[Greyhawk 07] - The Tomb of Horrors

by Keith Francis Strohm - (ebook by Undead)

  “A bit early to start celebrating, wouldn’t you say?”

  Kaerion nearly choked at the sound of the sharp-toned voice. Spluttering, he drew his forearm across his mouth and turned to face the source of that voice. Majandra stood smiling beside the elegant bulk of her horse, a piebald mare with a graceful mane. The half-elf wore a thick green cloak clasped at the neck with a gold-wrought pin in the shape of a harp. A wool-spun doublet further protected her from the elements. Her riding leathers were worn but well made, and she moved easily across the slippery turf in high-topped leather boots.

  Majandra shook her head at Kaerion’s discomfiture, and the fighter noticed that for once, the bard’s fiery red hair lay bound in tightly woven braids that lay about her head like a circlet of bronze.

  “This is no celebration, Majandra,” he said, indicating the uncorked skin. “It’s a balm for this damned weather. Alchemists and wizards aren’t the only ones who brew magic.”

  The half-elf laughed and reached for the wineskin. “Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind sharing a little bit of this potion. My fingers are so cold I think they’d shatter on the strings of my harp.”

  Kaerion handed over the wine, watching in fascination as the bard took several long swallows and then wiped her mouth, quite improperly, on the sleeve of her doublet.

  “What is it Kaerion?” she asked with a smile. “Have you never seen a woman drink before?”

  The fighter shook his head, hoping that the red tint to his face would be seen as a product of the chill wind and not the embarrassment he felt. What was it about this woman that made him feel so off balance?

  “Of course I have,” he said, perhaps a bit too sharply. “I’ve just never seen a daughter of one of the noblest houses in Nyrond drink out of anything that wasn’t made of gold.”

  If Majandra took any offense at his statement, she didn’t show it. Rather, the half-elf cracked a thoroughly enchanting and all-too-knowing smile. “Well, now,” she said, her eyes flashing with mischief, “it seems that you have forgotten the fact that you and I have already shared a drink, after a fashion.”

  Kaerion stiffened at the mention of his disastrous first evening in Rel Mord, but relaxed when the bard rolled her eyes and laughed in obvious good nature. He was beginning to enjoy this woman’s mercurial wit, even when its rapier-sharp point was focused on him. Perhaps, he thought, this journey wouldn’t be too dull.

  Majandra handed back the skin of wine, and the two stood in companionable silence, listening to the sound of the wind as it whistled across the grassland. In the distance, he could see that the caravan line had stopped for the final break of the day. After this, the wagons would push on until dusk, when they would finally make camp for the night.

  “I actually came here to thank you for helping us the other night,” Majandra spoke at last, breaking the silence. “I know you think our mission is a foolish one, but that didn’t stop you from risking your life to save Phathas and the rest of us. Without you and Gerwyth, I doubt we could have overcome our attackers.”

  “You have no need to thank me,” Kaerion mumbled. And that was the truth. Thinking back on the events of that evening, he recalled springing out of sleep and into battle. The rest had simply been instinct. It wasn’t until they had regrouped in the ruins of the inn that Kaerion had realized exactly what had happened.

  “And I don’t think that your plans, all of this—” he continued, indicating the wagons in the distance with a wave of his hand—“are foolish at all. I tried to tell you that the other evening, but I guess I was a bit too deep in my cups.”

  He smiled ruefully and took another swallow of wine. “All of you have a tremendous amount of love for your country—and a tremendous amount of faith that the tightness of what you’re doing will see you through.”

  “Is that so terrible a thing?” Majandra asked.

  “No, I suppose not,” Kaerion replied after a long moment. He moved closer to the half-elf, catching her arm gently with his free hand. “But things don’t often work out the way we plan. Good doesn’t always triumph over evil. And sometimes, the paths that seem the clearest are the ones that cause us the most pain.”

  This last came out in an uneven voice as Kaerion struggled to hide his grief—and failed. He released the bard’s arm and abruptly turned his attention to his mount, checking saddle knots and stirrups with studious concentration.

