The Tomb of Horrors (20 page)

“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 her 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 the 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.”

The thief nodded once and swept off into the undergrowth.
Durgoth stared after him for a few moments, before turning back to watch the
encampment, his gaze as intense as the deadly marsh panthers that were said to
hunt the brackish heart of the vast Swamp.

By the time he returned to his own camp, he had calmed enough
so that he no longer took the oppressive heat as a personal affront—though he
couldn’t quite fight down his annoyance as he accepted Jhagren’s deep bow and
noticed that the monk appeared unaffected by the brutal weather.

“You have received Eltanel’s reconnaissance?” he asked,
wanting to end this conversation quickly so that he could slip out of his
sweat-sopped clothes and affect some relief from the miserable heat.

“I have, blessed one,” the monk replied, “and I have
consulted the Seer’s prophecy.” He unrolled a thin vellum parchment upon which
was drawn the rough outlines of a crude map. “We can enter the Vast Swamp a day’s
march east of here—” he pointed at a black mark upon the scroll—“and then travel
south. If your translation of the Seer’s words is accurate, we should meet up
with the Nyrondese expedition within four or five days.”

Durgoth stroked his chin, ignoring the monk’s pointed barb at
the possibility of his own fallibility. It was a good plan, and it offered the
best chance of making up lost time. He would forgive Jhagren’s insolence this
time—but not always. No, his devotion to the Scarlet Brotherhood would not save
him when Durgoth’s Master laid the entire world at his feet. He almost shuddered
with delight at the thought, but he knew that now was not the time to think
about the victory to come. There was still much to do. Instead, he grabbed the
vellum parchment from the monk’s hands and strode purposefully toward his wagon.
“Finish the preparations for our journey,” he shouted to Jhagren without looking
back. “We leave at first light. And send young Adrys to my wagon. I have need of
relief from this gods-blasted heat.”

So intent was Durgoth on scuttling out of the harsh sun, that
he never saw the scowl cut across Jhagren’s face, only to be replaced a moment
later by the monk’s usual solemn gaze.

“It will be done according to your will, blessed one,” the
monk said, but Jhagren had already closed the door of his wagon.