Rel Mord sat like a giant fist in the vast grasslands ofnorthern Nyrond. Beyond its fortified wall, the marble spires of the Royal Palace soared into the afternoon sky, but even its exquisite craftsmanship could not disguise the crenellated barbicans and manned towers visible even from outside the city. Other stone structures, less lofty perhaps but no less imposing, proudly thrust their own elaborate heights skyward, like the teeth of some great dragon. The swift-moving Duntide River lay at the city’s feet, ajeweled serpent whose sun-dappled scales burned bright beneath the noonday light. Everywhere the sound of life thrummed, strong and sure.
Despite the press of bodies milling about the stone-fortified gatehouse guarding one of the three entrances to the city, Gerwyth hummed a lively elven song. Kaerion looked over at his companion, wishing, not for the first time, that he could share in his friend’s high spirits. But a sense ofunease had stolen over him these past few days, and it had grown steadier as they approached the capital.
If Rel Mord was the martial and political heart of the country, Nyrond itself was an aging soldier. Roads that had once crisscrossed rolling plains and gentle hills, connecting and supporting cities, towns, and hamlets, lay damaged and in disrepair, their earthen lengths scarred with deep ruts and pocked with wheel-snapping ditches and holes. Or they stood uncared for, allowed to run wild with bracken and the thorned scrub vines that grew as wild as the almost endless grass fields. What’s more, the village folk werewithdrawn, sullen. Farm doors remained closed to strangers, and merchants refused to trade, no matter how heavy the purse before them.
Kaerion had noted all of this and voiced his unease to Gerwyth. The ranger had just shrugged and proclaimed the ways of humans too inscrutable to his elven sensibilities. The rest of the journey had taken place in silence, as Kaerion’s distress grew.
Now, the two stood amid a crowd of wagons and people, waiting for their turn to enter Rel Mord. The rank stench of unwashed bodies and animal dung burned in Kaerion’s nostrils, and he tried to ignore the rising shouts ofsquabbling traders and farmers as they all pressed forward, eager to enter the city. He wondered how his friend’s trained senses could handle such a miserableassault, and was just about to ask when a large weight slammed into his side, nearly toppling him over.
With a grunt, he disentangled himself from the net of arms and feet that surrounded him and came face to face with a red-faced bull of a man who stared back at him with an unpleasantly furrowed brow. The man’s eyeswere drawn together sharply and his mouth seemed frozen in a permanent frown.
“My apologies,” Kaerion began in his friendliest tone, “I didnot mean to stand in the place that you intended to fall into.” He gave theunpleasant man a hard look, at odds with his congenial tone.
Though broad of shoulder and thick of limb, the offending man still did not have Kaerion’s mass. At first it seemed as if he might actuallygrowl something back, but he took another look at the fighter’s well-tended mailand leather scabbard and hastily grumbled an unintelligible phrase before scampering off into the crowds.
Kaerion felt a slender hand rest upon his shoulder.
“Easy, Kaer,” Gerwyth said in a soothing tone. “No sensetraveling all the way to Rel Mord only to spend time in the city prison.”
Kaerion exhaled through his nose before replying, “Gods, youknow how much I hate large cities!”
In truth, it wasn’t the unending crowds and lack of privacythat was really bothering him. The wineskins had run out quickly, and he was afflicted with a throbbing head that never seemed to leave him. His nights, never the refuge they were for other people, were now filled with nightmares. If anything positive could be said for this city, it was that he could soon find himself in the taproom of some inn, cradling a blessed mug of ale. Maybe even two.
“I know you do,” replied the elf, “but if you can relax forjust a bit, we’ll soon be inside.” He indicated the line, which had movedconsiderably closer to the gatehouse.
They reached the gatehouse a few candlespans later, only to be challenged by a guardsman in plate armor. The soldier flicked a bored gaze over the two men. “State your name and business in the city of Rel Mord,” theguardsman intoned in a flat voice.
