Philip Athans - Realms of Mystery

Moanda nodded grimly, a motion, which set her grizzled braids bobbing on her breast. “Wise idea. Somebody help me carry Osher to the edge of camp.”

“I will,” Halladon said. “But first, everyone…“ His comrades gazed at him. “If this is my fault, if I wasn’t vigilant enough, I’m sorry.”

For a moment, no one replied, and he wondered if henceforth they all were going to despise him. Then Kovost said, “Don’t blame yourself, lad. We’re deep in the Nether Mountains. Things happen here. Shift the body, then try to get some sleep.”

Dawn revealed the wilderness in all its splendor. Mountains rose in every direction as far as the eye could see. Their pristine caps of perpetual snow reflected the ruddy sunlight, while gloom still veiled the gorges and valleys below. Nowhere could one discern so much as a hut, a road, a thread of smoke rising against the vast blue sky, or any other hint of civilization. On many a morning, the desolate beauty of such vistas had lifted Halladon’s heart. But not today. Not when he and his fellow adventurers faced the melancholy task of sorting through the belongings of a dead friend.

They kept the valuable items-the rubies, fire opals, and sapphires that had been Osher’s share of the treasure-and those that were personal, like the leather headband his sister had braided for him, the slide whistle he’d played at idle moments, and the steel amulet, cast in the form of a gauntlet, which was the emblem of his faith. These they would deliver to his temple. The rest, including his heavy steel breastplate emblazoned with the gauntlet of Torm, they buried with him.

After a cheerless breakfast, they set out on their way, trekking westward. Perhaps in tribute to Osher’s memory, Halladon found himself recalling all that had happened since the company formed.

They’d met by chance, in a dilapidated fieldstone inn in Jalanthar. At the end of a night of carousing, Kovost had grandly proposed that they all go treasure-hunting in the craggy wasteland to the east. Everyone knew the ancient wizards of Netheril had left sacks of gold and diamonds stashed in every cave and hollow tree, and they were just the clever fellows to retrieve them.

Less drunk than most of his companions, Halladon had accepted the proposition with equal enthusiasm. Why else had he roused his Moon elf father’s ire and his human mother’s worry by refusing to live the safe, sensible life of a wood carver like everyone else in the family? Or trained with his master of arms and, a shade less diligently, with his magic teacher, until crotchety old Hlint had declared him a crude, bumptious warrior at heart and terminated his lessons? Why else but to join a fellowship of adventurers and sally forth on bold expeditions like this?

Although, had he known what lay in store, he might have thought twice, for it soon became apparent just what an ill-matched and contentious lot they actually were. Sober, Kovost remembered the usual dwarf prejudice against elf and half-elf alike. Moanda, like any right-thinking barbarian, distrusted mages and was inclined to scorn all her companions as prime exemplars of everything that ailed effete, decadent civilization. Silbastis vexed the others by shirking his share of the chores, Gybik by pilfering, and Perys by his phlegmatic imperturbability.

The way they bickered, it was a marvel they lasted a week in the Nethers, and in fact, one of them didn’t. While they were still in the foothills, an ogre had slain Bax, the company’s only genuine wizard, with a well thrown rock. But the rest survived by learning to work together, and eventually, they even started to like one another. Prejudices faded, or at least ceased to apply to the fellow tramping along at one’s side, while reprehensible character flaws and odious personal habits softened into endearing foibles.

Finally, weeks after the chilly autumn winds began to whine out of the north, the company found a ruined keep and the crypts beneath. Much to their frustration, they’d nearly run out of time to explore the place. They had to set out for Sundabar before the first blizzards sealed the passes. But on the last afternoon before the morning on which they’d agreed to depart, Gybik discovered a fortune in gems concealed behind a stag-headed bas-relief of some long-forgotten beast.

The adventurers could have lived comfortably on such a prize for the rest of their lives, but as they swaggered, jesting and crowing along the ridges and through the vales, not a one of them had any patience for a tame, timid notion like that. They’d spend the winter roistering like lords, then return for more treasure in the spring. Nobody doubted it was there for the taking, just as no one felt daunted by the prospect of a second expedition.

In the wake of Osher’s death their cockiness had flown. They trudged along silently, dull-eyed or peering nervously into the pines clinging to the steep, rocky slope above the trail. Around midmorning, when the sun finally rose above the lofty peaks at their backs, Perys pushed back his green woolen hood to uncover his tousled chestnut curls and turned to regard his comrades.

“Enough of this moping,” he said. “We’ll miss Osher, but he served Torm well. The god has surely given him a high place at his table. We should be happy for him.”

Striving to cast off their melancholy, the others nodded, smiled wanly, or murmured their agreement. “And whatever killed him,” Kovost said, “it’s far behind us now, and won’t trouble us again.”

Halladon woke to a hard nudging in his ribs. From prior experience, he knew it was the steel toe of Kovost’s boot. “Get up, sluggard,” boomed the dwarf.

“It’s good that a season of living rough hasn’t spoiled those exquisite manners of yours,” Halladon replied. When he pushed his covers aside, the cold pierced him like a blade. He hastily clambered to his feet and wrapped himself in his bearskin mantle, which he’d been employing as an extra blanket. “Evidently we came through the night all right.”

“Of course,” Kovost said. “Didn’t I tell you…”

Someone gasped.

The half-elf turned. His face ashen, Gybik was squatting beside Silbastis. Gybik had no doubt attempted to rouse him, but Silbastis wasn’t moving.

The other adventurers hurriedly gathered around the corpse. This time, the throat wasn’t shredded. There was only a single neat, round puncture.

“Whatever killed Osher,” Gybik said shakily, “it followed us.”

“And this time it apparently slew its victim in his sleep,” said Halladon, queasy with grief and dismay. “Stealthy as it is, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s how it usually kills. It was likely only a fluke that Osher awoke.”

“Poor man,” said Moanda, gazing down at the body. “I enjoyed his tales of the sea. Even if I was sure he lied with every other word.”

“Poor him and poor us!” said Gybik. “If the killer came twice, it’ll come again.”

“I’m afraid you may well be correct,” Perys said, crouching. “Hmmm. Once again, the creature didn’t leave any tracks.”

“There isn’t much blood on the ground, either,” Halladon said. “That’s odd, too, don’t you think?”

“Everything about this is ‘odd!’ “ Gybik snapped. “Blessed Tymora, what terrible thing is stalking us?”

“Perhaps we roused something in the catacombs,” Perys said somberly. “Some sort of guardian the mages of Netheril left behind to ward their treasure.”

Halladon shrugged. “We didn’t notice any signs of such a thing while we were there, but you could be right.”

“Whatever it is,” Perys mused, “how can it come, kill, and depart at will? Unseen… without leaving a trace? In my experience, even invisible creatures generally give some sign of their presence. Why did it only slay one of us, when others lay sleeping and thus at its mercy as well? And most importantly, how do we protect ourselves from such a thing?”