The Tomb of Horrors

to Woodwych?”

Kaerion nodded. The greedy bastard had hired thugs to steal valuables from certain families and then tried to sell them back to these families for twice their value. It was a good thing they hadn’t made it back toHammensend, he thought wistfully, or that pile of filth would have had to deal with him.

“You mean Master Hemon, the thief who-”

“I mean the merchant who hired us to protect his interests,” the elfinterrupted. “The one connected to half of the crime lords in this city.” Hepaused, obviously looking for some sign that his companion understood where he was heading.

Kaerion opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off with a sharp gesture.

“Gods! Did you have to take it upon yourself to‘redistribute’ those gold nobles?” Gerwyth asked.

Kaerion felt his own temper rise, and the pounding in his skull intensified. “It wasn’t really his money, anyway,” he said through grittedteeth.

Five years they’d traveled together across the roads andbyways of the southern Flanaess and Gerwyth still didn’t understand. Even aftereverything that had happened to him, after he’d proven his own guilt andcowardice a dozen times, there were still a few things that mattered.

Like getting stinking drunk, another part of his mind thought, instead of standing here arguing like an old married couple.

“Yes, well,” the elf responded, with all the grace of aspurned fishwife. “Now he’s taken the money that is his and placed a bounty onour heads. I was down by the docks when I found out. It seems that there are quite a few people who won’t mind sharing the reward, and they are apparentlygoing to try and collect soon. We’ve got to leave Woodwych for a bit. If wehurry, we can start our journey as soon as the gates open. I have a purse set up for us in Rel Mord. It’s a big enough city that we can lay low until we meet ourcontact.”

“Contact?” Kaerion questioned sarcastically. “Who are weworking for now, the Circle of Eight?” Truth be told, he didn’t feel much likeworking for anyone and had told his friend that on occasions too numerous to count. “I’m not taking on any more work, Gerwyth,” he stated flatly.

The elf’s eyes flashed emerald green. Nearly a decade offamiliarity allowed Kaerion to read his friends moods. When his almond-shaped eyes took on that color, it meant the ranger was at his most dangerous.

Gerwyth, however, did not challenge his companion. “We canargue about this later,” he replied. “Right now, we need to get out of herebefore it’s too-”

The sharp crack of splintering wood echoed loudly from a distance.

“Late,” the elf finished.

Kaerion heard the deep-throated grumble of voices followed by several muffled screams and knew that trouble had indeed found them. He only hoped that the bastards left the innkeeper and his family unharmed. The Griffon’s Wing wasn’t the best inn within the walls of Woodwych by any means,but its owners were decent people, even if their patrons left something to be desired. If any of their family were hurt tonight, Kaerion thought angrily, he just might make a personal trip back to Hammensend and gut that fat merchant himself.

The door to his room shuddered beneath a fearsome blow.

Instinctively, Kaerion reached for his sword and cursed when he discovered his scabbard was not buckled on. He scanned the room, trying to remember where he had dropped it. Battle tension ran through his system, chasing away a good portion of the aftereffects of the previous evening, as it always did. His head, however, still remained a bit fuzzy, and it took a few moments to locate the well-worn scabbard beneath a filth-encrusted cloak.

Kaerion drew the sword just as the door rocked beneath another blow. He could clearly see the door’s thick wood beginning to split, andhe looked to Gerwyth. The elf had just finished stringing his bow and held the weapon in one hand. Silver runes ran down the curved ash-wood body, bathing the room in cold fire.

Kaerion gripped the worn hilt of his own weapon tightly. Years of habit brought his thumb forward to rub the pure white diamond set deeply into the leather-wrapped pommel. The action always calmed him before a battle. He stifled a curse as his finger touched only simple steel, and he cast a bitter glance toward the corner of the small room, where a finely wrought jeweled scabbard lay against the wall.

