“No, damn you. I’m not the blind one!” It was Majandra’s turn to shout, and despite his own anger, Kaerion was taken aback at the depth of the bard’s own feelings. “I’m not the one who clutches to this isolation all the while refusing the hand of true friendship and companionship being offered. So I don’t know what you’ve done. So what? If you want to put me to the test, then tell me what happened in Dorakaa. Give me the chance to make a decision about it, rather than constantly making one for me!”
She threw this last out like a challenge, and Kaerion found himself accepting. It wasn’t because he needed to share the burden of his grief with someone. Not by a long shot. Rather, he knew that he deserved to be reviled for his actions, and what better way than to be reviled by someone he truly cared about. Let Majandra feel the shock and disgust as he listed the details of his own sins. In a perverse way, he knew he would take pleasure in shattering the faith and trust she had placed in him.
They stood there for a few moments, breathing heavily in their anger, staring at each other. He could see the challenge still in the bard’s eyes. When he began, Kaerion held his voice steady, as if retelling a simple tavern story. “Eventually, they let me out of the circular hole that defined my world. I remember blinking hard at the light, as if I had never seen it before. I stank of fear and human waste. Several of Iuz’s servants led me to a large chamber, a shrine of some sort. Even now it is difficult to remember the details.
“As they marched me toward this chamber, the foul demons whispered to me again, but this time, they told me of the ways I would be used and tortured for Iuz’s own pleasure. At this point, I no longer recalled my life before Dorakaa. For me, there was only misery and fear. By the time we reached the door to the shrine, I was shaking in terror. Thoughts of escape were beyond me, but I knew, despite my misery, that I would do anything to avoid the horror that awaited me.
“When they opened the door—” Kaerion’s voice broke as he sputtered and choked on the memories.
Without hesitation, Majandra opened her arms, and he could feel the bard drawing him toward her. He didn’t resist.
“When they opened the door,” Kaerion continued, his voice a bit stronger, “I saw a pack of the foulest demons the Nine Hells had ever spawned. They surrounded a stone slab. As my captors drew me into the room, the hellspawn parted, revealing a boy, no more than eight years old, splayed out like a sacrifice. One of the beasts hopped toward me, its vestigial wings flapping wetly, and gave me a choice. I could either offer myself in the boy’s stead, exchanging my life for his, or they would spare my life and take the boys. I—”
Kaerion’s body nearly convulsed as heaving shudders racked his frame. He could feel hot tears scalding his cheeks and jaw as he relived that memory once again. “Don’t you see?” he nearly shrieked, pulling away from Majandra’s embrace. “I let them kill the boy. I watched as a demon claw ripped the child’s throat apart and the demon pack feasted on his blood. It was my fault! Mine!”
Majandra’s mouth hung open, but she did not leave.
“It was my fault!” he shouted, and then he collapsed in a sobbing heap.
He felt Majandra’s arms wrap themselves around him, her hands gently lifting his tear-stained face up. At first, he closed his eyes, unwilling to see the condemnation he knew would be there, but at last, he forced them open—and was amazed to see compassion and forgiveness in the half-elf’s face.
“It was then I knew Heironeous had never forsaken me,” he said in a much softer voice. “It was I who had walked away from him.”
Tears continued to roll down Kaerion’s face, and he, powerless to stop it, let them fall unchallenged down his face. Gradually, the shudders lessened and the great heaving sobs withdrew, leaving him weakened and empty. Despite his emotional state, he was almost painfully aware of Majandra’s arms as they wrapped gently around his neck. His heart beat in an unfamiliar rhythm.
“Majandra, I—” he began, but was quickly silenced by the press of the half-elf’s lips to his own. He stiffened at first in surprise, but gradually relaxed as the soft touch of her tear-salted lips sent delicious warmth through his grief-spent body. For a brief moment, he felt weightless, suspended in a private universe beyond his own inner demons, a world whose boundaries began and ended in the arms that surrounded him.
Kaerion sighed and returned the kiss deeply—only to be flung out of his contentment by the gurgling scream of a dying guardsman. He looked at the equally stunned bard as shouts and other screams filled the camp.
The attack had begun.
16
The dark recesses of the swamp came alive with snarling, hissing cries. Kaerion leapt up from his comfortable perch near the half-elf and drew his sword. The final look he cast the bard before running into battle was all too brief, but he was relieved to see the same expression on her face. Later, it seemed to say, and he found himself grinning as he went to meet their enemies.
The camp itself heaved with the press of bodies and naked steel. Despite the seeming chaos, Kaerion’s battle-trained awareness quickly recognized solid defensive tactics employed by the guards as they formed a ring around Phathas and Vaxor. Landra had obviously called in the remaining sentries and Kaerion felt some measure of relief at the captain’s prudent command.
Beneath the red-gold glare of the watch fire, Kaerion caught glimpses of the heretofore-unseen predators that had stalked them through the swamp for days. Even as he neared the battle, he couldn’t keep his gorge from rising at the site of their blunt, wide-lipped heads and bulbous eyes.
A cry off to his left broke Kaerion’s forward charge. In the flickering light, he saw a slouching humanoid raise a steel-tipped spear at a fallen sentry. Three bounding steps brought the bulk of his body crashing into the bullywug, whose own slime-covered form went crashing into the underbrush with an angry hiss. A quick hand helped the guard to her feet before Kaerion turned and ran back to the center of camp.
“Kaerion, to me!” he heard Phathas call from the center of the ringed guards.
With a shout of acknowledgement at the mage’s summons, Kaerion turned the swift thrust of a spear aside with his blade and ducked beneath the wild swing of another opponents sword. Cursing, he realized his path was now blocked by three of the noisome creatures. Raising his sword, he charged into the center of his attackers, taking one through the eye and doubling another over with a sharp kick to the ribs. The third managed a sharp spear jab that caught Kaerion on the side. He cried out as the steel tip of the spear ripped through his cloak and rebounded off of the hard metal surface of his armor. Despite his luck, Kaerion knew he’d have a nasty bruise come morning—if he survived.
The ring of guards had drawn tighter now, collapsing inward with the growing press of humanoid bodies. In the circle’s center, Kaerion saw Vaxor clap his hands together while uttering a sharp prayer to Heironeous. Golden light emanated from his joined fingertips, falling over the beleaguered guards. Kaerion felt a cold stab of guilt at this reminder of the god’s power.
A moment later, an angry buzzing filled the air. One of the creatures gave out a gurgling hiss as an arrow struck it in the back. Four more streaks of death followed in quick succession, and Kaerion knew that Gerwyth lay somewhere in the gnarled trees above the camp, raining arrows upon the attackers. Six more fell dead or dying before Kaerion fought his way through the circle’s center. A moment later, he was relieved to see Majandra’s lithe form bound through the ring of soldiers.
Breathing heavily, he acknowledged Phathas’ reassuring smile with a quick nod of his own. The mage reached out ancient, weathered hands, placed them gently upon his shoulders, and closed thin-lidded eyes in concentration. The hairs on Kaerion’s neck prickled as a string of unintelligible words flowed out of the spellcaster’s mouth in stately rhythm. The old mage’s eyes flew open as he reached the end of his phrase. Raising a feeble hand, he struck Kaerion a surprisingly sharp blow upon the cheek, intoning a single harsh word as flesh struck flesh.