The Tomb of Horrors (10 page)

The two traveled for quite some time in silence, and the bard
listened with fascination at the nocturnal voice of the city. The deep-throated
bark of a dog, the yowl of an upset alley cat, the cries of merriment and anger
rising from inns and public houses, even the faintly threatening tread of feet
in the shadows—all of it combined to form a rich symphony of sound that
surrounded her, its powerful chords touching her with a profound sense of
mystery and promise, hope and despair. She sighed and wondered idly if she’d
ever be able to capture the essence of this city in her own music. That would be
a work worthy of a master bard.

A few more turns and the two arrived in the wealthier section
of the city. Majandra noted, without surprise, that everything seemed muted
here, dulled. There were fewer people on the streets, fewer taprooms. Looking
into the windows and elaborate stained glass portals of the surrounding houses
one saw mostly darkness. The half-elf knew that beneath this placid exterior
there existed a vibrant and dangerous world—a world of lavishly appointed
drawing rooms, sumptuous parlors, and decadent boudoirs where noble and merchant
alike gossiped, schemed, and seduced each other in a complex game of politics
and survival. Outside, however, everything was quiet and still.

Majandra cast a glance at her companion and was surprised to
see his normally pursed lips drawn back in a slight smile. He walked smoothly in
the shadowed lane, despite the heavy burden slung over one shoulder, and the
half-elf had the impression that if it weren’t for the cumbersome gear he
carried, Bredeth would have been skipping toward the Platinum Shield.

The noble must have caught her quizzical gaze, for he slowed
his pace a bit and stared back. Trapped, Majandra could do no more than smile
sheepishly and quickly turn away. Despite their polite interactions this
evening, the tension of their earlier fight still lay between them, and like a
phase spider, it sprang up at various times. The bard expected a spiteful
reprimand or other such recrimination, but was surprised when Bredeth resumed
his former pace, smile still intact.

She was even more surprised when, a few moments later, he
broke the silence. “It’s really going to happen, isn’t it?” he asked. “After so
many months of planning and research, we’re really going to do it.”

So that’s it, Majandra thought, hearing the noble’s tenor
voice ring with excitement. Bredeth was giddy over the thought of playing hero.
Well, let’s see how well he does when we’re mired knee-deep in swamp sludge with
a host of biting insects crawling through every chink in armor and clothing.

“Yes,” she agreed, keeping her tone positive. “And we
couldn’t have done it without Phathas and the support of Vaxor’s church.”

Bredeth nodded, ignoring or completely missing the bard’s
gentle reminder.

“This is our chance Majandra, a chance to do something for my
… the people of Nyrond,” he said with only the briefest of hesitations.

Perhaps she was being too hard on the young noble, she
thought as they finally approached the Platinum Shield. It was clear that he
cared deeply for the folk who lived their lives within the borders of the
kingdom—even if he was trained to lord himself over those who were of “lesser”
station.

“Perhaps, once we have restored Nyrond,” Majandra said as
they veered toward the small servants entrance to the inn, “we can help the
nobility learn to trust and believe more in the dignity and talents of those
whom they lead.”

Bredeth snorted as the bard finished. “Now why in all the
world would we want to do that?” he asked, almost knocking down the servant who
had opened the door as he muscled past. “There’s a reason why we lead them, and
a reason why they need to be led.”

Majandra swore softly and staggered into the servant’s
hallway of the Platinum Shield, arms almost numb from carrying her burden across
the city. She knew that her companion’s change of heart was too good to be true.
“Constant as a noble’s arrogance,” she repeated the old adage.

Preoccupied by these thoughts, Majandra failed to see the
sharp-eyed lad slip into the doorway behind her. Nor did she see the splash of
scarlet beneath his worn servant’s livery.

* * *

Durgoth Shem stood in the darkened alleyway and studied the
elegant building before him. A cruel smile played across his face. Days of
bribing merchants, threatening servants, and following what leads they could
uncover had finally brought them to their quarry.

Although Luna, the great moon, cast a half-lidded eye down
upon the city this evening, thick clouds obscured its silvered gaze, hiding
Celene, the lesser moon altogether, and deepening the shadows. It was, he
thought, the perfect night for a hunt. Their prey would have no idea what hit
them. He’d sent Adrys ahead earlier, disguised as a servant. The foolish nobles
had been so wrapped up in their puerile chatter that they hadn’t noticed the lad
slinking in behind them. The apprentice had returned an hour later with all of
the information they needed.

