Keith Strohm - The Tomb of Horrors

By midafternoon, the falling rain and snow had eased up, and the grassland winds were, for the moment, held in abeyance. Kaerion sighed and cast a look behind him. Rel Mord still loomed in the distance, a brooding giant. He was surprised to note, however, that despite the brutal weather, the caravan had traveled a fair distance. Looking forward, he saw the undulating tide of grasslands stretch out before him. About a mile ahead, he saw the black line of caravan wagons. From this distance they looked like the great behemoths of the Aerdi Sea, their long bodies cresting across a sea of grass. Patches of white snow dotted the landscape, and Kaerion recalled the whitecaps on the storm-tossed waters of his youth.

He reined his stallion to a halt and stood up in the stirrups, stretching tired legs. Around him, several guards had dismounted and were walking their mounts. Despite the calm in the weather, he couldn’t quiteshake the chill that had gripped him since leaving Rel Mord. His hands shook as he continued to watch the slow progress of the caravan in the distance, though he wasn’t sure if his twitching muscles were due to the weather or his suddenthirst.

Deftly, the fighter dismounted and undid the knot in his saddlebag. He drew forth a skin filled with sweet Nyrondean wine and quickly took a draught. The weather-chilled wine filled his mouth with its crisp texture and he swallowed greedily.

“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 thefighter noticed that for once, the bard’s fiery red hair lay bound in tightlywoven braids that lay about her head like a circlet of bronze.

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

The half-elf laughed and reached for the wineskin. “Thenperhaps you wouldn’t mind sharing a little bit of this potion. My fingers are socold 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 neverseen 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’vejust 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’tshow 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 adrink, 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, evenwhen 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 othernight,” Majandra spoke at last, breaking the silence. “I know you think ourmission is a foolish one, but that didn’t stop you from risking your life tosave 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 wasthe 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 untilthey 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-” hecontinued, indicating the wagons in the distance with a wave of his hand-“arefoolish 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 ofyou have a tremendous amount of love for your country-and a tremendous amount offaith 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. Hemoved closer to the half-elf, catching her arm gently with his free hand. “Butthings don’t often work out the way we plan. Good doesn’t always triumph overevil. 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 hisattention 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 thespace between its eyes. “Why did you not seek healing after the attack?” sheasked, 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 ofthe 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 whotruly needed it,” he said after a moment, immediately cursing himself for hiscowardice. He’d refused Vaxor’s offer because he had been afraid of what thecleric would discover. Instead, he’d recovered his backpack and quaffed ahealing 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 believehim. 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 tightenedthe stallions saddle straps with a quick tug, “but as I said, it’s notnecessary. 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.