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