  The silence stretched out again, this time full of tension. Majandra moved to the other side of the stallion’s head and gently rubbed the space between its eyes. “Why did you not seek healing after the attack?” she asked, suddenly changing the topic.

  Kaerion continued with his ministrations, trying to find the right words. Despite his earlier comments, he did recall sharing a drink with Majandra. He’d almost confessed his guilt to her right there in the middle of the tavern, but fate had intervened. He had another chance now, if only he could figure out how to start. But try as he might, the words didn’t come.

  “I suppose I wanted to save the god’s healing for those who truly needed it,” he said after a moment, immediately cursing himself for his cowardice. He’d refused Vaxor’s offer because he had been afraid of what the cleric would discover. Instead, he’d recovered his backpack and quaffed a healing potion while the others were deliberating their next move at the University.

  He saw by the look on her face that she didn’t quite believe him. The bard opened her mouth to speak again, but he quickly interrupted her, not liking the direction the conversation was likely to take them.

  “I appreciate your thanks, Majandra,” he said as he tightened the stallions saddle straps with a quick tug, “but as I said, it’s not necessary. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to check in with Gerwyth.”

  With that, he mounted his horse and urged it forward with a flick of the reins, kicking up a spray of ice and snow.

  * * *

  Stiff-backed and angry, Majandra watched in stunned silence as Kaerion rode away. When his cantering form was no more than a distant blur, she let out a string of curses that would have shocked any elf that overheard. She had been so very close to drawing the reserved fighter out from behind the wall he had built up to keep most everyone away. She was sure of it. One wrong question, however, had sent him back behind his brusque defenses.

  Not that she wasn’t truly grateful for his aid the other evening. Kaerion’s courage, skill with a blade, and poise under deadly attack had turned the tide of battle in the Platinum Shield. She was convinced more than ever that Phathas had made the correct choice when he called upon an old friendship in his time of need. Their group would need the skills of Gerwyth and his moody companion if they were to succeed. And so much depended upon their success, she thought, shivering in the chill afternoon air.

  Majandra continued to stare out in the direction Kaerion had headed, pulling at her lower lip thoughtfully. What was it that drove this embittered man, that forced him to keep the world and everyone in it at a distance? She’d watched him closely these past two weeks, hoping for some due. One thing was certain: something must have happened during the battle at the inn, something between he and Vaxor. It wasn’t just that Kaerion had quietly removed himself from the area when the Heironean priest was offering the healing of his god. The two men hadn’t exchanged more than a few words since that night, and Majandra could feel the tension growing.

  Whatever the issue was, she was sure that it was tied up in some way to Kaerion’s impassioned comments about the “clear path.” Something had occurred in this man’s past, something truly tragic, and despite his best attempts, it occasionally broke through the mask he wore. The depth of his pain had surprised her today, but even more disturbing had been the strength of her need to understand him.

  What had begun as an instinctive desire to uncover what promised to be an intriguing tale had grown into something much more. Thinking about it, Majandra nearly laughed out loud at the irony. She, a bard and master of many fables, legends, and sag
as, felt trapped in a story not of her own making. The truth of the matter was, she finally admitted to the rolling plains and angry gray clouds of the grasslands, Majandra Damar, bastard daughter of one of the noblest houses in the kingdom, was falling in love.

  It wasn’t until her mare gave a whuffle of displeasure that Majandra noticed the wet snow and icy rain, which had begun to fall once again.

  * * *

  The caravan continued through the grasslands for several more days, followed by the blustering wind and freezing rain of the storm. Despite well-built fires protected from the dousing snow and rain by a judicious use of Phathas’ magic, warmth eluded Kaerion. The days rolled by in miserable array, each one more uncomfortable than the last. Even though there were only a few weeks until Readying and the spring thaw, winter still held a tight grip upon the land, unwilling to yield its dominion. After the fourth consecutive afternoon of sleet and hail, Kaerion found himself looking forward to the oppressive heat of the Vast Swamp.

