“No fair!” Kaerion sputtered. The shock of the still-cool stream water on his sun-warmed body nearly made him gasp again, but he contented himself with sending a cascade of water into the surprised elf’s face instead. The sight of the normally immaculate elf, hair drenched and ears dripping water, sent him into paroxysms of laughter that continued for quite some time.
“It appears,” Gerwyth finally said after he’d attempted to quiet his giggling friend with a stern glare for the third time, “that the sun and spring wind have healed more than just an illness.”
Sobered by his friends words, Kaerion stared thoughtfully at the elf. “Leave it be, Ger,” he said after a moment, but smiled to soften the remark. He really wasn’t ready to talk about it, but it was difficult to stay angry at an elf who resembled a dried grape. His laughter soon returned, and with it, another round of splashing. Bush and tree alike were soon soaked as the combatants continued their heroic combat.
“So, I see now why Phathas insisted that we hire you two as our guides and guardians,” a voice broke through the sounds of battle. “We’ve nothing to fear with both of your prodigious talents to protect us.”
Kaerion stopped his attack and turned to stare in horror at the source of the voice. Majandra leaned indolently against a tree, arms crossed, one brow arched high. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—and nearly choked as Gerwyth sent another wave of liquid streaming into his face.
“Does the fair lady wish to join me in my battle against this grave evil?” the elf asked as Kaerion sputtered and wheezed, trying to clear his throat and lungs of water. He could hear his friend’s slightly wistful tone and fought back a wave of annoyance. He was surprisingly relieved when the bard begged off, citing duty.
“And that goes for you two as well,” she said, still with a trace of humor in her voice. “Phathas wants you both to recheck the supplies we’ll be taking into the swamp. ‘No sense coming all this way just to go into the Vast Swamp unprepared,’” the bard mimicked the old mage’s didactic tone perfectly, and Kaerion found himself smiling despite the water running down his face.
“We’ll be there in a few moments, Majandra,” he said, finally overcoming the last effects of Gerwyth’s surprise attack.
“See that you do,” she said with a smile and turned to walk up the path toward the clearing. “I wouldn’t want to earn Phathas’ scolding at the moment. He’s positively impossible when he’s this close to the object of his labors.”
Kaerion cast a final look at the bard’s retreating back, only to be surprised when she quickly spun and returned his gaze, her smile even deeper. Shaking his head at his folly, he turned from the bard and finally stood up. Gerwyth had already moved to the stream bank and had begun to don his soft leather boots. By the time Kaerion had joined him, the ranger was already fully clothed; he shrugged once in apology and made as if to wait for his friend.
Kaerion waved his friend on. “Don’t worry about me, Ger,” he said. “I’ll follow shortly.”
The elf nodded and shot Kaerion another wicked smile. “Just see that you don’t tarry too long. I don’t fancy having to root through those stifling wagons all afternoon by myself.”
Kaerion laughed and pushed Gerwyth playfully toward the path. “I’ll be there soon enough,” he said. “Besides, you’ll need someone to help you count past ten.”
The elf chuckled and headed up the path, leaving Kaerion alone. The fighter stood for a moment, inhaling the rich scents of the river valley. By the time he reached the place where he had thrown down his armor, the sun had nearly dried all of the stream water from his body, leaving his skin feeling tight and slightly itchy.
Bending down to scoop up his hastily discarded armor, he reflected on his friend’s words. Perhaps the friendships that he had formed and the peacefulness of the past several weeks had done what the last ten years couldn’t. As he had all but admitted to Gerwyth just a little while ago, he still grieved bitterly for what he’d done. And yet, he’d not even been tempted to drown his sorrows in cheap wine since his illness. He felt those old wounds clearly, but it was as if they were not quite so raw and open.
Most surprising of all, Kaerion had even caught himself unwrapping Galadorn from its ragged hiding place and staring at it—willing it to demonstrate some sign of life, anything that would help him explain what had happened across the Nyrondese grasslands. The ancient blade represented everything he had lost, yet lately, he’d found himself absently tracing the hilt with his finger, eager to feel its great weight in his hands.
