The bullywug advanced as Kaerion fell back, hoping to gain some breathing room. As he withdrew, he managed to cut the creature several times, but with no effect. Looking into the bullywug’s eyes confirmed his worst fears—the creature was berserk. Kaerion would have to end this fight quickly.
Grasping his sword with both hands, Kaerion sidestepped one of the bullywug’s axes and brought his sword downward, cutting the creature’s shoulder and splintering its shoulder blade.
It kept coming.
Kaerion landed several cuts on the berserker’s exposed side, but the hideous beast kept advancing. Twice more he felt the sting of its axe, as powerful blows bypassed his magical protection. He could feel Phathas’ spell beginning to falter.
Exhausted and wounded, Kaerion was unable to avoid stumbling on an exposed root. As he fell, his opponent raised a blood-drenched axe into the air and gave a scream of pure hatred. Several arrows thudded into the berserker’s chest, but to no visible effect. Kaerion rolled hard to the left as the axe descended, but he felt no pain from the blow.
Kaerion looked up at his opponent, only to see the bluish glow of Majandra’s blade protruding from its throat. The creature looked as surprised as he—its long, bloated tongue lolling from the side of its gruesome mouth. The creature pitched forward, quite dead, as Majandra removed her blade. Kaerion noted with grudging admiration that the bullywug hadn’t let go of its weapon even in death.
At the fall of their hero, the remaining bullywugs let out a despairing wail and withdrew from the camp. Their amphibious forms melted back into the shadows of the swamp. Kaerion could hear the labored breathing of the defenders and the anguished groan of the wounded. Grimly, he accepted Majandra’s aid in rising, and the two walked slowly toward the center of the camp.
Landra had, he noted, already sent several of her people to gather the dead and wounded, including Vaxor, who hobbled over to the knot of people surrounding Phathas. But it was the grim face of Gerwyth that caught everyone’s attention as he melted out of the shadows, holding an object in his hands.
“We have a problem,” he said simply, noting with a nod the elegantly fashioned blade he held between his hands.
“What now?” Kaerion responded, in no mood for additional surprises this night.
“They’ve taken Bredeth,” the elf said, anger and bitterness apparent in his voice.
The companions greeted this announcement in stunned silence. All around them, the mist-filled night reached out its fetid tendrils.
17
“To the Nine Hells with you and your cursed creatures!” the arrogant noble said through swollen lips.
Durgoth Shem smiled cruelly as the Nyrondese scion offered feeble struggle against his bullywug captors. The cleric drew close to their prisoner and ran the back of an immaculately groomed hand across the man’s bruised face—rough enough to elicit an involuntary hiss of pain.
He had been positively enraged when Braggsh and a contingent of his sniveling pondmates had burst into their camp, screaming and hissing about their defeat at the hands of those noble fools. He was halfway toward eviscerating the entire worthless group of the disgusting creatures when he had caught sight of the drooping figure two of the bullywug warriors held between them. All had not been lost. Now, as Durgoth probed their captive for information, plans upon plans swirled around in his head.
“Boy,” he said at last, contempt for the bastard’s misplaced arrogance dripping from every word, “when I am through with this world, the Nine Hells will seem like Beory’s own paradise in comparison.”
The warrior grinned. “Bold words,” he said, “for someone who needs talking frogs to do his dirty work for him.”
“Fool!” Durgoth shouted, immediately regretting his loss of temper. Then, in more measured tones he said, “You dare mock me, the bearer of Tharizdun’s will? For that, I will feed you to the Dark One myself… after you have served your purpose.”
“This for your pathetic godling,” the captive said, and then he hawked bloodied spittle into the dark cleric’s face.
Durgoth spun away in outrage, hastily wiping the spit from his brow. Such insolence! Anger building, he turned back toward the warrior with raised fist and was gratified to see the captured noble wince in expectation of the blow. A smile slowly spread across the dark priest’s features, and he held his attack.
“There will come a time,” he said to the glaring prisoner, “when you will remember my clenched fist, and your agony will be so great that you would trade your very soul to feel its weight upon your face rather than suffer for one more moment. When that happens, I want you to remember that it was your blasphemy that brought you there.”
“Let me spend some time with the boy, Durgoth,” broke in a husky voice from behind him. “I’m sure I can loosen his… tongue and make him more amenable to cooperation.”
Durgoth turned and acknowledged Sydra’s offer with a nod. The sorceress lounged indolently against a fallen marsh tree, her hair bound off of her tanned shoulders with a silver cord that reflected the rays of the rising sun.
“You shall have your opportunity in a few moments, my dear,” the cleric said.
“I don’t see why we have to waste time on that,” Eltanel cut in. “It’s clear these nobles will come after their companion. Why not set a trap and kill them?”
Durgoth remained quiet a moment, carefully studying the two guild members. What had begun as simple competitiveness after their defeat in Rel Mord had grown into open antipathy. The discord pleased the cleric. While the two spent their energies against each other, they had less time to plot against him.
“You forget, my shadowy friend,” he said, his inflection leaving no doubt that he considered Eltanel anything but, “I require these fools alive until they bypass the tomb’s deadly traps. Then we shall dispose of them.”
Eltanel, obviously angered by his public error, spoke again. “They have proven difficult to kill on several occasions… blessed one,” he added hastily. “Surely an open assault would fail.”
Durgoth offered another in a seemingly endless array of silent curses to Reynard and his damned guild. Once the key was liberated from Acererak’s tomb, the priest’s erstwhile allies would find themselves paying for every snide comment and insolent remark—Eltanel in particular.
“Though your lack of faith is unfortunate,” Durgoth responded, “you are partially correct in that an open assault would be very dangerous. That is why we will have hidden weapons.”
The cleric looked around the gathered assembly until he caught the eye of Jhagren Syn. Motioning the monk toward him, the dark priest continued, “Our young friend here will be the unseen knife poised to strike at the backs of our enemies.”
“I will not betray my friends, you beggaring scum-spawn!” the captive warrior shouted. “I’ll die before I let you use me against them.”
Durgoth turned slightly toward the wounded warrior. “What you want or don’t want is irrelevant,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Sydra, it is time.” He gestured toward the prisoner, who heightened his own struggles against the two bullywugs holding him fast.
“With pleasure,” the sorceress purred, as she knelt in front of the noble and placed elegant hands upon his head.
“What if he fails?” questioned Eltanel, the thief’s distaste for what was about to happen poorly concealed beneath his aggressive questioning.
Durgoth noted the guildsman’s weakness and vowed to remember it for future use. “Such questions, my dear Eltanel!” he responded with silken tones. “If he fads, there is another.”
With that, the cleric turned to face Jhagren Syn. The monk had gathered his apprentice and both stood calmly to his left. “Will the boy serve?” he asked.
“Yes, blessed one,” Jhagren responded evenly. “He will serve.”