Despite the press of bodies milling about the stone-fortified gatehouse guarding one of the three entrances to the city, Gerwyth hummed a lively elven song. Kaerion looked over at his companion, wishing, not for the first time, that he could share in his friend’s high spirits. But a sense of unease had stolen over him these past few days, and it had grown steadier as they approached the capital.
If Rel Mord was the martial and political heart of the country, Nyrond itself was an aging soldier. Roads that had once crisscrossed rolling plains and gentle hills, connecting and supporting cities, towns, and hamlets, lay damaged and in disrepair, their earthen lengths scarred with deep ruts and pocked with wheel-snapping ditches and holes. Or they stood uncared for, allowed to run wild with bracken and the thorned scrub vines that grew as wild as the almost endless grass fields. What’s more, the village folk were withdrawn, sullen. Farm doors remained closed to strangers, and merchants refused to trade, no matter how heavy the purse before them.
Kaerion had noted all of this and voiced his unease to Gerwyth. The ranger had just shrugged and proclaimed the ways of humans too inscrutable to his elven sensibilities. The rest of the journey had taken place in silence, as Kaerion’s distress grew.
Now, the two stood amid a crowd of wagons and people, waiting for their turn to enter Rel Mord. The rank stench of unwashed bodies and animal dung burned in Kaerion’s nostrils, and he tried to ignore the rising shouts of squabbling traders and farmers as they all pressed forward, eager to enter the city. He wondered how his friend’s trained senses could handle such a miserable assault, and was just about to ask when a large weight slammed into his side, nearly toppling him over.
With a grunt, he disentangled himself from the net of arms and feet that surrounded him and came face to face with a red-faced bull of a man who stared back at him with an unpleasantly furrowed brow. The man’s eyes were drawn together sharply and his mouth seemed frozen in a permanent frown.
“My apologies,” Kaerion began in his friendliest tone, “I did not mean to stand in the place that you intended to fall into.” He gave the unpleasant man a hard look, at odds with his congenial tone.
Though broad of shoulder and thick of limb, the offending man still did not have Kaerion’s mass. At first it seemed as if he might actually growl something back, but he took another look at the fighter’s well-tended mail and leather scabbard and hastily grumbled an unintelligible phrase before scampering off into the crowds.
Kaerion felt a slender hand rest upon his shoulder.
“Easy, Kaer,” Gerwyth said in a soothing tone. “No sense traveling all the way to Rel Mord only to spend time in the city prison.”
Kaerion exhaled through his nose before replying, “Gods, you know how much I hate large cities!”
In truth, it wasn’t the unending crowds and lack of privacy that was really bothering him. The wineskins had run out quickly, and he was afflicted with a throbbing head that never seemed to leave him. His nights, never the refuge they were for other people, were now filled with nightmares. If anything positive could be said for this city, it was that he could soon find himself in the taproom of some inn, cradling a blessed mug of ale. Maybe even two.
“I know you do,” replied the elf, “but if you can relax for just a bit, we’ll soon be inside.” He indicated the line, which had moved considerably closer to the gatehouse.
They reached the gatehouse a few candlespans later, only to be challenged by a guardsman in plate armor. The soldier flicked a bored gaze over the two men. “State your name and business in the city of Rel Mord,” the guardsman intoned in a flat voice.
“Gerwythaeniaen Larkspur and Kaerion Whitehart, lately from Woodwych,” the elf responded. He would have continued, but the bored guard had already moved on to the next person in line, waving the two travelers in with an impatient shake of his halberd.
“They must take their duties very seriously,” the elf said with a smile as they passed through the stone gateway.
Kaerion simply scowled at his friend. Disgust with the soldier’s obvious laziness warred with his own painful memories. There was a time when he would have called the gods’ own thunder down upon anyone serving under him who shirked his duties so blatantly, before—
He shook his head to deny that memory. It was another life. No one served under him now. He was master of nothing. Let the city commander worry about the discipline of his own troops. Kaerion certainly wasn’t about to start caring. And when, he thought as he loosened his cloak, did it get so blasted warm? There were still several weeks left until Readying and the early spring thaw.
