The Tomb of Horrors (8 page)

“Milady, I was simply going to interrogate the prisoner,” he
responded, looking back at the hulking drunk.

“Well,” the noble said, ice creeping into her voice, “I would
hardly call a friend of the daughter of the Duke of Flinthill a prisoner now—”
she paused “—would I?”

Terys swallowed hard. This wasn’t going well at all.
“Milady,” he managed to force out the words, “other witnesses name this man the
cause of the evening’s… brutalities. I do have my orders. He must be
detained and questioned.”

“Nonsense,” she exclaimed. “You will release him at once, and
I will take full responsibility for his actions. I’ve already paid the
innkeeper
—” she spoke the word with such disgust that it was clear to him
what she truly thought of this establishment—“for any damages that may have
resulted from tonight’s mishap. I’m sure you’ll agree that everything is taken
care of.”

“B-but my orders…” Terys stammered. “Surely you understand
that I have to follow procedure on this.”

“Now, Captain,” she said, drawing closer, and he could feel
his face flushing red at their proximity, “I would hate to have to tell the city
commander that I had difficulty with one of his captains the next time I see him
at dinner.”

The threat was as real as it was politely delivered, and
Terys found himself backed into a corner. Enforcing the law was his duty, but
the labyrinthine complexity of Nyrondese politics was not unknown to him. The
city commander would not appreciate the daughter of one of the major noble
houses of the realm criticizing his troops. On the other hand, a favor delivered
now might cause this Damarian daughter to smile upon the commander’s efforts,
something he would surely reward the one who dispensed the original favor.

“Well, Milady. If you are taking responsibility for this . .
. gentleman, then who am I to gainsay you? I will release him,” he replied, and
ordered one of his subordinates to loosen the man’s bonds.

And may you both be damned, he thought.

“Thank you, Captain. I’m glad that we could come to such an
understanding.” She smiled again, the graceful upturn of her lips belying the
condescension that Terys could hear dripping from each word.

Bitch, he thought as he turned to go.

“Oh, and captain, one more thing,” the lady said, “next time
we meet, please feel free to address me as Lady Majandra.” With a toss of her
fire-red hair, she put a slim-fingered hand on her companion’s shoulders and
guided him out of the tavern.

* * *

“Why did you help me?” Kaerion asked. His deep voice still
slurred, though Majandra couldn’t tell if that was from the ale he’d consumed or
the cracked and swelling lip that still bled.

She thought of her answer as they weaved their way through
the narrow, angled streets of the Rich Quarter. After their exit from the Men
O’Steel tavern, the bard had quickly started to guide them back to the suite at
the Platinum Shield. They had made most of the trip in silence, their quiet
journey broken by the whistling of Kaerion’s nose as he drew breath through his
nostrils. It was only after they had entered this section of the city that the
man had spoken.

“What good is being noble-born if you can’t use it to your
advantage once in a while?” she said finally as they made their way through the
servant’s entrance to the Platinum Shield.

A few of the serving lads and kitchen maids looked askance at
their condition, but Majandra paid them no heed. A few silver coins would keep
their tongues relatively quiet.

She started to bring Kaerion up the side stairs to her room,
but stopped when she heard Bredeth’s arrogant whine close by. She cursed and
guided the listing fighter back down the stairs and through a side passage. It
wouldn’t do for any of her companions to see Kaerion like this—especially
Bredeth. That highborn dolt would make an issue of it, and she didn’t want to
risk the possibility of Kaerion walking away from their offer. They needed him.

Or perhaps you need him, a small voice whispered in her mind.
She ignored the implications of that and tried once again to sneak him upstairs.
This time, Norebo, god of luck, smiled upon her. Majandra breathed a sigh of
relief as she led Kaerion to her bed and closed the door to her suite.

Gently, she helped Kaerion out of his tunic, wincing at the
sight of fresh bruises and old scars that marred the sweeping cut of his massive
chest and broad back. By the time she tucked silk sheets around his girth, he
was half asleep, staring vacantly at the ceiling.

“Didn’t answer… question,” he mumbled as she made to
leave. “Why… help… me?”

When the answer came, it surprised even her. “Because you
have a tale to tell, and I’m a sucker for a tale. Especially,” she said, half to
herself, “when it comes wrapped in a gorgeous frame like yours.”

But Kaerion hadn’t heard. Sleep had finally claimed him.

The days passed with a quiet hum of intensity as Phathas and
his companions met with a seemingly endless array of merchants, provisioners,
caravan masters, and even a few of the old wizards colleagues from the Royal
University. The group checked and rechecked their calculations, measuring the
distance against their available stores and trying to plan for most emergencies.
Nights were spent poring over old maps and the notes from Phathas’ research,
verifying the probable location of the ancient tomb and the safest possible
route toward it.

Kaerion watched the preparations from a distance, trying hard
not to remember spending his time similarly in the years when he commanded
battalions of armed men. For that’s what the activities of the last few days
felt like—preparations for a war. He just couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling
that they had already lost.

Why then, he asked himself several times, am I staying?

Ever since he had woken up the morning after his ill-fated
altercation at the Men O’Steel, he knew that he would accompany Gerwyth and the
rest of the group on their journey. Perhaps it was the perverse desire to
confound and antagonize the hot-headed Bredeth, who had spent a good portion of
that morning arguing with Majandra, Gerwyth, and Vaxor once he had learned about
Kaerion’s activities of the previous evening. Or perhaps it was the fact that,
despite his protestations to the contrary, a part of him still believed in the
power of friendship and honor. Perhaps it was even the desire to remain close to
the fiery-haired bard, the only person besides Gerwyth who, in the last decade,
had ever shown him a measure of true kindness. In the din and tumult surrounding
the last few days, it was difficult for him to identify his motivations. He only
knew that he had woken up that morning with a blazing hangover and a commitment
to the upcoming journey. Only one of those two things had eventually faded away.