  He wasn’t the only one affected by the continually dreary conditions. Spirits had dampened considerably since the expedition had left Rel Mord. The nights were spent in uncharacteristic silence around the fires, with many of the group’s members huddled together for warmth. Even the caravan drovers and guards, whose curses and world-weary comments were usually delivered with professional detachment, had begun complaining in earnest; tempers were ready to snap.

  In the late afternoon of the eighth day, during a nasty hailstorm, Kaerion found himself in the midst of a heated discussion. Gerwyth, who had continued to scout ahead of the wagons, had just returned, his winded black gelding blowing plumes of steamy breath in the winter air. The elf had spotted the remains of a burned wagon about a league farther ahead, probably the work of bandits, and was recommending that the expedition circle up its wagons for the evening and make camp, using the remaining light to fortify their position.

  “Absolutely not,” Bredeth said. “We still have a fair amount of light left, and I say we push on. We have a long distance to travel, and we shouldn’t waste time. Besides, we have little to fear from a pack of bandits. The scum would be no match for us.”

  The incessantly poor disposition of the weather had brought about an equally irritating change in the young noble. The excitement of the journeys beginning had transformed Bredeth into a bearable, if not entirely pleasant traveling companion. He seemed to have left much of his arrogance inside the capital and would often undertake the necessary duties of traveling without too much protest. Unfortunately, the rigors of this trip had brought about the return of the all-too-familiar Bredeth, and Kaerion found himself clenching his fist with the effort of holding back the punch he wanted to deliver right on the highborn snob’s face. Was it possible that many of the nobles he once called friend acted the same way around those they felt as their inferiors?

  “Are you so ready to shed blood needlessly?” Gerwyth replied. The elf stroked one hand lightly along his mount’s muzzle. Despite the whistling wind and the sometimes-painful fall of hailstones, the ranger appeared undisturbed by the fierceness of the weather. “If we are cautious and take the time to make camp here for the night, we reduce the chances that we will be attacked. Besides—” he pointed to the caravan drovers—“our team is tired. The men need a chance to rest, as do the animals. We have driven them hard under difficult conditions.”

  The young noble bristled as the elf spoke, but he offered no counter argument. Vaxor nodded at Gerwyth’s words. He squinted beneath the wind’s assault, motioning for the grizzled drover who was in charge of the collected wagons. “Tell the rest of your team that we make camp here, and tell Landra to mount a double watch tonight.” He dismissed the drover with a curt nod.

  Bredeth sighed and stalked off, no doubt ready to take his temper out on an unsuspecting guard. Kaerion was about to follow when he caught sight of Majandra, sharing a joke with one of the caravan’s teamsters. He had spoken very little to the bard since their brief conversation the other day, and he found that puzzling. Since he had arrived in Rel Mord, the half-elf had always seemed a ready companion, willing to share a tale or, more likely, ask questions that he’d rather not answer. Lately, however, he had seen very little of her—and was surprised by how much that bothered him. He had grown used to the bard’s presence and found himself wondering what she was doing. He’d have to apologize for his rudeness when he had the chance, and hope that she would have the grace to forgive him.

  He was about to do just that, when a hand slapped his shoulder companionably. “Well, Kaer,” Gerwyth said, “how about you and I oversee some of the preparations for this evening and then enjoy the comforts of a warm fire?”

  Kaerion turned and flashed the ranger a smile. “That sounds good, Ger,” he said. “I’m tired of this damned snow and ice.”

  Kaerion cast a quick glance behind him at the red-haired bard before joining his friend, but not before the elf managed to spot the target of his gaze.

  “Oh-ho,” Gerwyth said with an arch of an angled eyebrow, “it seems that our friend has found himself a worthy cause after all.”

  Kaerion shot his friend a barbed glance. “Leave it alone, Ger. I haven’t found anything.”

  The elf nodded, a half smile playing about his lips.

  “So,” Kaerion continued, hoping to change the conversation, “how bad was the wagon you found?”

  The hail had finally stopped, and the ranger threw back his hood to run slender fingers through his hair, combing out the knots.