When Kaerion finally reached the camp, his mind was caught in bemused thought. He looked at the faces that greeted him and saw friendship, good humor, and even respect—something he hadn’t ever dreamed of seeing again. Perhaps Gerwyth was right. Perhaps it was time for him to face his grief once and for all. The elf had proven a true friend and accepted him for all of his faults. Maybe his new companions would do the same. He walked toward the center of camp feeling more at peace than he had in a very long time—
Only to be brought up short by Vaxor’s intense scowl. The Heironean priest had emerged from one of the caravan wagons and now fixed Kaerion with a furrowed gaze. His deeply lined face and set jaw reminded the fighter of the statue of Heironeous meting out justice in the High Temple at Critwall. In the grizzled cleric’s eyes, he could see condemnation and judgment—anger at his impudence to try and hold a place in this company for which he wasn’t worthy.
Kaerion shuddered beneath that gaze as if the coldest winter wind had swept through the clearing, and in one moment, he knew that all of his hopes and imaginings were just that. He nearly stumbled as the familiar, cold hands of despair clutched around his heart. Muscles strained from exertion and immersion in cold water sent aches all throughout his body.
Hastily averting his gaze, he threw on an old shirt, tucking it into his breeches as surely as if it were the finest of armors. He had been a fool to think he could be forgiven. A damned fool.
He would not make that mistake again.
Kaerion rubbed the thick beads of sweat from his face and stared at the broad expanse of the swamp that lay before him. Thick sheets of sawgrass carpeted the moist ground, and hummocks of pine and cypress erupted from the dense foliage that sucked greedily of the wetlands dank waters. Occasionally, he caught sight of the brightly colored leaves of the manga trees that were so prevalent in parts of the Tilvanot Peninsula. A ripple of movement drew his eye, and he found himself squinting against the angry glare of the sun as it reflected off the surface of a brackish pool.
Nothing.
A brooding silence lay over the swamp, pierced by the harsh shrill of a distant bird. The air hung thick and fetid, like an oily blanket he couldn’t cast off. Somewhere in the dark heart of this terrible place lay the ancient tomb of one of the worlds most infamous wizards. Despite heat that almost seared the breath from his lungs, Kaerion shuddered. Sunndi’s fertile river valley had been peaceful, almost pastoral in its spring splendor. He’d enjoyed the caravan’s slow but steady progression across its verdant length, but this—he almost made a sign against evil—this was something else indeed.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he heard Majandra’s voice from behind him.
Turning to face her, he shrugged. “Beautiful wouldn’t be the word I would choose, but then again, my lady,” he said with a smile on his face, “I’m not a bard, nor am I of elven blood.”
Majandra chuckled at the statement, and Kaerion could feel the smile stretch across his face. The half-elf’s crows and exclamations of delight at the natural wonders that had presented themselves on this journey were the subject of much good-natured bantering. As were the long, solemn walks she’d often taken with Gerwyth, the two conversing deeply in Elvish. He felt an irrational surge of jealousy at this memory and expelled his breath sharply in an attempt to quash it.
He failed.
The half-elf looked at him for just a moment before her own smile crept across the delicate expanse of h
er face. Kaerion was surprised to notice that the constant exposure to sun had tanned her face a golden brown and dusted her thin nose with freckles. Why hadn’t he noticed that before?
“No, my dear Kaerion, you are indeed not a bard,” the half-elf replied, interrupting his thoughts, “and you certainly are no kin of mine.” She laughed a moment before continuing. “But even humans have their mysteries.”
This last was said softly, almost questioningly, and Kaerion found himself once again staring into golden eyes almost piercing in their earnestness. He regarded the half-elf for a few moments more, caught between an urgent desire to reveal his true face to the bard and an ardent need to retreat from her presence.
Reason won out.
He coughed once and averted his gaze. Too much was at stake here for him to give in to foolish notions. The mood broken, he pushed past the questioning bard and mumbled something about returning to Phathas and the others.
