Keith Strohm - The Tomb of Horrors

“Good,” Durgoth replied. He was pleased by the news, but hehad no intention of betraying his thoughts to the thief. Let the man guess as to whether or not he currently had Durgoth’s favor. Such tactics were useful whendealing with someone as cunning as Eltanel. “Return to our wagons and informJhagren that I wish to speak with him, and see to it that he prepares a small group of my followers to accompany us on our journey. We’ll have to hurry if weare to keep pace with those Nyrondese fools.”

The thief nodded once and swept off into the undergrowth. Durgoth stared after him for a few moments, before turning back to watch the encampment, his gaze as intense as the deadly marsh panthers that were said to hunt the brackish heart of the vast Swamp.

By the time he returned to his own camp, he had calmed enough so that he no longer took the oppressive heat as a personal affront-though hecouldn’t quite fight down his annoyance as he accepted Jhagren’s deep bow andnoticed that the monk appeared unaffected by the brutal weather.

“You have received Eltanel’s reconnaissance?” he asked,wanting to end this conversation quickly so that he could slip out of his sweat-sopped clothes and affect some relief from the miserable heat.

“I have, blessed one,” the monk replied, “and I haveconsulted the Seer’s prophecy.” He unrolled a thin vellum parchment upon whichwas drawn the rough outlines of a crude map. “We can enter the Vast Swamp a day’smarch east of here-” he pointed at a black mark upon the scroll-“and then travelsouth. If your translation of the Seer’s words is accurate, we should meet upwith the Nyrondese expedition within four or five days.”

Durgoth stroked his chin, ignoring the monk’s pointed barb atthe possibility of his own fallibility. It was a good plan, and it offered the best chance of making up lost time. He would forgive Jhagren’s insolence thistime-but not always. No, his devotion to the Scarlet Brotherhood would not savehim when Durgoth’s Master laid the entire world at his feet. He almost shudderedwith delight at the thought, but he knew that now was not the time to think about the victory to come. There was still much to do. Instead, he grabbed the vellum parchment from the monk’s hands and strode purposefully toward his wagon.“Finish the preparations for our journey,” he shouted to Jhagren without lookingback. “We leave at first light. And send young Adrys to my wagon. I have need ofrelief from this gods-blasted heat.”

So intent was Durgoth on scuttling out of the harsh sun, that he never saw the scowl cut across Jhagren’s face, only to be replaced a momentlater by the monk’s usual solemn gaze.

“It will be done according to your will, blessed one,” themonk said, but Jhagren had already closed the door of his wagon.

Majandra stumbled once again over the knotted clump ofvegetation that covered the muddy ground. A quick grab of Vaxor’s mailedshoulder steadied her before she landed face first in the muck-though she stillmanaged to twist her ankle slightly. The pain brought a rather ignoble curse hissing forth from her lips. She smiled wanly at Vaxor and shrugged her shoulders in apology as the cleric turned a concerned gaze her way. The Heironean priest remained silent, for which the half-elf was grateful. She didn’t think she had the breath to spare for conversation.

The expedition had spent the past several days slogging through the treacherous landscape of the Vast Swamp, carefully avoiding the mud traps, dragging sand, and carnivorous plants that were an essential component of the land’s deadly geography. Twice they had fought twisted, misshapen beaststhat resembled fanged alligators with thick, batlike wings, and once they’d hadto rescue one of their party from the clutches of a choking creeper. Everyone was bone-weary, their eyes red from sweat-sting and exhaustion. Days spent under the harsh glare of the sun pulling the levitating rafts behind them while avoiding patrols of lizard folk had taken their toll on the small group.

Even the normally tireless Vaxor had slowed his step. Looking at him now, Majandra could see the pinched lines of fatigue running like spider webs around his eyes and mouth. She was grateful once again that the cleric had prevailed upon Phathas to rest and ride on one of the rafts. The sharp-tongued mage had had a few choice words to say, but in the end, he had acquiesced. She hoped he was resting comfortably. This was not the best place for a man at the twilight of his life-even if that man was one of the most celebrated mages inall of Nyrond.

The coughing hiss of a large predator echoed in the distance, sending an involuntary shudder through Majandra’s body. It was clear yet againthat they wouldn’t have survived more than a day in the confines of this swampwithout the guidance of Gerwyth. The elf was uncanny in his ability to choose the swiftest and easiest path through the maze of rank pools and twisted trees, and his expertise had already thrown one lizard folk patrol off their scent. Even now, she could make out the ranger’s lithe form up ahead, tirelesslyleading their expedition forward.

As usual, thoughts of Gerwyth summoned images of his raven-haired companion, and the half-elf felt a different kind of warmth spread through her limbs. It wasn’t just the fighter’s handsome face and muscledbody-though she’d be lying if she denied her physical attraction to the man. Norwas it simply the promise of mystery that surrounded him. At least not anymore. Over the course of their journey, Majandra had watched Kaerion change. The volatile anger and self-loathing that lurked so close to the surface was softened, burned away perhaps by the man’s mysterious illness, or the steadilygrowing companionship between him and the rest of the Nyrondese expedition.

Not that the man had healed completely, or cast off the anger and grief that worried at him like the jaws of a blood-raged mastiff. Such quick transformations only occurred in the lines of the poorest sagas. But beneath his healing wounds, the half-elf felt as if she had glimpsed a spark of the man’strue soul, and that spark held such purity that she was drawn to it like a glowbeetle to Lima’s crystalline light.

A soft voice interrupted her thoughts. Majandra turned and saw one of the guards conferring with Vaxor. After a moment, the guard nodded once and moved farther back down the line. The half-elf fixed the cleric with an inquisitive gaze.

“Gerwyth has called a halt,” the Heironean priest responded.“Apparently, there is a defensible rise about a quarter of mile farther southwhere we will make camp for the night.”

Majandra sighed softly in relief and rubbed the sweat from her face. “Gods, but I’m tired,” she said after a moment. “I could use a mealand a few hours of sleep.”

“As could we all,” Vaxor said, resting a gentle hand on hershoulder. “I think I’ll take advantage of this respite and check on Phathas. Nodoubt the old fool has gone and ignored my advice.” He smiled briefly and thentook his leave.

Majandra uncorked the wineskin at her belt and took a few deep draughts of its contents. Despite its sun-warmed temperature, the tart liquid washed away the acrid sweat and metallic tang of her heat-seared mouth. Another swig and the skin was corked and placed back on her belt. With a sigh, she wiped her mouth and stared idly into the evening sky. The sun hung like a thick orange ball near the horizon, its steadily weakening rays creating pools of shadow among the gnarled, twisted trees and thick vegetation of the swamp.

To her left, the bent trunks and angled branches formed a spiny wall as thick and forbidding as any fortress, and beyond that, she could see the broad expanse of the stagnant lake whose edge they had been following throughout the day. In the fading light, its still surface burned with bronzed incandescence, like the glowing embers of an unbelievably large hearth fire. Even from this distance, she could smell the stench of its dank waters, redolent with the musky odor of decay.