  “Heavily damaged,” he said after a moment. “Whoever attacked the wagon left nothing behind. The good thing is I don’t think they used magic. The damage to the wagon was extreme, but not enough to indicate the use of spells. There were numerous hoof prints. I tracked them for a while before they became obscured in the falling snow. There were about twelve of them, with another six or so on foot. Dangerous, but like our young whelp said, they’re nothing we can’t handle.”

  Kaerion knew he could count on Gerwyth’s judgment. The elf had once tracked a small band of goblins that had overrun a hamlet over ten leagues before surprising them in their lair. He’d truly come to appreciate the ranger’s skill and fierceness.

  “This will be the first of many dangers we encounter,” the elf said. “We’ll have to be doubly on guard once we head into Rieuwood.”

  Kaerion caught a burst of red out of the corner of his eye and turned just in time to see Majandra talking with another teamster. She flashed him a bright smile, eyes sparkling. The bard’s smile unsettled him. Gerwyth was right. This was just the beginning. They would face many dangers on this journey. Kaerion only wished he knew which dangers would prove the greatest.

  Blood ran into the silver bowl.

  Durgoth sighed with impatience as the sorceress continued with her preparations. Scrying was never an easy task—especially when the target was a mage of the highest caliber. He understood the need for special precautions, but the woman had spent most of the morning locked away. The doddering mage and his foolish companions had left nearly eight days ago, fleeing the city earlier than expected. A thrill ran through Durgoth at the thought of his enemies and their rushed exit from Rel Mord, but now he needed to confirm their path.

  A soft knock on the door to the small room presaged Jhagren’s entrance. The monk bowed perfunctorily in his usual not-quite-insolent way and waited for Durgoth to acknowledge him. Durgoth allowed himself a small smile as he continued to watch Sydra and her arcane ministrations. He would let his esteemed companion wait—a reminder of who truly held the power. The ruddy-faced man had said very little since the battle at the Platinum Shield, and Durgoth did not trust the man’s silence. Jhagren was a dangerous tool—perhaps too dangerous. Soon it would be time to cast away such an instrument before it had the opportunity to turn on its wielder.

  Sydra’s clear voice interrupted his ramblings. The sorceress had begun a soft chant as she poured more of the sacrificial blood into the ornate bowl that hung suspended
from the ceiling by a thin chain. When Sydra was finished, she added a few more bundles of spiced wood to the brazier that burned dully about two feet beneath the bowl. The heat from the brazier would prevent the blood from thickening, thereby extending her ability to scry on their enemies. Frankly, Durgoth didn’t care much for the details. He simply wanted the witch to give him the information he needed—and soon.

  When it was clear that he would yet have to wait to fulfill his desire, the cleric turned to Jhagren and acknowledged the silent man with a wave of his hand. “Is everything in readiness?” he asked.

  The monk nodded his head slightly. “Yes, blessed one. We have secured wagons and enough horses to carry everyone. The merchant we dealt with was more than happy to provide for our needs, once we explained the alternatives.”

  “Excellent,” Durgoth replied, wishing for a moment that he could have been there to see the terror in the merchant’s eyes. “What of Eltanel?”

  “The thief has arranged for provisions, though I’m told that the Guild Master was less than pleased to discover that he was funding our expedition.” The monk spoke softly, but Durgoth was sure he could detect a hint of amusement in the man’s voice.

  “That old cur shouldn’t complain,” the cleric barked with laughter. “After all, he’ll be drowning in riches.” For all the good it will do him, he added silently, casting a glance at Sydra.

  Durgoth turned from Jhagren without another word and rubbed his hands together, imagining the power that would flow through them. Once Tharizdun was free, nothing on Oerth would be able to stand against him.

  “It is time, blessed one,” Sydra said suddenly, and for a moment, Durgoth forgot his dreams of power.

  Quickly, he moved to stand by the sorceress, peering into the blood-filled bowl. The woman brought her hands together in a sharp clap and exhaled deeply. Durgoth felt the hair on his neck rise. Whatever else he thought of Sydra, the woman was gifted. Eldritch energy filled the room.