Majandra stepped lightly out of his way. If she was offended by his brusqueness, she gave no sign. “Phathas is in the center of the camp by the wagons. Gerwyth and the others are with him,” she said as she broke into stride with him. “The mage asked me to fetch you,” she said unapologetically.
As the two approached the camp, Kaerion could hear the sounds of labor. Phathas had sent the entire party out in groups earlier that morning to fell the thick-trunked trees that filled the surrounding valley. The plan was to lash together the trunks with thick rope to form makeshift rafts. Kaerion smiled as he recalled his own observations. The rafts were a fine idea to transport their supplies across the more submerged parts of the swamp, but they would be next to useless over the wetlands roughly uneven and densely foliated ground. Upon voicing his concerns, the old mage had produced several smooth, rounded stones that he said would, once attached to the rafts, cause each of them to levitate a few feet above the ground.
Reaching the outskirts of the camp, Kaerion noted that work crews had indeed been busy. Several of the rafts had already been assembled, and more lumber was making its way into the camp at a steady pace. Caravan drovers and guards alike had both been drafted into service, and the laboring men and women moved about in ordered groups. Most of them had cast off outer tunics and shirts, sweat glistening off bare backs, and wrapped their heads with the light materials to protect them from the sun.
Gerwyth caught sight of Kaerion and Majandra and waved them over to the thin tarp pitched in the center of a small circle of wagons. When they reached the assembled group, they found Phathas hunched over the sturdy cloth map that had been their guide on this journey. The others nodded in greeting but otherwise stood silently, obviously waiting for the old mage to finish his examination. The silver-haired wizard mumbled softly as he traced a gnarled finger across the faded parchment, seemingly oblivious to the piercing heat.
“What’s the status of the rafts, Vaxor?” the mage asked, not looking up from the object of his intense scrutiny.
The cleric finished taking a long swallow from the waterskin before replying. “Three rafts have already been completed,” his deep voice rumbled, “and the remainder should be done before nightfall.”
Kaerion stole glances at the Heironean priest. Despite the searing temperature, the cleric still wore the chainmail armor that was as much a badge of his office as the silver lightning bolt that hung about his neck, gleaming brightly in the harsh sunlight.
Unaware of the fighter’s scrutiny, Vaxor continued. “Once the construction has been completed, I suggest we double the watch. I have an uneasy feeling. There’s no telling what manner of beast will be about, looking for trouble.” He turned to his companions. “Gerwyth, Bredeth, I’ll leave it to the both of you to inform Landra of my orders and see to it that the watch is kept.”
The elf nodded, but Kaerion almost laughed at the rebellious scowl that marred Bredeth’s handsome features. The pampered upbringing of the young noble had obviously not prepared him for the rigors of this trip. Unlike the rest of the group, his skin had reddened and split under the unrelenting glare of the sun, and not even the thick salve that Vaxor had offered the peeling noble was enough to soothe the lad’s burns—or his temper.
Phathas stood and cast a piercing eye around the assembled group. If he was pleased with Vaxor’s report, he gave no sign. Instead, the tired mage rubbed a withered hand across the back of his neck and spoke his mind. “There is still plenty to be done before we enter the Vast Swamp, and not much time to do it. By my calculations, we still have about ten to fourteen days of hard travel before we’re even near Acererak’s tomb—and that’s if we can avoid the worst dangers of this forsaken stretch of land.” He pointed a finger at Majandra. “I need you to oversee the disbursement of supplies to the rafts. And see that you have mind enough to bring the herbs and poultices we’ve laid in to aid in case of injury. I’ll not waste Heironeous’ blessings on bug bites and those foolish enough to injure an ankle or leg because they were too lazy to watch where they were going.”
Majandra gave the wizened mage a smile, and Kaerion, to his own annoyance, found himself wondering how to elicit such a response from the half-elf—a line of thought he abandoned once he heard the old mage call out his name.