“Gerwythaeniaen Larkspur and Kaerion Whitehart, lately fromWoodwych,” the elf responded. He would have continued, but the bored guard hadalready moved on to the next person in line, waving the two travelers in with an impatient shake of his halberd.
“They must take their duties very seriously,” the elf saidwith a smile as they passed through the stone gateway.
Kaerion simply scowled at his friend. Disgust with the soldier’s obvious laziness warred with his own painful memories. There was atime when he would have called the gods’ own thunder down upon anyone servingunder him who shirked his duties so blatantly, before-
He shook his head to deny that memory. It was another life. No one served under him now. He was master of nothing. Let the city commander worry about the discipline of his own troops. Kaerion certainly wasn’t about tostart caring. And when, he thought as he loosened his cloak, did it get so blasted warm? There were still several weeks left until Readying and the early spring thaw.
“Where are we supposed to meet this contact of yours?” heasked Gerwyth, who had stopped to converse with a blue-cloaked elf maiden. “I’vea powerful need to wash the dust of the road from my throat.”
The two elves continued to speak for a moment more, the mellifluous tones of the Elvish tongue flowing between them like quicksilver, before the ranger nodded and touched hand to heart in the elven gesture of farewell. He turned to Kaerion slowly, with a familiar grin on his face.
“Has anyone ever told you, Kaer, that you are a prime exampleof your race?”
Knowing that he wasn’t about to get a quick answer to hisquestion, the fighter sighed. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he repliedsardonically.
“Hmm, yes. You would.” The elf’s grin widened after a moment.“Fear not, my friend. I have just been informed of the location of our meetingplace.” He sketched a courtly bow and spoke in his best high-class accent, “Ifyou’ll just follow me, my lord,” and turned into the crowd.
Kaerion threw up his hands and followed.
Despite its fortress-like appearance, the City of Rel Mord was abuzz with domestic life. Traders and merchants of all races and nationalities drove wagons teeming with bolts of brightly-colored cloth, silks, and woven fabrics toward the market, while a seemingly endless train of livestock and other animals plodded their way through the wide streets. Soldiers patrolled the lanes and avenues, some as bored as the gate guard, others careful to watch the collection of street urchins, beggars, and musicians that wove in and out of the passing crowd.
Drawing close to the market, Kaerion could hear the strident call of booth merchants and the hum of commerce taking place in a variety of languages and dialects. Common, Baklunish, and Flan mixed with the tongues of elves, dwarves, and even a few gnomes to form a multi-layered wave of sound that washed over the two companions.
Despite the outward signs of life, Kaerion clearly felt the same sense of quiet desperation that had greeted both he and Gerwyth on their journey south toward the city. The music and laughter and tenor of the entire city seemed just a bit too loud and forced, the faces of its citizens a bit too wary, or worse, apathetic. Walking through its streets, Kaerion could see a film of dirt covering the magnificence of its stone temples and buildings. Even the royal palace, which had quickened the beat of his heart with its martial splendor, now seemed hollow and empty, like an ancient tomb, as the two adventurers drew closer. Nyrond had been a kingdom divided, sapped of strength by war and betrayal, and it was clear to Kaerion that the wounds had still not healed.
As they moved deeper into the city, the press of the crowd eased somewhat. Streets narrowed, wood and stone buildings drew closer together, and the anxious stamp of merchant feet was replaced by the soft-soled tread of robed priests, royal messengers, and court functionaries, who carried on their business with an air of self-conscious dignity. Kaerion’s heart lurched for a moment as he caught sight of several mailed priests of Heironeous heading right toward them.
He must have stopped in his tracks, for Gerwyth spoke in a gentle voice at his side, “Peace, Kaer. Let us be about our business.”
The comforting tones settled him somewhat. He nodded and continued on his way past the group of approaching clerics. “Traitor,” heexpected them to yell. “Betrayer! Coward!” He was all of those things-and more.How could the Beloved of the Arch-Paladin not see his shame? It was clearly written on his soul.
