Kaerion’s magically enhanced reflexes acknowledged the danger and wove a seamless defense. His blade flashed in the torchlight, knocking back each of the gargoyle’s attacks. Obviously enraged by its ability to harm him, the monster ignored the attacking arrowhawks that darted in and out of its reach, concentrating all of its attention on Kaerion. Secure in his ability to parry the gargoyle’s claws, the fighter was caught unawares as it lashed out, grabbing hold of him with implacable strength and launching itself higher in the air. Briefly, Kaerion caught sight of his companions nearly thirty feet below, as he hurtled toward the far wall of the room. Just before it seemed as if the gargoyle would slam itself against the wall, it let out a deafening roar and released its grip on Kaerion. Gracelessly, the fighter plunged downward, striking the wall with bone jarring force before crashing to the ground. His sword flew from fingers suddenly gone nerveless and skidded several feet away.
Above, the gargoyle had completed its turn and now flew right at him, claws extended for a final attack. Out of the corner of his eye, Kaerion saw Adrys huddled behind a thin pillar of stone. For just a moment, he wondered how the boy had slipped past the guards to get this far into the room, but his speculation disappeared as the gargoyles shadow loomed larger.
“Adrys!” he shouted as loud as his stunned body would allow. “Throw me my sword, lad—and hurry.”
Moving swiftly, the boy stood over the sword and looked at the fallen fighter.
“Quickly, lad!” Kaerion shouted again. “I don’t have much time.” A quick glance in the air confirmed his fears. The gargoyle would reach him in seconds.
An evil smile creased Adrys’ face as he bent to pick up the sword—
And threw it even farther away. “It’s time for you to die,” the boy said in a voice too innocent for such words, and then melted into the shadows.
Shock and desperation warred within Kaerion’s breast. He was going to die now. Betrayed by a child even as he himself had betrayed a child. There was a certain rightness to this act, a testament to the simple and brutal poetry of Heironeous’ justice.
The razor claws of the gargoyle descended upon him like an executioners axe—
Only to be met by the bulk of Vaxor’s body as the cleric threw himself between the monster and its intended target. Horrified, Kaerion watched as the beast’s diamond-sharp claws ripped through armor and skin, slicing open the priest’s belly. Defiantly, Vaxor brought his own sword slashing against the creature’s neck, the movement pulling apart the remaining string of muscle that kept his entrails inside his body. Blood and organs spilled out onto the floor as the force of the noble’s final attack severed the monster’s stone head from its body. Bereft of its head, the rest of the monster shattered into a thousand pieces.
In the ensuing silence, the cleric cast a single glance at Kaerion before he coughed up a gout of blood and fell to the floor.
“No!” Kaerion shouted as he stumbled toward the fallen cleric.
Vaxor lay on his back in the center of a widening pool of blood. Amazingly, he was still clinging to life, his breath coming swift and shallow, rattling ominously in his blood-gorged chest. Oblivious to the gore, Kaerion knelt, cradling Vaxor’s head in his hands. The cleric stared sightlessly at the ceiling.
“F-forgive me,” the priest said roughly, a thin bubble of blood and saliva forming at the corner of his cracked lips.
“Forgive you?” Kaerion said incredulously. “You saved my life, Vaxor. What have you done that I must forgive?” Behind him, Kaerion heard the others gather. He could feel their sorrow, like a knife-edge of grief it left his own heart exposed. Bitter tears stung his eyes.
The cleric coughed weakly, bringing up more blood. “I failed,” he said simply, his voice growing weaker. “In Rel Mord… at the inn. The god… spoke… to me.”
“Heironeous spoke to you,” Kaerion repeated, dread beginning to rise in him.
Vaxor nodded his head and swallowed a few times before continuing. “The god… spoke to me. Told me… who… what you were.”
Kaerion held his breath, watching as the cleric’s features twisted in pain. The wounded man’s body gave a violent shudder.
“I… was supposed to… forgive you,” he continued. “To bring you… back to… to the fold. But I could… n-not. My—unnhh—pride wouldn’t let me. I failed.”
“Nonsense,” Kaerion replied. “You shouldn’t talk of such things. It’s just the pain. A few healing potions will take care of everything.” The words came out fast—an attempt to deny the revelation contained in the cleric’s confession. Vaxor was obviously delirious. The cleric needed help now, and perhaps he’d forget the words he’d just spoken.
“Someone reach into my pouch,” Kaerion shouted at the assembly of guards behind him. “I have some healing potions.”
With surprising strength, Vaxor reached out a blind hand and grabbed hold of Kaerion’s arm. “No, my son. It’s too… late for that. Save them… for when… they’ll do some… good.”
“You’re talking nonsense, Vaxor. You’ll be up and walking through this tomb with the rest of us in no time at all.” Kaerion turned his head to face the others. “Someone grab the healing potions!” he shouted, tears rolling down his face. “Please!” This last came out as more of a heaving sob than anything else—though truthfully Kaerion did not know whether it was the cleric’s words or his impending death that broke the dam of emotion he had been carefully constructing ever since he fled the dungeons of Dorakaa.
“Enough…” Vaxor’s voice cut through Kaerion’s grief with an echo of its former power. “I have… battled death… long enough to not… shrink from it… when it comes for me. However… I ask… two things from the Arch Paladin’s greatest… living servant… before I…surrender.”
“Anything, Vaxor. Ask anything and I shall grant it to you if it lies within my power.” The words spilled from Kaerion’s mouth without thought.
Another shudder racked Vaxor’s body, this one greater than the previous one. The cleric took a moment to recover before continuing. “Grant me… your forgiveness,” he asked, his voice little more than a gasp.
“Freely given, Vaxor,” the Kaerion said, still cradling the dying man’s head.
A thin smile creased the cleric’s face. “Then let me… place my hand upon… Galadorn… once b-before the… the darkness…claims me. I would… feel its light before I die.”
Without a word, Kaerion unbelted the leather scabbard that held the holy sword. With infinite care, he extended the sheathed weapon, pommel first toward the cleric. Vaxor reached out blindly for a few moments before clasping the hilt with trembling hands. Incredibly, Kaerion watched as the central diamond set within the pommel glowed with a soft, white incandescence. It let out a single pulse, and then another as a third tremor struck the cleric’s frame. Gradually, the ghostly gleam of the diamond faded into nothingness. With a final breath, Vaxor released his grip upon the blade and died.
22
The screaming wouldn’t stop.
Despite himself, Durgoth grimaced at the shrill sound. Even with their ability to see what those Nyrondese fools had done, some of his followers still fell victim to the tomb’s diabolical traps. This situation, however, came about through the man’s own stupidity. Sydra had given the cultists explicit instructions on how to open each of the secret doors, information she had gleaned from the nobleman she controlled as completely as she did secretly.
The man curled in a bloody heap before Durgoth, the wicked barb of a spear imbedded in his stomach. The fool had simply misunderstood Sydra’s direction.
The screaming stopped for a moment as the wounded cultist noticed his master’s presence. “H-help me,” he pleaded, and Durgoth noticed with distaste that blood flecked the man’s lips and chin.