Kaerion pushed on, ignoring the chill sensation that crawled up his spine to curl with icy tendrils around the warm stone of his heart. There was evil here, an echo of a presence so palpably corrupt that Kaerion felt as if the very earth were screaming in protest. But he was no simple villager who had gathered his courage among the ale cups and set out with a sword as dull as his wits. He had faced the very heart of evil itself, and though he had broken beneath its power, he survived. And while he lived, he would not grant it another such victory.
Through sheer force of will, he moved forward, breaking the paralysis that had unwittingly seized his limbs. He could see that the other guards were similarly affected, and he touched each gently about the shoulder, whispering words of strength and courage in their ears. However, it wasn’t until Vaxor spoke the name of Heironeous, and blessed light bathed the tunnel, chasing away shadow and fear alike, that the rest of the stricken company could move again. As one, the companions let out a breathy sigh, each praising and thanking the Valorous One in his or her own way. Glancing quickly at the center of their line, he was surprised and not a small bit proud to see that Adrys showed no fear. The lad gazed about his surroundings calmly and even managed a wan smile as he caught Kaerion’s gaze.
Turning back to the now-advancing guards, he noted the passage they had been following opened wider as it continued on into true darkness. Moving forward, Kaerion could see by the light of Vaxor’s spell that the walls in the passage ahead were markedly different from the rough-hewn stone that had guided their travel so far—for these walls were smooth and straight. Reaching out a tentative hand, he ran roughened fingers across their length. Though he was no expert, it was clear that whoever had built this passage had flattened the wall with a covering of cement or plaster.
As the party moved deeper into the passage, Kaerion found out why—and nearly had to catch his breath with the discovery. Every inch of the walls were covered in elaborate murals and frescoes, and the ceiling, which soared almost twenty feet high, had been marked by the hand of a long-dead artist. In the circle of Vaxor’s illumination, Kaerion could see kine grazing lazily amid a midsummer’s sun, a pack of wolves gazing fiercely from between the trees in a forest copse, and a plethora of human and animal hybrids cavorting and fighting among the pastoral scenes. It was Bredeth, however, who called his attention to the most disturbing scene of all—a reminder of the true nature of the place in which they found themselves. For on one section of the wall, recreated with unerring accuracy, Kaerion saw a trail of familiar wagons plodding across the snow-covered fields of Nyrond.
Despite this ominous discovery, it was the colors that had caused Kaerion’s initial reaction. Ancient as the tomb might be, these paintings caught and reflected the party’s light as rich in tone and color as the day they had been painted. By some working of magic, or more likely, some foul curse, the artistry in this bizarre passage had been preserved against the ravages of time.
Nor was the floor itself devoid of ornamentation. While the rest of the party examined the surrounding paintings, Kaerion knelt down and touched a mosaic of red stone. He was surprised to note that the red tiles of the mosaic made a small path, large enough for a single person to walk on, that wound its way farther into the room. Kaerion was about to call attention to this when he heard a muffled scream.
He whirled, only to see one of the guards, a man called Joran, tumble into a hole that had suddenly opened beneath his feet. Desperately, Kaerion ran to the now-revealed pit, calling the nearest guards to assist him. Lighting a torch of his own, he tried to peer through the darkness. What he saw caused his heart to sink. Thirty feet below him, at the edge of his torchlight, Joran’s body lay in a broken heap, glistening spikes driven through chest and legs. Even from this distance it was clear that the man was dead. Kaerion let out a curse.
The tomb had claimed its first victim.
19
Majandra heard Joran’s cry and Kaerion’s subsequent curse as if from a distance. It was not that she was cold-hearted and indifferent to the man’s death. In fact, as she continued to stare at the strangely constructed passage, a part of her mind recalled memories of Joran. Her brief glimpses into his life—the easy familiarity with which he joked with comrades, his interest in horses, the way he always requested the liveliest tunes from the hill villages of Nyrond where he grew up—caused a dull ache in the pit of her stomach.
But the part of her that hungered after ancient lore and long-forgotten tales, the part that drove her to memorize every line of every poem and saga she heard, that turned the slightest hint of mystery into a driving quest for knowledge and every note played upon the strings of her harp another step in a complex dance of mastery—that part of her stood rapt and amazed at the handiwork of the long-dead wizard. She drank it all in, every brushstroke and whorl of color, every symbol and hand-carved rune. It all became a part of a tableau, a tapestry of history that was woven in the long-ago years, ancient before the Kingdom of Nyrond was born in blood and fire. There would be time enough to remember the dead, Majandra knew. There was always time enough for that.
As Majandra surveyed the area around her, she noticed that Bredeth, too, had stayed behind and gazed with seeming fascination at their surroundings. This was yet another mystery. For as long as she had known the brat of a noble, he had been all fire and arrogance. Yet since his rescue from the bullywugs, the young man had been withdrawn and tentative—almost introspective. Majandra wondered exactly what could have happened to the noble to bring about such a drastic change. She had seen men and women return from war broken and twisted, but this was something else entirely. If anything, Bredeth seemed dulled somehow, blunted like a sword used to dig trenches and then cast aside.
The bard was about to question Bredeth about this when Vaxor’s god-light illuminated something upon the floor—a pattern laid out upon the winding mosaic, one that was almost familiar. And then she knew: Runes. They ran along the path, intricate and spidery, flowing like molten silver. Her question to Bredeth forgotten, Majandra recalled a spell that Phathas himself had taught her. In a quiet voice, she sang the notes that would activate the magic and floated gently toward the ceiling, propelling herself slowly in the direction of the path by pushing along the painted stone overhead. Dimly, she was aware of Vaxor, cradling Joran’s broken body. The cleric intoned the final blessings upon the dead man, speeding his journey into Heironeous’ arms, but the bard could make no sense of his speech, for the runes that she read burned in her mind. Without trying, Majandra found herself entering the bardic trance that preceded the telling of the longest tales. When her voice washed, unbidden, over the assembly below her, it was with the practiced timbre that had stilled even the rowdiest crowds.