“Yes, you,” Phathas blurted as Kaerion once again gave the mage his full attention. “Pay attention, lad. I don’t have all day to explain these things. I need you to take these stones—” he opened his hand to reveal the enchanted stones he had spoken about earlier—“and lash them securely to the underside of each of the rafts. If for some reason the rafts don’t immediately rise into the air—”the mage’s tone indicated to Kaerion that such an occurrence would only happen by his own mistake—“come find me immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Kaerion found himself responding, and wondered just when he had started to feel like he was a squire back under Sir Trindan’s tutelage. He caught Gerwyth’s eye and realized by the wink that the elf gave him that his friend was highly amused by the whole situation.
Just then, Vaxor’s gruff voice broke in. “Tomorrow, we enter the Vast Swamp. We’ll leave the drovers and six guards behind to protect the wagons. Once in the swamp, our largest danger will come from the lizard folk who consider the lands as their territory. I’ve spoken with Gerwyth, and we both agree that if we keep to the general direction we’ve traced on our map, we’re likely to avoid most of the danger. But be on your guard. And no heroics.” This last was delivered with a grim eye toward Bredeth, but before the noble could spit out his protest, the cleric waved his hand for silence, deftly sketching the traditional blessing of Heironeous in the air. “May the Valorous Knight watch over each of us,” he said in an oddly gentle voice.
Kaerion held himself completely still under the blessing, hoping that no one would notice his lack of response. It had been many years since he had heard the words of the Blessing Ritual, and many more since he had believed in them. As the group broke up to attend to their duties, he was once again conscious of the cleric’s gaze upon him. Had Vaxor seen his reaction? He hurried away in the opposite direction, eager to escape the cleric’s watchful eye.
There was indeed much to do before tomorrows journey began. And much to think about, he mused, recalling the smiling face of the half-elf. He pushed the image of the bard out of his mind. One thing at a time, he thought, and headed toward the first raft.
* * *
Durgoth Shem cursed the heat and the elves—in no particular order—as he surveyed the encampment before him. Peering through the thick foliage, he could see the circular ring of wagons, spaced evenly to afford the camp’s inhabitants the greatest possible cover, and the regular sweep of sentries. Of their principal quarry there was no sign.
He let out another muffled curse and fought down the urge to send his golem down to kill the unsuspecting fools below. Their blood would do much to sooth his anger, but little to make up for lost time. His earlier encounter with those pathetic druids had set his own expedition back, but the whole situation was made worse by t
he seemingly endless array of elven strike patrols that tracked them well into Sunndi. Perhaps he would ask the Dark One to watch as he slaughtered the elves and their puny gods. Yes, he thought, that would almost make up for the inconvenience those gods-blasted creatures had caused him.
A slight rustling in the thick undergrowth to his left caught Durgoth’s attention, followed by the emergence of Eltanel’s shadowy form. The thief pulled back his black cloak and emerged into plain view, executing a bow that was ail-too perfunctory. Durgoth scowled once at the insolent man and signaled that he should proceed with his report.
“I have been to their camp, blessed one,” Eltanel said. His voice had the gentle intonation of one who is used to the furtive communications of the dark alleyways and rooftops of Rel Mord. “They have posted regular sentries and will likely remain on guard throughout the night.”
“I can see as much, you fool,” Durgoth hissed between clenched teeth, regretting, not for the first time, that he would no doubt need to rely on this wretch’s skills to bypass some of the deadlier surprises awaiting the unwary in Acererak’s tomb. “What of that cursed mage and his half-witted noble lackeys?”
Eltanel shifted his stance slightly, but regarded the cleric evenly. “I overheard two of the guards talking. Their expedition left but two mornings ago, heading south and then east into the Vast Swamp. With a small enough group, we should have no trouble catching up to them.”
“Good,” Durgoth replied. He was pleased by the news, but he had no intention of betraying his thoughts to the thief. Let the man guess as to whether or not he currently had Durgoth’s favor. Such tactics were useful when dealing with someone as cunning as Eltanel. “Return to our wagons and inform Jhagren that I wish to speak with him, and see to it that he prepares a small group of my followers to accompany us on our journey. We’ll have to hurry if we are to keep pace with those Nyrondese fools.”
[Greyhawk 07] - The Tomb of Horrors Page 14