“Where are we supposed to meet this contact of yours?” he asked Gerwyth, who had stopped to converse with a blue-cloaked elf maiden. “I’ve a powerful need to wash the dust of the road from my throat.”
The two elves continued to speak for a moment more, the mellifluous tones of the Elvish tongue flowing between them like quicksilver, before the ranger nodded and touched hand to heart in the elven gesture of farewell. He turned to Kaerion slowly, with a familiar grin on his face.
“Has anyone ever told you, Kaer, that you are a prime example of your race?”
Knowing that he wasn’t about to get a quick answer to his question, the fighter sighed. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied sardonically.
“Hmm, yes. You would.” The elf’s grin widened after a moment. “Fear not, my friend. I have just been informed of the location of our meeting place.” He sketched a courtly bow and spoke in his best high-class accent, “If you’ll just follow me, my lord,” and turned into the crowd.
Kaerion threw up his hands and followed.
* * *
Despite its fortress-like appearance, the City of Rel Mord was abuzz with domestic life. Traders and merchants of all races and nationalities drove wagons teeming with bolts of brightly-colored cloth, silks, and woven fabrics toward the market, while a seemingly endless train of livestock and other animals plodded their way through the wide streets. Soldiers patrolled the lanes and avenues, some as bored as the gate guard, others careful to watch the collection of street urchins, beggars, and musicians that wove in and out of the passing crowd.
Drawing close to the market, Kaerion could hear the strident call of booth merchants and the hum of commerce taking place in a variety of languages and dialects. Common, Baklunish, and Flan mixed with the tongues of elves, dwarves, and even a few gnomes to form a multi-layered wave of sound that washed over the two companions.
Despite the outward signs of life, Kaerion clearly felt the same sense of quiet desperation that had greeted both he and Gerwyth on their journey south toward the city. The music and laughter and tenor of the entire city seemed just a bit too loud and forced, the faces of its citizens a bit too wary, or worse, apathetic. Walking through its streets, Kaerion could see a film of dirt covering the magnificence of its stone temples and buildings. Even the royal palace, which had quickened the beat of his heart with its martial splendor, now seemed hollow and empty, like an ancient tomb, as the two adventurers drew closer. Nyrond had been a kingdom divided, sapped of strength by war and betrayal, and it was clear to Kaerion that the wounds had still not healed.
As they moved deeper into the city, the press of the crowd eased somewhat. Streets narrowed, wood and stone buildings drew closer together, and the anxious stamp of merchant feet was replaced by the soft-soled tread of robed priests, royal messengers, and court functionaries, who carried on their business with an air of self-conscious dignity. Kaerion’s heart lurched for a moment as he caught sight of several mailed priests of Heironeous heading right toward them.
He must have stopped in his tracks, for Gerwyth spoke in a gentle voice at his side, “Peace, Kaer. Let us be about our business.”
The comforting tones settled him somewhat. He nodded and continued on his way past the group of approaching clerics. “Traitor,” he expected them to yell. “Betrayer! Coward!” He was all of those things—and more. How could the Beloved of the Arc
h-Paladin not see his shame? It was clearly written on his soul.
But the priests walked right by, intent on their own private conversation. No one had even spared a glance his way. Kaerion wiped the cold sweat from his brow and followed his friend down another street.
Most of the buildings in this area were made of stone, with an impressive amount of gilt marble facades. A few of the decorously crafted houses even had small yards surrounded by iron gates or stone walls. The few folk who were walking about the cobblestone streets were richly appointed, wearing fine tailored velvets, thick cloaks, and an array of gold jewelry around throat and hands.
“Where are you taking us?” Kaerion asked his friend in a tight voice.
“To our destiny,” Gerwyth replied in a voice so heavy with melodrama that the fighter wondered how his friend could still stand.
He shot the elf a barbed look and crossed his meaty arms in front of him. “No more joking,” Kaerion said tersely. “I’m tired and hungry, and I don’t have any patience for your damned elven wit!”