Galadorn, he spoke the sword’s name silently, longingly,as if calling out to a long- lost lover. Where once he would have heard its response, deep-voiced and regal, sonorous tones ringing with unearthly purity, he sensed only the slightest of responses, like the tremulous whispers of that lover’s farewell, and he nearly staggered under the familiar weight of loss thatdescended upon him.

Forged with powerful magic and blessed, legends said, by the hand of Heironeous himself, the mystic sword would protect its wielder from all but the most powerful spells, and its holy might would cut through the thickest of armor. But the power of the sword lay beyond him now, lost the moment his faith in his god shattered under the vaulted domes of a hellish temple. Try as he might to separate himself from this poignant reminder of his past, the sword always remained. He’d tried everything from weighting it down and tossing itinto a river to hiring hedge wizards to cast spells of holding. The result was always the same. He’d wake up from a drunken stupor with the sword only afinger’s breadth from his hand-and permanently sheathed in its jeweled scabbard.Thus, he was forced to wield a simple piece of cold, dead steel.

“We should climb out the window and make for the roof.” Theelf’s voice broke through Kaerion’s mournful thoughts. “It’s too far to jumpdown to the lane below.”

“Gerwyth, you know I will not run from this.”

The ranger smiled, tossing his cloak behind one slender shoulder. “Who said anything about running? The roof will make it far easier forher,” he said, indicating the glowing bow, “to pick off whoever is afterus.”

Kaerion shrugged and followed his friend to the window. There was no time to put on any armor, and the close quarters of the room made it more likely that he could be cornered and overmastered by a rush of bodies. The roof was just as good a place as any to send these ruffians back to the dark mother who bore them.

The door finally gave way under the combined attack of several figures, and they let out a shout of victory as the last plank shattered. Before he climbed out the window, Kaerion made out the glint of chainmail beneath some of the attackers’ cloaks. At least that will slow themdown somewhat, he thought, as he pulled himself up over the jutting lip of the window.

Above him, he could make out the scuttling form of Gerwyth. The nimble elf was already rolling quietly on to the rooftop. He caught the howls of outrage from the thugs in his room as they realized that their quarry was escaping. A few quick pulls brought Kaerion to the roof, where he took a moment to catch his breath.

The gray light of false dawn hung over the rooftop, giving everything a dim, muted feel. Patches of fog rolled past, touching his face with its cool fingers. He spotted Gerwyth standing to one side, head cocked slightly, eyes scanning the urban horizon. Kaerion knew his friend had sensed something amiss and now relied on his hunting instincts-instincts which had made him oneof the best trackers and guides in the southeastern Flanaess-to unearth thesource of his unease.

“We’ve got company,” the elf said after another moment.

The twang of a bowstring and the sharp hiss of an arrow cut though the pre-dawn silence. Kaerion leapt to one side and noticed with satisfaction that the ranger had done the same. The arrow shattered as it struck stone.

He wasn’t prepared, however, for the sudden emergence of sixfigures from the gloom. He had a moment to watch Gerwyth deflect two sword strokes with the hardened curve of his magic bow before his attackers were upon him. He ducked quickly as the blade of a sword came whistling for his neck, and he brought his own weapon across in a quick cutting stroke, satisfied when he felt the blade slash deeply into the stomach of his opponent.

His other attacker wasted no time, however, taking advantage of the opening presented by his defensive move, and Kaerion grunted hard as a mailed boot connected with his side. He used the momentum brought on by the kick to place some distance between him and his opponents.

There were four of them, hard-eyed and steel-jawed all, each with the look of practiced killers. The heavy- booted one wore chainmail and carried a wicked-looking curved sword. Of the three, his eyes were the coldest, like blue ice, and Kaerion knew he’d have to take that one out fast. Two otherswore no armor, but each wielded long daggers in either hand. The fourth lay on the ground, holding in the bulge of guts that threatened to spill out.

Kaerion opened his stance and shifted his weight toward his center, taking deep, easy breaths. The last remnants of the previous evening’sdebauchery fled beneath the familiar thrill of battle. Let them come to me, he thought. They’ll have to fight me on my terms.