But the priests walked right by, intent on their own private conversation. No one had even spared a glance his way. Kaerion wiped the cold sweat from his brow and followed his friend down another street.
Most of the buildings in this area were made of stone, with an impressive amount of gilt marble facades. A few of the decorously crafted houses even had small yards surrounded by iron gates or stone walls. The few folk who were walking about the cobblestone streets were richly appointed, wearing fine tailored velvets, thick cloaks, and an array of gold jewelry around throat and hands.
“Where are you taking us?” Kaerion asked his friend in atight voice.
“To our destiny,” Gerwyth replied in a voice so heavy withmelodrama that the fighter wondered how his friend could still stand.
He shot the elf a barbed look and crossed his meaty arms in front of him. “No more joking,” Kaerion said tersely. “I’m tired and hungry, andI don’t have any patience for your damned elven wit!”
Gerwyth sighed, the ever-present smile falling from his angular face. “Fine. If you must know, we’re going right there.” The elf pointeda slim finger at a two-storey wooden building just past the bend in the street.
Kaerion eyed their destination carefully. Despite not being made of stone, the elegantly carved lines of the structure blended perfectly with the surrounding architecture. A high-peaked roof lent the building a sense of dignity, matched by the elaborately framed windows and exquisitely worked door. A masterfully painted sign hung above the lintel, proclaiming the name of the establishment.
“The Platinum Shield?” he asked. “Who in the hells are wemeeting here, Ger? The Nyrondese Royal Family?”
When the elf failed to reply, Kaerion stared at him in disbelief.
“No,” he said after a few moments, “you didn’t. Phaulkon’sfeathered ass, what have you gotten us into this time?”
Gerwyth just shook his head and pulled his friend toward the inn. “Come on, Kaer, just relax. At the very worst you’ll have the chance to getdrunk in the best taproom in the city of Rel Mord.”
Against his better judgment, Kaerion followed his friend into the Platinum Shield.
“They’re late,” Bredeth snapped in an arrogant tone as heslammed the door to the sumptuously decorated suite.
Majandra Damar gave a breathy sigh at the intrusion and stopped running graceful fingers across the strings of her harp, upon which she had been composing the final themes for a new work. It didn’t matter anymore,however, as the man’s interruption had already driven the melodic line from hermind.
The yew harp cast out its final, plaintive note and the room descended into silence. Majandra regarded her guest thoughtfully. The noble’sperfectly sculpted face held a slight red tinge that was deepening even as she watched, and his gold-flecked eyes flashed dangerously in the dim light of the room. Even his normally immaculate close-cropped blond hair lay askew, tousled by wildly gesticulating hands.
Good, she thought. He’s angry. This should be fun.
“They are not late, Bredeth. Phathas made arrangements forthem to meet us three Stardays hence, and the last I checked,” she said, lookingout of the stained glass window to her left, “it is still Starday.”
“I have wandered the streets and the situation is even worsehere than in the other cities,” the noble replied. “My country issuffering. My people are exhausted. Nyrond is but an echo of the great nation it was. And we-” he leaned over and stabbed his finger violently down on the tablebefore him-“who have a plan that can help restore the country to its formerglory, have to wait on the whim of two foreigners who are probably sitting in a brothel right now laughing at their good fortune.”
“First off,” retorted the bard, “these are not yourpeople. You are cousin to His Majesty, and a distant one at that. Your head, however inflated with its own sense of importance, will never, gods’ willing,wear the crown. And second, Phathas himself chose these ‘foreigners’. If hebelieves that they offer us our best chance of success, then I shall not gainsay him.”
“Such insolence.” Bredeth nearly spat as he drew closer tothe bard. “If we were in my father’s castle, I would have you beaten and castout with the other criminals.”