Gerwyth sighed, the ever-present smile falling from his angular face. “Fine. If you must know, we’re going right there.” The elf pointed a slim finger at a two-storey wooden building just past the bend in the street.
Kaerion eyed their destination carefully. Despite not being made of stone, the elegantly carved lines of the structure blended perfectly with the surrounding architecture. A high-peaked roof lent the building a sense of dignity, matched by the elaborately framed windows and exquisitely worked door. A masterfully painted sign hung above the lintel, proclaiming the name of the establishment.
“The Platinum Shield?” he asked. “Who in the hells are we meeting here, Ger? The Nyrondese Royal Family?”
When the elf failed to reply, Kaerion stared at him in disbelief.
“No,” he said after a few moments, “you didn’t. Phaulkon’s feathered ass, what have you gotten us into this time?”
Gerwyth just shook his head and pulled his friend toward the inn. “Come on, Kaer, just relax. At the very worst you’ll have the chance to get drunk in the best taproom in the city of Rel Mord.”
Against his better judgment, Kaerion followed his friend into the Platinum Shield.
* * *
“They’re late,” Bredeth snapped in an arrogant tone as he slammed the door to the sumptuously decorated suite.
Majandra Damar gave a breathy sigh at the intrusion and stopped running graceful fingers across the strings of her harp, upon which she had been composing the final themes for a new work. It didn’t matter anymore, however, as the man’s interruption had already driven the melodic line from her mind.
The yew harp cast out its final, plaintive note and the room descended into silence. Majandra regarded her guest thoughtfully. The noble’s perfectly sculpted face held a slight red tinge that was deepening even as she watched, and his gold-flecked eyes flashed dangerously in the dim light of the room. Even his normally immaculate close-cropped blond hair lay askew, tousled by wildly gesticulating hands.
Good, she thought. He’s angry. This should be fun.
“They are not late, Bredeth. Phathas made arrangements for them to meet us three Stardays hence, and the last I checked,” she said, looking out of the stained glass window to her left, “it is still Starday.”
“I have wandered the streets and the situation is even worse here than in the other cities,” the noble replied. “My country is suffering. My people are exhausted. Nyrond is but an echo of the great nation it was. And we—” he leaned over and stabbed his finger violently down on the table before him—“who have a plan that can help restore the country to its former glory, have to wait on the whim of two foreigners who are probably sitting in a brothel right now laughing at their good fortune.”
“First off,” retorted the bard, “these are not your people. You are cousin to His Majesty, and a distant one at that. Your head, however inflated with its own sense of importance, will never, gods’ willing, wear the crown. And second, Phathas himself chose these ‘foreigners’. If he believes that they offer us our best chance of success, then I shall not gainsay him.”
“Such insolence.” Bredeth nearly spat as he drew closer to the bard. “If we were in my father’s castle, I would have you beaten and cast out with the other criminals.”
“I pray that I never fall so low as to have to ply my skills for a family of tone-deaf boors who couldn’t appreciate a song if it came from Olidammara’s own mouth. With any luck, I’ll never find myself near the drafty wreck of a keep where you were born.”
Bredeth recoiled as if he had been slapped, and Majandra wondered if perhaps she had gone too far this time. The young noble drew even closer to her, his perfect teeth clenched tightly. “You have noble blood in you, Majandra,” he whispered, “and that has protected you so far. But don’t ever forget what other blood flows through your veins.”
At this, the bard’s hand absently pushed aside flowing strands of red hair to finger the ever-so-slight point of her ear.
“Some may find you exotic,” Bredeth continued. “Others…” He tilted his head to the side and shrugged. “Well, let’s just say that not every noble family regards marital infidelity as a romantic gesture.”
The bard sat stunned, unable to even phrase the crudest of retorts. She had always known that the events surrounding her birth were fodder for the sitting rooms of bored nobles who had nothing better to do than gossip away the hours of the day, and she had dealt with the whispered imprecations and sidelong glances that accompanied her adolescent years. Until this time, however, no one had ever confronted her directly with the shame of her mixed heritage.
