Keith Strohm - The Tomb of Horrors

As he met the equally surprised and horrified gaze of the bard, Kaerion felt his anger build into white-hot rage. Not content simply to excoriate the shattered dregs of his own soul, his anger now found an external focus-the cause of his current pain. Unable to stop himself, the warrior felthis arm pull steel from its scabbard and raise up the blade for a killing blow.

Silence filled the camp as Majandra’s fingers stoppedplaying. Her wide-eyed gaze never wavered from his, yet Kaerion felt as if he were on a precipice. One simple motion would send him tumbling, irrevocably, down.

The bard’s eyes softened, moving from fear to that familiarcompassionate look that Kaerion had often longed to have aimed at him. Still, his rage drove him on. Sword held high, he battled for control of his own body.

At last, it was the bard herself who saved him. Slowly, she stood, seemingly oblivious to the death that hung above her, and placed one hand gently upon his face. “I am so very sorry, Kaerion,” she said in a measured tonesoft enough to reach only his ears.

The half-elf’s voice was warm, its timbre a rich, dulcet,earthy tone that absorbed the heat of his rage, enfolding him in its compassionate embrace. Kaerion knew now, in the part of his mind still capable of rational thought, that the bard had never intended this to happen, had never played “Whitehart’s Hope” as a means of exposing his shame.

With a heaving shudder, he sheathed the naked blade. As if this motion released them all from a powerful spell, his companions moved forward. Kaerion was surprised to see Gerwyth stand abruptly and bar their way.

Kaerion looked back at Majandra, whose gentle fingers now traced the curve of his jaw. The half-elf appeared as stunned as he felt. With a slow swallow, she spoke again, “Kaerion, I-”

“No, Majandra,” he growled. “Not here.” And with that, hepulled her, far less gently than he should have, away from the center of the camp, back toward the shadows and relative privacy of the supply rafts.

Once there, the thousand things he had wanted to say swirled around in his head, getting in each others way. Dully, he gaped at the half-elf, who regarded him with a slight smile upon her face. His own mouth worked absently, opening and closing despite the silence that issued forth from it.

When at last someone spoke, it was Majandra. “So, it’s true,”she said in a gentle voice. “You are the Whitehart.”

Kaerion wanted to deny the accusation. Instead, he felt his shoulders slump under the weight of acceptance as he nodded.

“But how is that possible?” Majandra asked. “You weresupposed to have died during the expedition that was sent to free Earl Holmer from Dorakaa. There’s even a song of lament about how you sacrificed yourself sothat the others could escape with the earl.”

Kaerion bowed his head at the bard’s pronouncement. When hefinally found his voice, it was tinged with bitterness. “There isn’t a day thathas gone past since that cursed expedition when I don’t wish I was dead,” hesaid, “but there was no heroic sacrifice. You of all people should know theunreliability of bard’s tales.”

Majandra’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

“No,” he spoke again, shuddering as the memories rippedthrough him, “that expedition was doomed from the start. We were betrayed. Iuzknew we were coming and he set a trap. He let the others go and… andprepared a special place for me.”

Majandra shifted in her place and placed her hand in his. “But Kaerion, you beat Iuz. You escaped from his clutches, and now you’realive.”

“You call this living?” Kaerion shouted, shrugging off thebard’s attempt at comfort. “At first, I thought Heironeous would save me, butthen that demon-spawned bastard buried me in an oubliette. I sat there in the stinking darkness for so long I lost track of time as his minions whispered their foul wisdom into my ear. At one point, I can remember trying to pray, and the words of my prayer tasted like ash in my mouth. I wasn’t sure if Heironeouswas listening, and after a while, I wasn’t sure if he was even real. All I couldremember was fear, and darkness, and a soul-numbing chill that sucked every last bit of heat from my body. I was alone for the first time in my life.”

“You’re not alone anymore, Kaerion,” the bard said, movingcloser. “You have Gerwyth, Bredeth, the others-and me.” Majandra’s voice becametremulous. “You have me.”

Despite himself, Kaerion barked with bitter laughter. “Andwhy would they want me?” he asked. “Why would you want me? Don’t you know whatI’ve done? Can’t you see what I am? After all this time traveling together,Majandra, are you truly so blind?” The words spilled out of him, ugly, hateful,and yet he could not stop them, wasn’t sure he wanted to stop them.

“No, damn you. I’m not the blind one!” It was Majandra’s turnto shout, and despite his own anger, Kaerion was taken aback at the depth of the bard’s own feelings. “I’m not the one who clutches to this isolation all thewhile refusing the hand of true friendship and companionship being offered. So I don’t know what you’ve done. So what? If you want to put me to the test, thentell me what happened in Dorakaa. Give me the chance to make a decision about it, rather than constantly making one for me!”

She threw this last out like a challenge, and Kaerion found himself accepting. It wasn’t because he needed to share the burden of his griefwith someone. Not by a long shot. Rather, he knew that he deserved to be reviled for his actions, and what better way than to be reviled by someone he truly cared about. Let Majandra feel the shock and disgust as he listed the details of his own sins. In a perverse way, he knew he would take pleasure in shattering the faith and trust she had placed in him.

They stood there for a few moments, breathing heavily in their anger, staring at each other. He could see the challenge still in the bard’s eyes. When he began, Kaerion held his voice steady, as if retelling asimple tavern story. “Eventually, they let me out of the circular hole thatdefined my world. I remember blinking hard at the light, as if I had never seen it before. I stank of fear and human waste. Several of Iuz’s servants led me toa large chamber, a shrine of some sort. Even now it is difficult to remember the details.

“As they marched me toward this chamber, the foul demonswhispered to me again, but this time, they told me of the ways I would be used and tortured for Iuz’s own pleasure. At this point, I no longer recalled my lifebefore Dorakaa. For me, there was only misery and fear. By the time we reached the door to the shrine, I was shaking in terror. Thoughts of escape were beyond me, but I knew, despite my misery, that I would do anything to avoid the horror that awaited me.

“When they opened the door-” Kaerion’s voice broke as hesputtered and choked on the memories.

Without hesitation, Majandra opened her arms, and he could feel the bard drawing him toward her. He didn’t resist.

“When they opened the door,” Kaerion continued, his voice abit stronger, “I saw a pack of the foulest demons the Nine Hells had everspawned. They surrounded a stone slab. As my captors drew me into the room, the hellspawn parted, revealing a boy, no more than eight years old, splayed out like a sacrifice. One of the beasts hopped toward me, its vestigial wings flapping wetly, and gave me a choice. I could either offer myself in the boy’sstead, exchanging my life for his, or they would spare my life and take the boys. I-”

Kaerion’s body nearly convulsed as heaving shudders rackedhis frame. He could feel hot tears scalding his cheeks and jaw as he relived that memory once again. “Don’t you see?” he nearly shrieked, pulling away fromMajandra’s embrace. “I let them kill the boy. I watched as a demon clawripped the child’s throat apart and the demon pack feasted on his blood. It wasmy fault! Mine!”