“I pray that I never fall so low as to have to ply my skillsfor a family of tone-deaf boors who couldn’t appreciate a song if it came fromOlidammara’s own mouth. With any luck, I’ll never find myself near the draftywreck of a keep where you were born.”
Bredeth recoiled as if he had been slapped, and Majandra wondered if perhaps she had gone too far this time. The young noble drew even closer to her, his perfect teeth clenched tightly. “You have noble blood in you,Majandra,” he whispered, “and that has protected you so far. But don’t everforget what other blood flows through your veins.”
At this, the bard’s hand absently pushed aside flowingstrands of red hair to finger the ever-so-slight point of her ear.
“Some may find you exotic,” Bredeth continued. “Others…”He tilted his head to the side and shrugged. “Well, let’s just say that notevery noble family regards marital infidelity as a romantic gesture.”
The bard sat stunned, unable to even phrase the crudest of retorts. She had always known that the events surrounding her birth were fodder for the sitting rooms of bored nobles who had nothing better to do than gossip away the hours of the day, and she had dealt with the whispered imprecations and sidelong glances that accompanied her adolescent years. Until this time, however, no one had ever confronted her directly with the shame of her mixed heritage.
Anger rose up inside of her. This may have started as a game, a way to pass the time as she waited for the two of whom Phathas spoke, but it had become quite real. She refused to be judged by this petulant spoiled brat, and she was about to tell him so when another voice broke into the conversation.
“Peace,” it commanded. “Both of you. Phathas is at rest andwill need all of his strength for the coming journey.”
As one, Bredeth and Majandra turned to face the source of the voice. Vaxor stood in one of the suite’s many doorways, his mouth, surrounded bya silvering black beard, drew down into a frown, his deep-ridged brow furrowed. Even beneath his flowing robes, Majandra could see the man’s solid build bulkedeven further by a layer of chainmail. His left hand was wrapped around a silver medallion in the shape of a lightning bolt, the symbol of Heironeous.
The bard pushed down her anger for the moment. There would be ample opportunity to spar with Bredeth on their journey. The young noble, however, obviously felt no such restraint. “An insult has been dealt my family,”he continued, this time turning toward the priest for support, “and I demandthat it be redressed-”
“Enough, Bredeth,” Vaxor’s deep voice interrupted the man’stirade. “We have more important matters to deal with besides a slight to yourhonor.” He fixed both of them with a stern gaze, and it became clear to Majandrawhy this man had risen so high within the church of the Arch-Paladin. She could feel the power of his presence like a palpable force.
“Our guests will arrive soon,” the priest continued, “and weshould be prepared for them.”
Bredeth snorted, either unaware of the intensity in Vaxor’sgaze or just too stupid to heed it; Majandra couldn’t decide which.
“I don’t even know who our ‘guests’ are,” the noble said,“but since they have not arrived yet, I am beginning to doubt whether or notthey could actually guide themselves into a harlot’s skirts.” Majandra began toprotest again, but the young man held up his hand, cutting her off. “Then whereare they?” he asked.
“I can’t be sure,” broke in a fourth voice, its bright timbrecarrying clearly across the room, “but I think that we are right behind you.”
Majandra hid a smile at the look on Bredeth’s face.
The interior of the Platinum Shield was every bit as elegant as its exterior suggested. Rounded teak and cherry oak tables stood upon a floor of polished wood, while masterful carvings decorated the inn’s paneled walls.The design of the common area, with its sweeping lines and softened corners gave the impression of depth yet still retained an intimate atmosphere. A set of stairs, complete with a runner made of thick red carpet, led up to the sleeping rooms above, and another door led downstairs to the Shield’s famous wine cellar.
The taproom itself was empty except for the small group assembled around a wide table close to the marble-mantled fireplace. Majandra ran a lazy finger across the exquisite horn cup that held her pint of ale, gazing at the giant of a man that sat across from her. After a few tense moments of silence in the suite above, Vaxor had taken charge, rousing Phathas from his rest and assembling the group in the common room of the inn. Introductions were hastily made and the six of them now sat talking in subdued tones.