Anger rose up inside of her. This may have started as a game, a way to pass the time as she waited for the two of whom Phathas spoke, but it had become quite real. She refused to be judged by this petulant spoiled brat, and she was about to tell him so when another voice broke into the conversation.
“Peace,” it commanded. “Both of you. Phathas is at rest and will need all of his strength for the coming journey.”
As one, Bredeth and Majandra turned to face the source of the voice. Vaxor stood in one of the suite’s many doorways, his mouth, surrounded by a silvering black beard, drew down into a frown, his deep-ridged brow furrowed. Even beneath his flowing robes, Majandra could see the man’s solid build bulked even further by a layer of chainmail. His left hand was wrapped around a silver medallion in the shape of a lightning bolt, the symbol of Heironeous.
The bard pushed down her anger for the moment. There would be ample opportunity to spar with Bredeth on their journey. The young noble, however, obviously felt no such restraint. “An insult has been dealt my family,” he continued, this time turning toward the priest for support, “and I demand that it be redressed—”
“Enough, Bredeth,” Vaxor’s deep voice interrupted the man’s tirade. “We have more important matters to deal with besides a slight to your honor.” He fixed both of them with a stern gaze, and it became clear to Majandra why this man had risen so high within the church of the Arch-Paladin. She could feel the power of his presence like a palpable force.
“Our guests will arrive soon,” the priest continued, “and we should be prepared for them.”
Bredeth snorted, either unaware of the intensity in Vaxor’s gaze or just too stupid to heed it; Majandra couldn’t decide which.
“I don’t even know who our ‘guests’ are,” the noble said, “but since they have not arrived yet, I am beginning to doubt whether or not they could actually guide themselves into a harlot’s skirts.” Majandra began to protest again, but the young man held up his hand, cutting her off. “Then where are they?” he asked.
“I can’t be sure,” broke in a fourth voice, its bright timbre carrying clearly across the room, “but I think that we are right behind you.”
Majandra hid a smile at the look on Bredeth’s face.
* * *
The interior of the Platinum Shield was every bit as
elegant as its exterior suggested. Rounded teak and cherry oak tables stood upon a floor of polished wood, while masterful carvings decorated the inn’s paneled walls. The design of the common area, with its sweeping lines and softened corners gave the impression of depth yet still retained an intimate atmosphere. A set of stairs, complete with a runner made of thick red carpet, led up to the sleeping rooms above, and another door led downstairs to the Shield’s famous wine cellar.
The taproom itself was empty except for the small group assembled around a wide table close to the marble-mantled fireplace. Majandra ran a lazy finger across the exquisite horn cup that held her pint of ale, gazing at the giant of a man that sat across from her. After a few tense moments of silence in the suite above, Vaxor had taken charge, rousing Phathas from his rest and assembling the group in the common room of the inn. Introductions were hastily made and the six of them now sat talking in subdued tones.
The burly human had a kind face, with deep-set eyes and a strong nose. Thick black hair ran in waves just short of the man’s broad shoulders; the leonine mane accented a sharply defined jaw. But it wasn’t Kaerion’s stunning looks that drew the bard’s attention. Rather, it was the haunted gaze that leapt from his eyes when he thought no one was looking, the way he obviously carried an aching wound so deep that it had settled into his bones. She found her hand almost tingling with the desire to caress his brow, offering what comfort she could. There was a bitter tale here, and nothing compelled Majandra so much as the promise of a tale—the more tragic the better.
His companion was another matter entirely. The gorgeous elven ranger had introduced himself with the grace and charm befitting a royal courtier, his silver tongue lapsing into the most beautifully accented Elvish that she had ever heard, in order to pay her a particularly “adventurous” complement. She had smiled and accepted his words gracefully enough, and she had found herself responding despite everything she knew about such rakish folk. And this line of thinking wasn’t helping her concentrate on the matter at hand at all.
[Greyhawk 07] - The Tomb of Horrors Page 3