Keith Strohm - The Tomb of Horrors

“I’m glad to hear that,” Bredeth said, “though I’ll be evenmore glad when we lift the veil of mystery surrounding Kaerion. Exactly who is he, Gerwyth? We are trusting our lives and the success of this expedition to both of you. Don’t you think we have a right to know?”

Majandra hummed softly in accompaniment to her harp, hoping that the others wouldn’t see quite how interested she actually was in the topicat hand. Vaxor, she noted, sat stiffly on the ground, arms crossed before his chest, a grim set to his features.

“You know me, Bredeth,” Gerwyth said. “I have shared freelywith all of you, but Kaerion-his story is his own to tell.”

Majandra nearly stopped playing again, for she was sure that the elf had cast a meaningful glance at Vaxor as he spoke.

“For now, he is simply a companion of this group, andhopefully a trusted one at that,” Gerwyth continued. “It was largely due to hisefforts that we survived the attack on the inn.”

“He is a skilled warrior,” Majandra found herselfagreeing-and nearly clapped her hand over her mouth in horror as Bredeth, Vaxor,and Gerwyth cast her a look. What was she, she thought bitterly, some lovesick serving maid?

“And a leader of men.” This from Phathas, who leaned forward,warming his hands over the glowing coals of the fire. “You can hear it in hisvoice,” the old mage continued, “he must have led many in battle.”

“Did you see that sword of his?” Bredeth said. “I’ll bet hestole it from some noble. I’ve never seen a blade quite like that. Certainly notin the hands of a commoner.”

Majandra nearly snorted. Before Gerwyth had scooped the sword up and wrapped it back in rags, she’d cast a good look at the blade, catchingsight of some of the runes that ran along its shimmering length. Dwarven runes. Ancient ones, dating back from before the Invoked Devastation. It was a weapon crafted by a master smith, and no doubt intended for royalty. Such blades were not so easily stolen.

“Kaerion is many things, Bredeth,” Gerwyth replied, echoingthe half-elf’s thoughts, “but he’s no thief.”

“No offense meant,” Bredeth replied to Gerwyth somewhathastily. “But I don’t understand what he’s hiding.”

“He’s seen more things than most people have to deal with inseveral lifetimes,” Gerwyth replied. “Give him some time. Besides, you’ll havemore important things to worry about in a few days.”

Majandra caught Bredeth’s questioning look.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“He means that we’ll be out of the Rieuwood in a few days andwell on our way to the Vast Swamp,” Phathas, who had quietly risen to his feet,said in a soft voice. “And that’s when things will become dangerous.”

Gerwyth offered the aging wizard a hand as he started back to his wagon. “Once we’re in the swamp, I’ll need everyone focused on survival. Nodistractions. Can you do that?” he asked the noble.

“Of course,” Bredeth said, and Majandra was startled by thesolemnity of the young fighter’s tone.

“Good,” Gerwyth replied before he and Phathas disappearedbeyond the firelight. “Do me a favor and make sure the sentries don’t needanything before you turn in.”

Majandra smiled as Bredeth mumbled a curse and stumbled off into the darkness, leaving her alone with Vaxor. The bard finished playing and wrapped her harp in its leather case. She had her own suspicions about Kaerion, based on her observations and Vaxor’s strange behavior, but nothing definite.The mysterious warrior’s story was beginning to unfold, she thought, but therewas still a long way to go to reach the ending.

Majandra stifled a yawn and watched the cleric for a few moments before getting up and heading toward her pack. By the time she returned with her bedroll, Vaxor had left. As she lay beneath the shining dome of stars waiting for sleep to come, she thought about their journey. She did not know what they would find within the ancient corridors of the wizard’s tomb, but shewas glad that they would have the protection of a certain dark-haired warrior.

The screech of a night owl echoed in the distance. “Good hunting, sister,”Majandra said softly, turning toward the remaining warmth of the fire.

Durgoth Shem sat in the cramped confines of the wagon,jotting down notes and commentaries on several scrolls that lay heaped upon the wooden crate that had functioned as his makeshift desk since he had left Rel Mord. A brass lamp sat on a crate to his right, casting flickering illumination throughout the rude space. Its thick oil burned smokily, filling the wagon with an acrid stench. A light rain fell outside, tapping steadily on the tarp that protected the wooden roof of the wagon.

The cleric put down his quill with a sigh and stretched fingers that were cramped and sweaty from long hours of writing. Deciphering prophecy was never an easy task. When the gods spoke, their words came as riddles, laden with metaphor and signs and symbols-nearly incomprehensible tothe mortal mind. He stared for a moment at the collection of scrolls before him that contained the words of the crucified seer. Penned in the flowing, elegant script of young Adrys, the ultimate meaning of the seer’s prophecy neverthelesslay shrouded behind a thick layer of riddles. Only the wisdom he had wrested from the Minthexian Codex had allowed him to pierce the veil even as far as he had, revealing the ultimate location of Acererak’s tomb. Using the ancientcodex as his guide, Durgoth struggled to unlock the prophecy’s remainingsecrets-the exact location of the key, the spells to wrest the artifact fromAcererak’s tomb, the ritual to unlock its powers. All of these things lay justbeyond his reach, safely resting within the very words the crucified seer had spoken in his monastery.

Durgoth smiled as he stood up, relieving the strain on his back. They had journeyed for quite some distance in pursuit of this goal, and according to the scrolls they had managed to take from the grasp of those gods-damned nobles, their quarry was heading in the same direction as the prophecy was leading his group. It was only a matter of time before they met up, and then Durgoth would have the pleasure of stealing their triumph out from under their noses.

His smile grew broader. After the disastrous attempt at scrying several weeks earlier, the cleric had relied on more mundane methods of tracking the Nyrondese fools’ progress. Gold, he thought, loosens lips easierthan any spell. It had been simple to flash some coins at travelers coming from farther up the trade road and inquire after another caravan. So far, according to their sources, they had managed to stay about a week behind the Nyrondese wagons. Once out of the Rieuwood, they would increase their pace until they were able to shadow the nobles through the Vast Swamp.

An urgent knock at the wagon’s wooden doors interruptedDurgoth’s thoughts. He spun and called out gruffly for whomever it was to enter.He had left strict orders not to be interrupted during this part of the day and was about to dress down the man who had dared intrude on his sacred work, when he caught sight of Adrys entering the wagon. The novice’s sandy brown hair wasmatted to his head from the spring shower, and a mixture of sweat and rainwater ran down his face. The lad bowed once.

“Pardon my intrusion, blessed one,” he said in a voice tightwith urgency, “but we seem to have a situation.”

“Speak then, lad,” Durgoth said sharply, not willing to wasteany more of his time than he had to.

“Sir, a patrol of elves has blocked the road ahead. We willreach them in just a few moments. Jhagren sent me to alert you. Though your followers are trying to pretend they are honest teamsters, many of them seem frightened and unsure of what to do. My master feels that they may attempt something rash.”