The burly human had a kind face, with deep-set eyes and a strong nose. Thick black hair ran in waves just short of the man’s broadshoulders; the leonine mane accented a sharply defined jaw. But it wasn’tKaerion’s stunning looks that drew the bard’s attention. Rather, it was thehaunted gaze that leapt from his eyes when he thought no one was looking, the way he obviously carried an aching wound so deep that it had settled into his bones. She found her hand almost tingling with the desire to caress his brow, offering what comfort she could. There was a bitter tale here, and nothing compelled Majandra so much as the promise of a tale-the more tragic the better.
His companion was another matter entirely. The gorgeous elven ranger had introduced himself with the grace and charm befitting a royal courtier, his silver tongue lapsing into the most beautifully accented Elvish that she had ever heard, in order to pay her a particularly “adventurous”complement. She had smiled and accepted his words gracefully enough, and she had found herself responding despite everything she knew about such rakish folk. And this line of thinking wasn’t helping her concentrate on the matter at hand atall.
She watched as Vaxor stood, helping Phathas to his feet. The ancient mage wore his power like a cloak. Majandra could almost see the eddies of arcane energy swirling about him. Eyes that were gray as the clouds of a summer storm looked out from a face of harsh angles. Like many wizards, he wore a beard, silvered by time but thick and curling in the heated room. Unlike many of his noble colleagues at the University, who groomed their beards almost obsessively with silvered combs, often weaving the hair into thick braids, Phathas’ beard resembled a wild bird’s nest of tangles and knots.
Majandra’s attention returned to what the wizard was saying.
“For many years,” continued Phathas, “Nyrond was a kingdomdivided against itself. Disgusted by his father’s leadership during the GreyhawkWars, which had left much of the kingdom in debt to foreign powers, Black Prince Sewarndt poisoned the king and, with a cadre of his most trusted advisors, attempted to seize the throne. He would have succeeded if it hadn’t been for thevaliant efforts of the Heironean clergy,” he nodded once toward Vaxor, “and thedecisive leadership of King Lynwerd, who was then Crown Prince of Nyrond.”
“But the Regicide had broken the spirit of the alreadybeleaguered country. Starvation, drought, and the aftermath of the war had scarred Nyrond deeply; civil war nearly killed it. And I fear that the country still suffers from this illness of spirit.”
Phathas paused for a moment, head bowed. Majandra was struck by how fragile the mage seemed. His voice, always rich and resonant, sounded rough around the edges, and his hands, confident hands that were ever ready to wield ancient spells or teach a fledgling spellcaster her first cantrip, shook ever so slightly.
He’s getting old, she thought in amazement, and wondered whyshe hadn’t seen it before. With a shock, she recalled that her own studies withthe mage were nearly two-score years ago. The bard looked at the smooth skin of her hands. Time marches on for us all, she knew, but elven blood slows the pace.
“The situation is intolerable,” continued Vaxor, filling theensuing silence with an orator’s practiced ease, “and there are a number ofloyal Nyrondese, both noble and common, who would see our country restored to its former greatness. Thanks to Phathas’ tireless research, we have anopportunity to do just that.”
The priest crossed his arms and indicated with a nod of his head that Phathas should continue, but to Majandra’s surprise, it was Bredethwho interjected. “We have discovered the location of an ancient tomb, theresting place of the fabled wizard, Acererak. Inside lies a veritable king’sransom of gold and magic, treasure enough to pay off our debts to these foreign kingdoms with some left to fill the country’s coffers once again. Nyrond willrise again from its ashes-” the noble nearly shouted, slapping his hand hardagainst the table-“and she will once more stand among the greatest kingdoms ofthe world.”
Stunned as she was by the ferocity in the man’s tone,Majandra nearly fell from her chair at the sharp bark of laughter that erupted from the man called Kaerion.
