. In the end, it had only been Phathas’ surprisingly hard-edged insistence that the two guides should go and retrieve the captured noble that had convinced the bard to remain behind. He smiled briefly as he remembered the rebellious set of Majandra’s shoulders as she acquiesced to the old mage’s wishes. In fact, he had half-expected to see the bard waiting for them at a juncture of their trail several times during the day.
“Ahh, I see that your mind is focused completely on our task as usual,” Gerwyth said.
Kaerion, startled by his friend’s sudden speech, half drew his sword before realizing that he had not been paying attention for some time. The elf had risen from his crouch and now stood close behind him. Confusion quickly became anger and embarrassment at his own lack of attention.
“What have you found, Ger?” he snapped at the smiling ranger.
Gerwyth wiped the gathering sweat from his brow before pointing back toward the ground. “The bullywugs we’ve been following met up with another group in this area not too long ago,” he reported.
“Then we’re close,” Kaerion responded, eagerness tingeing his voice.
“Well, yes, we’re close,” Gerwyth said, “but there is a complication. After the two groups met here, they split up. One group headed south, and the other went north.”
Kaerion’s heart sank. With two separate groups, there was no way to know exactly where Bredeth was. He feared that time was running out. If they didn’t find the young noble soon, it would be too late to save him. When he relayed his thoughts to Gerwyth, the ranger smiled.
“I never said I didn’t know where Bredeth was,” he said.
; Kaerion looked sharply at the elf’s face, noting the way the ranger’s eyes twinkled mischievously, and he soon found himself returning the smile.
Old times indeed.
“This group,” Gerwyth said after a moment, pointing to the trail heading north, “was carrying something fairly heavy, which you can see quite plainly by the deeper indentations of the prints left in the mud.”
“Yes, quite plainly. I agree,” Kaerion responded with more than a trace of humor in his voice as he looked at the barely visible—and to his eyes, completely inscrutable—indentations in the muck.
“Furthermore,” Gerwyth continued, obviously choosing to ignore the fighter’s sarcasm, “our friends have left something behind for us.” With that, the ranger bent down and plucked a small strip of bloodied cloth from the thin branches of a bush.
Kaerion easily recognized the material of Bredeth’s cloak. “How long ago did they pass, Ger?” he asked.
“Less than an hour ago, I’d guess, or I’m a blind son of an unwashed orc,” the ranger responded.
Kaerion nodded at his friend’s estimate and gazed at the sky. “Then we must hurry,” he said. “We don’t have too much longer before nightfall.”
After taking a few quick swigs from their waterskins, the two set out once more along the winding trail. Sweat poured freely down Kaerion’s face, and his breath came in even, deep rhythms as he followed the long-limbed ranger, who ran with easy, loping strides across the sawgrass and dark mud of the swamp floor. Around them, the twilight deepened. Kaerion’s hopes began to fall with each passing minute. Once full night fell, it would be exceedingly difficult for them to follow the bullywugs’ trail. They were so close. It would be painful to have to wait until morning to continue the search.
The first sentry took them by surprise. Movement off to his right sent a tingle of warning down Kaerion’s spine. He motioned for his companion to slow down and the two crept toward the watchful creature. With a quick lift of his chin, Gerwyth sent Kaerion clamoring off to the sentry’s left side. The creature spun as the fighter’s bulk crashed through the brush, but before it could sound the alarm, the ranger stood and threw two daggers in quick succession. The blades imbedded themselves deep in the creature’s throat, and it fell, choking, to the ground.
Gerwyth retrieved his daggers and caught up with Kaerion. The two crept forward, alert for any more guards. It was clear that they were close to the bullywugs’ camp. They would have to dispose of any opposition as quickly and silently as possible if they were to have any chance of rescuing Bredeth.
Twice more they encountered sentries, and twice more Gerwyth released steel in a deadly arc, silencing any opposition. Now, from the cover of thick brush, the two friends looked out upon a small, still lake. Several bullywugs lay upon the shore, eating sloppily or conversing in an indecipherable language. Kaerion watched a few moments more before he felt Gerwyth’s hand on his shoulder.
“There,” the ranger whispered softly, pointing to the opposite side of the camp. “Bredeth is over there.”
Kaerion gazed in the direction the ranger indicated. In the gloom, he could just make out Bredeth, his sagging form bound to a thin-trunked tree. Kaerion reached into his belt pouch and withdrew the small silver vial that Phathas had given him before they left the Nyrondese camp. Breaking the vial’s thick wax seal, he smiled at Gerwyth and downed the syrupy liquid within. There was a brief instant of disorientation and then the world settled back into focus. A few moments later, the rangers nod confirmed that the potion had taken effect. Invisible to the naked eye, Kaerion would sneak into the bullywug encampment and free Bredeth, while the elf used his bow to create a distraction. With any luck, the companions would meet up the trail and then travel back toward their friends, who were even now closing in on the location of Acererak’s tomb.
As silently as possible, Kaerion crept around the camp, heading with every step closer to the captured noble. As long as any remaining sentries didn’t stumble onto the corpses of their mates, he should have enough time to untie Bredeth and spirit him away.
