Kaerion held himself completely still under the blessing, hoping that no one would notice his lack of response. It had been many years since he had heard the words of the Blessing Ritual, and many more since he had believed in them. As the group broke up to attend to their duties, he was once again conscious of the cleric’s gaze upon him. Had Vaxor seen his reaction? He hurried away in the opposite direction, eager to escape the cleric’s watchful eye.
There was indeed much to do before tomorrows journey began. And much to think about, he mused, recalling the smiling face of the half-elf. He pushed the image of the bard out of his mind. One thing at a time, he thought, and headed toward the first raft.
Durgoth Shem cursed the heat and the elves—in no particular order—as he surveyed the encampment before him. Peering through the thick foliage, he could see the circular ring of wagons, spaced evenly to afford the camp’s inhabitants the greatest possible cover, and the regular sweep of sentries. Of their principal quarry there was no sign.
He let out another muffled curse and fought down the urge to send his golem down to kill the unsuspecting fools below. Their blood would do much to sooth his anger, but little to make up for lost time. His earlier encounter with those pathetic druids had set his own expedition back, but the whole situation was made worse by the seemingly endless array of elven strike patrols that tracked them well into Sunndi. Perhaps he would ask the Dark One to watch as he slaughtered the elves and their puny gods. Yes, he thought, that would almost make up for the inconvenience those gods-blasted creatures had caused him.
A slight rustling in the thick undergrowth to his left caught Durgoth’s attention, followed by the emergence of Eltanel’s shadowy form. The thief pulled back his black cloak and emerged into plain view, executing a bow that was ail-too perfunctory. Durgoth scowled once at the insolent man and signaled that he should proceed with his report.
“I have been to their camp, blessed one,” Eltanel said. His voice had the gentle intonation of one who is used to the furtive communications of the dark alleyways and rooftops of Rel Mord. “They have posted regular sentries and will likely remain on guard throughout the night.”
“I can see as much, you fool,” Durgoth hissed between clenched teeth, regretting, not for the first time, that he would no doubt need to rely on this wretch’s skills to bypass some of the deadlier surprises awaiting the unwary in Acererak’s tomb. “What of that cursed mage and his half-witted noble lackeys?”
Eltanel shifted his stance slightly, but regarded the cleric evenly. “I overheard two of the guards talking. Their expedition left but two mornings ago, heading south and then east into the Vast Swamp. With a small enough group, we should have no trouble catching up to them.”
“Good,” Durgoth replied. He was pleased by the news, but he had no intention of betraying his thoughts to the thief. Let the man guess as to whether or not he currently had Durgoth’s favor. Such tactics were useful when dealing with someone as cunning as Eltanel. “Return to our wagons and inform Jhagren that I wish to speak with him, and see to it that he prepares a small group of my followers to accompany us on our journey. We’ll have to hurry if we are to keep pace with those Nyrondese fools.”
The thief nodded once and swept off into the undergrowth. Durgoth stared after him for a few moments, before turning back to watch the encampment, his gaze as intense as the deadly marsh panthers that were said to hunt the brackish heart of the vast Swamp.
By the time he returned to his own camp, he had calmed enough so that he no longer took the oppressive heat as a personal affront—though he couldn’t quite fight down his annoyance as he accepted Jhagren’s deep bow and noticed that the monk appeared unaffected by the brutal weather.
“You have received Eltanel’s reconnaissance?” he asked, wanting to end this conversation quickly so that he could slip out of his sweat-sopped clothes and affect some relief from the miserable heat.
“I have, blessed one,” the monk replied, “and I have consulted the Seer’s prophecy.” He unrolled a thin vellum parchment upon which was drawn the rough outlines of a crude map. “We can enter the Vast Swamp a day’s march east of here—” he pointed at a black mark upon the scroll—“and then travel south. If your translation of the Seer’s words is accurate, we should meet up with the Nyrondese expedition within four or five days.”
Durgoth stroked his chin, ignoring the monk’s pointed barb at the possibility of his own fallibility. It was a good plan, and it offered the best chance of making up lost time. He would forgive Jhagren’s insolence this time—but not always. No, his devotion to the Scarlet Brotherhood would not save him when Durgoth’s Master laid the entire world at his feet. He almost shuddered with delight at the thought, but he knew that now was not the time to think about the victory to come. There was still much to do. Instead, he grabbed the vellum parchment from the monk’s hands and strode purposefully toward his wagon. “Finish the preparations for our journey,” he shouted to Jhagren without looking back. “We leave at first light. And send young Adrys to my wagon. I have need of relief from this gods-blasted heat.”
So intent was Durgoth on scuttling out of the harsh sun, that he never saw the scowl cut across Jhagren’s face, only to be replaced a moment later by the monk’s usual solemn gaze.
“It will be done according to your will, blessed one,” the monk said, but Jhagren had already closed the door of his wagon.
15
Majandra stumbled once again over the knotted clump of vegetation that covered the muddy ground. A quick grab of Vaxor’s mailed shoulder steadied her before she landed face first in the muck—though she still managed to twist her ankle slightly. The pain brought a rather ignoble curse hissing forth from her lips. She smiled wanly at Vaxor and shrugged her shoulders in apology as the cleric turned a concerned gaze her way. The Heironean priest remained silent, for which the half-elf was grateful. She didn’t think she had the breath to spare for conversation.
The expedition had spent the past several days slogging through the treacherous landscape of the Vast Swamp, carefully avoiding the mud traps, dragging sand, and carnivorous plants that were an essential component of the land’s deadly geography. Twice they had fought twisted, misshapen beasts that resembled fanged alligators with thick, batlike wings, and once they’d had to rescue one of their party from the clutches of a choking creeper. Everyone was bone-weary, their eyes red from sweat-sting and exhaustion. Days spent under the harsh glare of the sun pulling the levitating rafts behind them while avoiding patrols of lizard folk had taken their toll on the small group.
Even the normally tireless Vaxor had slowed his step. Looking at him now, Majandra could see the pinched lines of fatigue running like spider webs around his eyes and mouth. She was grateful once again that the cleric had prevailed upon Phathas to rest and ride on one of the rafts. The sharp-tongued mage had had a few choice words to say, but in the end, he had acquiesced. She hoped he was resting comfortably. This was not the best place for a man at the twilight of his life—even if that man was one of the most celebrated mages in all of Nyrond.
The coughing hiss of a large predator echoed in the distance, sending an involuntary shudder through Majandra’s body. It was clear yet again that they wouldn’t have survived more than a day in the confines of this swamp without the guidance of Gerwyth. The elf was uncanny in his ability to choose the swiftest and easiest path through the maze of rank pools and twisted trees, and his expertise had already thrown one lizard folk patrol off their scent. Even now, she could make out the ranger’s lithe form up ahead, tirelessly leading their expedition forward.