Now, he watched and waited, not quite sulking, but definitely
anxious to keep his distance from the Nyrondese party—especially Vaxor. A few
times, he had caught the priest of Heironeous casting a stern gaze his way, and
though he was able to meet the clerics eyes, he found himself shrinking inside,
trying to hide his shame from that penetrating countenance. If the cleric had
discovered anything, he did not, thankfully, confront him.

As time passed, Kaerion’s head began to ache and he found his
muscles trembling, as much from the onslaught of nightmares and sleepless nights
as from an absence of ale. Kaerion gritted his teeth and bore the pain. There
would be time for indulgences soon enough. He just hoped he had the strength to
survive until then.

* * *

A few nights before the group was supposed to leave the city,
Gerwyth tapped Kaerion lightly upon the shoulder and pointed to a secluded
corner of the suite. Phathas and Vaxor were engaged in a long discussion
regarding the implications of a verse on some ancient scroll, and both Majandra
and Bredeth were doing some final negotiations with one of the merchants who was
providing the draft animals for their expedition. Alone and, truth be told,
anxious for some company, Kaerion shrugged and followed Gerwyth. For once, the
elf’s face did not bear a mocking smile. His demeanor was uncharacteristically
serious.

Kaerion stared at his friend. The silence and hurt of the
last few days stretched out between them like a yawning chasm. There had been
several attempts at normal conversation between the two of them the day after
their arrival in Rel Mord, but each one had ended with shouting and the same
bitter feelings of hurt, anger, and betrayal. It took more than a few moments
for the silence to break.

When it did, it was the elf who spoke first. “I hate seeing
you like this, Kaer.”

His friend’s words were spoken softly, carefully, and try as
he might to deny it, Kaerion could hear the concern in the ranger’s voice.

“You should have told me who we were supposed to meet,
Gerwyth,” he replied. “You should have told me everything.”

The elf nodded and waited a bit before speaking. “You’re
right, of course. I should have. It was wrong of me to hold back on you like
that.”

Kaerion sat stunned for just a moment. In all the years that
he had traveled with Gerwyth, this was the first time the free-spirited elf had
ever apologized for anything.

“It’s just that I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you all
about this job, and I knew I would really need you on this one.”

“There’s a reason why I wouldn’t have come, Ger,” Kaerion
replied, heat building in his voice. “All of this,” he indicated the lavish room
and the two nobles who dickered on oblivious of the two guides, “reminds me of
the life I left behind, the life that my own mistakes destroyed. It’s like
Galadorn….”

He paused for a moment after he spoke the holy sword’s
name—even now, after everything he’d forsworn, he couldn’t speak about the blade
without experiencing a frisson of awe and reverence.

“That sword reminds me of everything that I’ve lost. It’s a
damned curse. The last and final punishment meted out by the god I betrayed.
Only now, I have to spend months pretending to be nothing more than a hired
sword while traveling with a pack of nobles and their Heironean cleric.” Kaerion
pitched his voice even softer before continuing. “Do you know what Vaxor will do
if he uncovers my sin?”

Gerwyth nodded and placed a hand upon Kaerion’s shoulder,
giving it a companionable squeeze. “I do understand, Kaer. Truly I do. We have
traveled many leagues together, my friend, and I have watched you suffer from
the mistakes you’ve made. You have rebuilt a part of yourself from the ashes of
your defeat, and that takes great strength and courage, whatever you may think.
But a half-life is no life at all. I’ve seen the way you drink, hoping that it
will fill the part of you that is still missing, the part that died over ten
years ago. The time has come for you to stop running and face that darkness
inside.”

Kaerion shrugged the elf’s hands off of his shoulder. “That
is my decision to make, Ger, not yours. When I’m ready for such a journey, I’ll
take it.”

“Perhaps,” Gerwyth replied, “if you were an elf, such a
sentiment would hold true. But the life-flame of your kind burns fast, and I
would not see you carry such pain to the grave. You are a true friend, Kaerion,
and I will bend every ounce of my power to help you.”

“Like you’re doing with Phathas?” Kaerion said Bitterness
burned like a hot coal on his tongue.

Gerwyth raised an eyebrow at his response. “Phathas is an old
friend. And yes, I would do anything I could to help him—even brave your wrath.”
A trace of that familiar mocking smile crept upon the elf’s face.

Despite himself, Kaerion found his anger abating somewhat.
“You could have told me about Phathas,” he said with just a trace of pettiness.

“That was another lifetime, Kaer,” Gerwyth responded. “And
truth be told, I didn’t think you’d be that interested. Besides, if I regaled
you with all of the details of my life, you’d be half-dead before I finished.”
His smile grew even wider.

“Yeah,” Kaerion replied, a grin forming on his own face, “no
doubt from boredom.”

The elf’s almond-shaped eyes widened in a poor imitation of
innocent shock, and he let out a sharp laugh before offering Kaerion his sword
arm. “So,” he asked, “shall we still travel together as shield-mates?”

Kaerion regarded his companion’s outstretched arm. He was
still a bit angry with Gerwyth, but only because the elf’s actions forced him to
deal with things he had wished remained hidden. It was the way of friends to
speak and act truthfully toward one another. He thought that in a strange way,
by hiding the truth from him, Gerwyth might have been revealing an even deeper
truth—a revelation that would not have been possible when the world existed in
black and white.

Finally, Kaerion grasped the elf’s forearm. “Always, my
friend,” he said. “Always.”