The sound of twigs snapping in the shadows brought Kaerion to a complete stop. He held his breath as a bullywug stumbled out of the brush. The creature stopped and peered with bulbous eyes into the growing darkness. The beast stood several feet away from Kaerion, and the fighter was sure he would be detected. He started to draw his sword, careful lest the sound give away his presence, but before he could free his weapon, the bullywug blinked twice and continued toward the stagnant waters of the lake.
Kaerion let out his breath slowly and took a few moments for his heart to resume its normal beat before continuing. Several more minutes of careful travel brought him nearly up to the imprisoned noble. He winced as he saw the deep cuts and bruises that marred Bredeth’s body. Obviously, his captors had spent some time interrogating the noble. By the looks of things, the young man had not easily revealed what the bullywugs were looking for.
“Careful now,” he whispered to Bredeth as he began to saw through the thick rope that bound him to the tree.
“W-what? Wh-who is it?” Bredeth asked through swollen lips and deeply bruised cheeks.
“Shhh,” Kaerion warned. “It’s me, Kaerion. Gerwyth and I are here to rescue you.” His knife, sharp though it was, did not bite easily through the slime-covered rope. This would take a few minutes of work.
Bredeth made a soft sound, somewhere between a groan and a sob as Kaerion continued cutting the rope. “Never mind me,” the noble whispered huskily. “Rescue the boy.”
Kaerion studied Bredeth closely, sure that he was delirious. But the young man kept repeating himself. It wasn’t until Bredeth, one hand finally free from the rope, pointed a mud-covered hand off to his left that Kaerion saw the small figure lying inert on the muddy ground. He cursed once and placed the knife gently into Bredeth’s swollen hand before moving toward the figure.
Gently, he rolled the figure over and was surprised to see the battered face of a young lad, surely not more than fifteen years old. Unlike Bredeth, the boy was not tied to a tree, but Kaerion could clearly see that his arm hung at a gruesome angle. Carefully, Kaerion sat the boy up and dribbled a small stream of water into his mouth.
The young prisoner swallowed reflexively and blinked grime encrusted eyes open. For a moment, Kaerion found himself back inside the gruesome walls of an ancient shrine, looking down upon the piercing blue eyes of a trusting child. Terror gripped him—and guilt, but, as if from somewhere far away, he heard the thrum of arrows being loosed from a bow and the defiant ring of a familiar elven war cry. The sounds grew louder and he found himself crawling free from the clutches of the vision. As one who emerges from the utter blackness of a dungeon out into the bright light of day, Kaerion blinked quickly. The young lad still stared at him blankly, and Kaerion realized he was still invisible.
“Rest easy, son,” Kaerion whispered. “I’m a friend. We’ll be out of here soon. Just keep quiet.”
The boy blinked but said nothing. With an almost imperceptible grunt, Kaerion gathered the boy in his arms, lifted him off the ground, and turned toward the original target of this rescue. Bredeth, though wounded and mistreated, had managed to grasp the knife in his free hand and carve through the remaining bonds that tied him. Rubbing his wrists to restore circulation, the young noble smiled at the wounded boy seemingly floating toward him. All around them, the bullywug camp filled with the sounds of chaos.
“We must hurry now,” Kaerion said. “Gerwyth cannot distract them for too much longer.”
He stepped into the darkness of the surrounding bush, confidant that Bredeth would follow.
* * *
Kaerion ran.
Beneath the lidless eyes of the gazing moons, the Vast Swamp was aglow with witchlight. Shadows limned with silver, a mingling of darkness and light so deep that every border blurred. Grass or wind or even stagnant pool—it made no difference to Kaerion. He ran upon them all—or the dream of them. Bathed in the crystalline light
of the moons, everything bled into one single reality.
He ran.
Somewhere ahead, he knew Gerwyth watched over the wounded figure of Bredeth, who despite the hesitance of his own battered body, pushed on, refusing to be carried. The noble had courage, that much was clear.
Kaerion drew in a deep breath as his own body ached for relief. Beside him, the young boy, apparently freed from the stupor of his own wounds, matched his pace. Throughout the last several hours, the lad had kept up, and Kaerion was surprised to find him exceptionally fleet of foot.
They had discovered, during the infrequent and all-too-brief-rest stops, a little bit more about the former captive. Through heaving breaths he identified himself as Adrys, a merchants son from Sunndi. His fathers caravan had been attacked by the bullywugs near the swamps edge and he’d been carried off. He had no idea whether or not his family was still alive.
Kaerion stumbled once over the gnarled root of a tree and would have fallen had Adrys not thrown his good arm in front of the fighter for support. Not stopping, he gave the lad a brief smile of appreciation before returning his concentration to combat the fatigue and pain of their forced pace. Three times they had almost been discovered by patrols of bullywugs who now scoured the swamp in search of them. Only Gerwyth’s consummate skill allowed the fugitives to escape detection. Even now, the Vast Swamp echoed with the hissing calls and screeches of the enraged bullywugs. Kaerion knew they were only one step ahead of their pursuers, and it would take every ounce of strength and endurance to see them safely to their companions.
Hours passed, and the moons fell lower in the night sky, and the shadows deepened. Kaerion felt danger lurking behind every tree or shaded bush. Doggedly he pushed on, memories of Majandra’s lips on his mind, fueling muscles already pushed beyond the brink of exhaustion.
The Tomb of Horrors Page 18