Keith Strohm - The Tomb of Horrors

Until everything, at last, became the light.

The nightmare returned, and with it the temple-soaring archesand white marble walls arcing toward the heavens. He heard the singing once again, but this time didn’t revel in it. He knew what was to come.

And it did. All too soon.

He saw the gray-robed procession marching solemnly toward the altar, saw an emaciated figure he knew to be himself kneeling helplessly on the ground. When he looked for the boy again, he found him lying face up on the stone altar. The clerics around him had shed their gray robes. He looked on in disgust as he saw the mottled skin, jagged scales, and oozing pus that made up their naked flesh. These demons wore twisted mockeries of the human form. Many of them sprouted leathery tails that twitched and caressed their infernal companions, while a few possessed great wings that beat in time to the bass rumble of their laughter. The demonic monks reveled in dark joy around the altar, alternately fondling themselves, each other, and the object of their rite.

From this distance, Kaerion could see the boy’s face,frightened but expectant-sure that the paladin would summon forth his holypowers and rescue him. Kaerion reached for Galadorn, only to recoil as the sword’s hilt stung his hand like a giant wasp.

“Heironeous,” he accused the lofty balustrades of the temple,“why have you abandoned me?”

But there was no answer. He didn’t really expect any. He rantoward the altar with a strangled cry as one of the fiends raised a sharply-taloned claw in the air and brought it down across the exposed throat of the boy. The young lad did not even cry out as the demon ripped out his throat.

Kaerion, jolted awake by the splash of cool water on his face, cracked open his eyes to twin slits and surveyed his surroundings. Several lamps burned fitfully, and though their dim light assaulted his vision like three suns, he was able to make out the familiar interior of a caravan wagon.

Boxes and supplies had been moved to make room for the makeshift bed that he currently found himself in. Though soaked with sweat, a deep chill sent aches and shudders through his tired body, and he felt grateful for the pile of warm skins and blankets that covered him.

A shadowy figure moved softly in the wagon’s space, andKaerion opened his eyes as wide as their crusted lids would allow. Majandra moved closer to his bedridden form, bending forward to dab his sweat-slicked forehead with a rag. He tried to reach out and hold on to the bard’s hand, buthe felt entirely disconnected from his body, as if he floated in an empty space somewhere above his supine form; his hand did not respond. Frustrated, he could only lay still as the half-elf continued with her tender ministrations.

She smiled once and said something that resembled his name, but he could not make it out. A dull haze had begun to settle over his thoughts, and he felt himself falling back toward the waiting arms of sleep.

Memories of the events that had led him here washed over Kaerion in a rush, pulling him toward oblivion. He thought bitterly of the sacred sword that had betrayed him in a similar fashion to the way he had betrayed it. “Justice,” he tried to say as the thick blanket of sleep fell overhim, but the words never came out.

Time passed as Kaerion drifted in and out of consciousness-though how much time was difficult to determine. He sensed ratherthan felt the wagon’s movement, for the weakness and disembodiment he had feltearlier stayed with him. Once, he thought he heard the sound of rushing water, but it soon became difficult to tell, as the world around him swam in and out of focus, ending finally in familiar darkness.

He was surprised to notice the regular attendance of nearly every one of his companions. Even Bredeth came to sit with him. The young noble regaled him with his thoughts and hopes for the glorious battles and heroic deeds they would undertake on this journey, and though his visits tired Kaerion, he found himself oddly touched by the normally brusque noble’s concern. OnlyVaxor was conspicuous in his absence.

Thoughts of the Heironean priest only served to bring his true situation into complete focus. Surely the arch priest would understand the significance of the sword, and if he hadn’t condemned him to the others yet, hehad certainly passed judgment himself. Once his companions learned the true nature of his cowardice, he would be lucky if any of them would even speak to him again. For some reason, this caused Kaerion more sadness than he expected, and he lay there shaking with weakness and anticipated dread.

Kaerion awoke one morning to daylight streaming in through the now-open end of his wagon. A warm breeze blew softly through the space, carrying the perfumed scent of flower buds and grass.

“There he is,” a voice said from somewhere near the opening,and Kaerion recognized Gerwyth’s mocking tone instantly. “Glad to see you’refinally awake long enough to appreciate the weather,” he said, climbing into thewagon and taking a seat next to Kaerion’s bed. “Care to stop lazing about andfinally earn your keep?”

Kaerion smiled and looked up at his friend. A thousand retorts came to mind, but the parched desert of his mouth would not let any of these clever barbs escape. His struggles must have been easily noticed, for the elf chuckled once and then produced a skin of water, which he held gently to Kaerion’s mouth.

He drank greedily, letting the cold liquid linger in his mouth before swallowing it. He took several long draughts, surprised at the depth of his own need. Gerwyth let out another laugh and pulled back the skin all too soon.

“Easy, Kaer,” the ranger said, all trace of his formermockery gone. “Phathas says you must not drink too much too soon.”

Kaerion nodded and drew his hand across the cracked and dried tissue of his lips. “H-how long have I been sick?” he asked after a moment, hisvoice gruff and harsh from disuse.

“For some time,” the elf responded. “It is currently thethird day of Coldeven. You gave us all quite a scare.”

Kaerion stared at his friend in shock. Six weeks. He’d beenbedridden and sick for six weeks. No wonder the warm weather felt alien. It should still have been the end of winter, and here it was well into spring.

“How far have we traveled?” he asked.

Gerwyth looked at his friend for just a moment, and Kaerion could see the concern in his friend’s eyes. “We traveled across the confluenceof the Harp and Lyre rivers, turned south to skirt the Bonewood forest and made our way into the Rieuwood. We are currently about a week or so away from the southern border of the forest and Sunndi.”

So much time lost, so much of their journey completed, and he had spent it lying on his back like an infirm old man.

“Kaerion,” Gerwyth asked, interrupting his bitter thoughts,“what happened out there?”

Kaerion shook his head. “I don’t know. One moment I washaving a conversation with Majandra, and the next Galadorn burst into life.” Hisvoice became a whisper. “It hasn’t done that since… since Dorakaa.” Kaeriongroaned and tried to roll over, the surprise at being able to feel his body overshadowed by his current situation. “Now that they’ve seen Galadorn, everyonemust already know exactly what I am.”

“And what are you?” Gerwyth asked.

“I am a traitor, a coward, and a betrayer. I was once belovedof a god, Ger, a commander of legions, and a hero right out of a bard’s tale. Ithrew it all away. Turned my back on the god I served. I am nothing.”

“You are my friend,” Gerwyth replied, grabbing Kaerion’sshoulder with startling intensity. “You are brave and strong and noble in everyway that truly counts, and I would gladly lay down my life for yours.”