Keith Strohm - The Tomb of Horrors

“See that you do,” she said with a smile and turned to walkup the path toward the clearing. “I wouldn’t want to earn Phathas’ scolding atthe moment. He’s positively impossible when he’s this close to the object of hislabors.”

Kaerion cast a final look at the bard’s retreating back, onlyto be surprised when she quickly spun and returned his gaze, her smile even deeper. Shaking his head at his folly, he turned from the bard and finally stood up. Gerwyth had already moved to the stream bank and had begun to don his soft leather boots. By the time Kaerion had joined him, the ranger was already fully clothed; he shrugged once in apology and made as if to wait for his friend.

Kaerion waved his friend on. “Don’t worry about me, Ger,” hesaid. “I’ll follow shortly.”

The elf nodded and shot Kaerion another wicked smile. “Justsee that you don’t tarry too long. I don’t fancy having to root through thosestifling wagons all afternoon by myself.”

Kaerion laughed and pushed Gerwyth playfully toward the path. “I’ll be there soon enough,” he said. “Besides, you’ll need someone to help youcount past ten.”

The elf chuckled and headed up the path, leaving Kaerion alone. The fighter stood for a moment, inhaling the rich scents of the river valley. By the time he reached the place where he had thrown down his armor, the sun had nearly dried all of the stream water from his body, leaving his skin feeling tight and slightly itchy.

Bending down to scoop up his hastily discarded armor, he reflected on his friend’s words. Perhaps the friendships that he had formed andthe peacefulness of the past several weeks had done what the last ten years couldn’t. As he had all but admitted to Gerwyth just a little while ago, hestill grieved bitterly for what he’d done. And yet, he’d not even been temptedto drown his sorrows in cheap wine since his illness. He felt those old wounds clearly, but it was as if they were not quite so raw and open.

Most surprising of all, Kaerion had even caught himself unwrapping Galadorn from its ragged hiding place and staring at it-willing it todemonstrate some sign of life, anything that would help him explain what had happened across the Nyrondese grasslands. The ancient blade represented everything he had lost, yet lately, he’d found himself absently tracing the hiltwith his finger, eager to feel its great weight in his hands.

When Kaerion finally reached the camp, his mind was caught in bemused thought. He looked at the faces that greeted him and saw friendship, good humor, and even respect-something he hadn’t ever dreamed of seeing again.Perhaps Gerwyth was right. Perhaps it was time for him to face his grief once and for all. The elf had proven a true friend and accepted him for all of his faults. Maybe his new companions would do the same. He walked toward the center of camp feeling more at peace than he had in a very long time-

Only to be brought up short by Vaxor’s intense scowl. TheHeironean priest had emerged from one of the caravan wagons and now fixed Kaerion with a furrowed gaze. His deeply lined face and set jaw reminded the fighter of the statue of Heironeous meting out justice in the High Temple at Critwall. In the grizzled cleric’s eyes, he could see condemnation andjudgment-anger at his impudence to try and hold a place in this company forwhich he wasn’t worthy.

Kaerion shuddered beneath that gaze as if the coldest winter wind had swept through the clearing, and in one moment, he knew that all of his hopes and imaginings were just that. He nearly stumbled as the familiar, cold hands of despair clutched around his heart. Muscles strained from exertion and immersion in cold water sent aches all throughout his body.

Hastily averting his gaze, he threw on an old shirt, tucking it into his breeches as surely as if it were the finest of armors. He had been a fool to think he could be forgiven. A damned fool.

He would not make that mistake again.

Kaerion rubbed the thick beads of sweat from his face andstared at the broad expanse of the swamp that lay before him. Thick sheets of sawgrass carpeted the moist ground, and hummocks of pine and cypress erupted from the dense foliage that sucked greedily of the wetlands dank waters. Occasionally, he caught sight of the brightly colored leaves of the manga trees that were so prevalent in parts of the Tilvanot Peninsula. A ripple of movement drew his eye, and he found himself squinting against the angry glare of the sun as it reflected off the surface of a brackish pool.

Nothing.

A brooding silence lay over the swamp, pierced by the harsh shrill of a distant bird. The air hung thick and fetid, like an oily blanket he couldn’t cast off. Somewhere in the dark heart of this terrible place lay theancient tomb of one of the worlds most infamous wizards. Despite heat that almost seared the breath from his lungs, Kaerion shuddered. Sunndi’s fertileriver valley had been peaceful, almost pastoral in its spring splendor. He’denjoyed the caravan’s slow but steady progression across its verdant length, butthis-he almost made a sign against evil-this was something else indeed.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he heard Majandra’s voice from behindhim.

Turning to face her, he shrugged. “Beautiful wouldn’t be theword 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 ofdelight 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 anirrational 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,” thehalf-elf replied, interrupting his thoughts, “and you certainly are no kin ofmine.” She laughed a moment before continuing. “But even humans have theirmysteries.”

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 bythe wagons. Gerwyth and the others are with him,” she said as she broke intostride 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.