“That’s your plan?” asked the broad-shouldered fighter.“You’re going to restore your nation’s glory by pillaging an old wizard’s finalresting place? Why not take to the roads and steal what you need from itinerant travelers? It would be far easier.”
Despite the fighters harsh tone, Majandra’s trained earpicked up a trace of anger and bitterness. The hidden emotions beat a subtle counterpoint to the man’s words, and it took the bard a few moments to realizethat they were not directed at their plan, but right back at the fighter himself.
“Peace my friends,” Phathas spoke, forestalling Bredeth’sheated retort. The noble sat back down in the chair from which he had sprung and closed his mouth sharply-though his golden eyes smoldered.
The old mage directed his gaze at Kaerion. “Rest assured thatAcererak was no benevolent conjurer or kindly sage,” he said. “Rather, he wascompletely and totally devoted to the cause of evil. The treasure buried within his tomb was either stolen, extorted, or gathered from the ranks of slain heroes who died opposing his dark reign.
“All of us,” he gestured to the assembled group, “havethought long and hard about our course of action, and we have committed to seeing it through. Make no mistake; it will not be easy. Legends tell of Acererak’s quest to rob death of its power. It’s probable that he still dwellswithin his tomb in some form, surrounded by every horror his twisted mind can envision. With skill and a fair bit of luck, we may succeed where others before us have failed.”
“Then where do we fit in Phathas?” asked the golden-manedelf, who, up until this point, had remained completely silent. “Your messagesaid nothing about crawling through some decrepit tomb, only that you needed my woodlore.”
Phathas’ answering smile split his face into a canyon oflines. “Exactly correct, my old friend,” the mage responded with obviousaffection. “We’ve crawled through enough dungeons together, haven’t we?”
Majandra dropped her cup at the wizard’s words, spilling thelast few drops of her ale. By the looks she saw on her friends’ faces, shewasn’t the only one surprised to hear that Phathas knew the elf, let alone thatone of the greatest minds at the Royal University had once strapped on gear and braved the dangers of the adventuring life. Kaerion, too, seemed surprised at the revelation-surprised and, she’d have to say, none too pleased. But beforeany of them could voice their thoughts, Phathas spoke again.
“Acereraks tomb lies deep in the Vast Swamp, south of Sunndi.We need you and Kaerion to guide us through that treacherous land. The journey will not be easy or, I’m afraid, terribly swift. We have made arrangements withseveral merchants and will have adequately provisioned wagons and a small team of drovers to help us carry out whatever we can discover in the tomb.”
“Gerwyth, this is crazy,” interjected Kaerion. “The VastSwamp is crawling with humanoid tribes, not to mention the hazards of the swamplands themselves.”
It was Vaxor, however, who responded. “It is said, friendKaerion, that Heironeous favors the bold and punishes the timid I believe that the Valorous One favors this mission, and the resources of my Church are at our disposal.”
The bard watched as Kaerion recoiled at the priest’s words.For a moment, she thought he would get up and strike Vaxor, so great was the anger that flared in his countenance. Instead, he scowled at his companion. “Ger,” the man said, “surely you’re not-”
The ranger held up his hand, cutting off his friend’sentreaty. “I owe you much, Phathas,” he said, “and loath are the elves to turntheir back on those they call friend. Let me have a look at your plans, and I will speak with Kaerion privately. We will deliver our answer to you in the morning.”
“Very well,” the mage nodded and stood. “Come Vaxor. Let usretire to our suite and fill Gerwyth in. We will all assemble in the morning.”
Majandra watched as the three men left the taproom. The elf threw his friend a single glance, but Kaerion simply scowled and downed his ale in a single gulp. Without a word of farewell, he stood up and headed for the door of the inn.
She stared at the door for a few moments, and then back at Bredeth, who also wore an ill-suited look about his face. She sighed once and made a decision. Sketching a quick and none-too-respectful bow at the dour-looking noble, she followed Kaerion out the door.
Curiosity had won.