“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he heard Majandra’s voice from behind him.
Turning to face her, he shrugged. “Beautiful wouldn’t be the word 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 of delight 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 an irrational 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,” the half-elf replied, interrupting his thoughts, “and you certainly are no kin of mine.” She laughed a moment before continuing. “But even humans have their mysteries.”
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 by the wagons. Gerwyth and the others are with him,” she said as she broke into stride 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.
Reaching the outskirts of the camp, Kaerion noted that work crews had indeed been busy. Several of the rafts had already been assembled, and more lumber was making its way into the camp at a steady pace. Caravan drovers and guards alike had both been drafted into service, and the laboring men and women moved about in ordered groups. Most of them had cast off outer tunics and shirts, sweat glistening off bare backs, and wrapped their heads with the light materials to protect them from the sun.
Gerwyth caught sight of Kaerion and Majandra and waved them over to the thin tarp pitched in the center of a small circle of wagons. When they reached the assembled group, they found Phathas hunched over the sturdy cloth map that had been their guide on this journey. The others nodded in greeting but otherwise stood silently, obviously waiting for the old mage to finish his examination. The silver-haired wizard mumbled softly as he traced a gnarled finger across the faded parchment, seemingly oblivious to the piercing heat.
“What’s the status of the rafts, Vaxor?” the mage asked, not looking up from the object of his intense scrutiny.
The cleric finished taking a long swallow from the waterskin before replying. “Three rafts have already been completed,” his deep voice rumbled, “and the remainder should be done before nightfall.”
Kaerion stole glances at the Heironean priest. Despite the searing temperature, the cleric still wore the chainmail armor that was as much a badge of his office as the silver lightning bolt that hung about his neck, gleaming brightly in the harsh sunlight.
Unaware of the fighter’s scrutiny, Vaxor continued. “Once the construction has been completed, I suggest we double the watch. I have an uneasy feeling. There’s no telling what manner of beast will be about, looking for trouble.” He turned to his companions. “Gerwyth, Bredeth, I’ll leave it to the both of you to inform Landra of my orders and see to it that the watch is kept.”
The elf nodded, but Kaerion almost laughed at the rebellious scowl that marred Bredeth’s handsome features. The pampered upbringing of the young noble had obviously not prepared him for the rigors of this trip. Unlike the rest of the group, his skin had reddened and split under the unrelenting glare of the sun, and not even the thick salve that Vaxor had offered the peeling noble was enough to soothe the lad’s burns—or his temper.
Phathas stood and cast a piercing eye around the assembled group. If he was pleased with Vaxor’s report, he gave no sign. Instead, the tired mage rubbed a withered hand across the back of his neck and spoke his mind. “There is still plenty to be done before we enter the Vast Swamp, and not much time to do it. By my calculations, we still have about ten to fourteen days of hard travel before we’re even near Acererak’s tomb—and that’s if we can avoid the worst dangers of this forsaken stretch of land.” He pointed a finger at Majandra. “I need you to oversee the disbursement of supplies to the rafts. And see that you have mind enough to bring the herbs and poultices we’ve laid in to aid in case of injury. I’ll not waste Heironeous’ blessings on bug bites and those foolish enough to injure an ankle or leg because they were too lazy to watch where they were going.”
Majandra gave the wizened mage a smile, and Kaerion, to his own annoyance, found himself wondering how to elicit such a response from the half-elf—a line of thought he abandoned once he heard the old mage call out his name.
“Yes, you,” Phathas blurted as Kaerion once again gave the mage his full attention. “Pay attention, lad. I don’t have all day to explain these things. I need you to take these stones—” he opened his hand to reveal the enchanted stones he had spoken about earlier—“and lash them securely to the underside of each of the rafts. If for some reason the rafts don’t immediately rise into the air—”the mage’s tone indicated to Kaerion that such an occurrence would only happen by his own mistake—“come find me immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Kaerion found himself responding, and wondered just when he had started to feel like he was a squire back under Sir Trindan’s tutelage. He caught Gerwyth’s eye and realized by the wink that the elf gave him that his friend was highly amused by the whole situation.
Just then, Vaxor’s gruff voice broke in. “Tomorrow, we enter the Vast Swamp. We’ll leave the drovers and six guards behind to protect the wagons. Once in the swamp, our largest danger will come from the lizard folk who consider the lands as their territory. I’ve spoken with Gerwyth, and we both agree that if we keep to the general direction we’ve traced on our map, we’re likely to avoid most of the danger. But be on your guard. And no heroics.” This last was delivered with a grim eye toward Bredeth, but before the noble could spit out his protest, the cleric waved his hand for silence, deftly sketching the traditional blessing of Heironeous in the air. “May the Valorous Knight watch over each of us,” he said in an oddly gentle voice.