There were six of them, holed up in a large suite on the top
floor. Four doors led off the main chamber into separate bedrooms, but it was
the mage’s room that concerned Durgoth the most—for that was the most likely
location of the group’s scrolls and maps. With that information in hand, he
would have an easier time locating the tomb.

A pity, he thought for a moment as he rubbed hands together
against the chill night air, that they didn’t have time to wipe them all out.
But the wealthy quarter of a city was no place for a pitched battle. They would
have precious little time before the sentinels arrived. No, the plan was simple:
Durgoth would cause a large enough diversion to draw the nobles from their
rooms, while Sydra and Eltanel would, with a small complement of thieves from
the guild, secure the upper suite and retrieve the scrolls. After some
discussion, it was decided that the swift-footed monk would remain outside the
inn to “discourage” any pursuit.

As if reading his mind, Jhagren stepped from the shadows of
the inn and signaled. Although he knew the monk couldn’t see him, Durgoth nodded
his understanding. Everyone was in place. It was time for the diversion.

The cleric cleared his mind, taking three deep breaths. While
less difficult than the magic that created his golem, this summoning spell took
a great deal of concentration. Softly, the cleric intoned the words until he
felt the mystic portal open. Reality shifted around him as planar forces
collided and intermixed. Durgoth focused his will and called upon the creature
he needed, and his summons rang through the planes. At last he felt an answer.
It came, guided by his master’s power, and he sent it to the place fixed firmly
in his mind. He shuddered once as he felt the planar portal shut. An icy wind
blew hard between the buildings of Rel Mord as Durgoth completed the words to
the spell. Despite this, sweat beaded thickly upon the cleric’s brow. He wiped at
it absently and watched through the Platinum Shield’s windows as a reddish glow
pulsated within the common room.

Durgoth smiled.

It was only a matter of time.

* * *

Kaerion woke suddenly to the sound of screaming. Years of
campaigning across the continent and the natural instincts of a warrior brought
him rolling to his feet, sword in hand. He scanned the room for signs of
immediate danger.

Though the fire in the hearth had burned to embers, he could
see Gerwyth shouldering his leather quiver and strapping on short swords. In the
muted red glow of the coals, the elf looked bathed in blood.

The screams continued, followed by the sound of breaking
glass from the common area below. Free from immediate danger, Kaerion allowed
himself to relax just a fraction.

“What do you think it is—thieves, assassins?” he asked
Gerwyth in a cautious whisper.

The elf shook his head. “No. I’m not sure what it is,” he
replied, “but I have a very bad feeling about it.” Finished with the last
adjustments to his bow, he slapped Kaerion on the back. “Are you coming, Kaer,
or should I ask our guests to wait until you’ve had a bath?”

Kaerion grunted as Gerwyth turned and ran out of the room.
Quickly, Kaerion grabbed his shield and strapped it to his forearm. There wasn’t
enough time to don his entire suit of armor, but the curved steel of an embossed
shield—all that was left of his once-famous field dress—had served him well
these past years.

Blearily, he stumbled through the door and into the main
suite, shaking his head to clear the last cobwebs of sleep from his mind. Not
for the first time, he envied Gerwyth’s ability to snap out of his nightly
reverie at a moment’s notice. It was a trait that had saved their lives many
times, and he found himself wishing for that ability right now. Not willing to
waste another moment, he drew a few quick breaths and launched himself down the
stairs to the common area.

The grisly sight that greeted him nearly froze his blood. The
elegance of the inn’s taproom lay in bloody shambles. Tables and chairs lay
splintered and broken on the ground, amid a pile of bodies who looked as if they
had been punctured with a thousand sharp needles. Blood pooled on the floor and
lay spattered across the walls.

In the center of the destruction, standing among the
shattered detritus of wood and glass, stood one of the most terrifying creatures
Kaerion had ever seen. Nearly eight-feet tall, the hulking figure lashed out
with a set of razor sharp claws and tore the throat out of a man who charged it
with a sword. The victim’s sword clattered to the ground and the creature
stalked forward, intent on the remaining patrons of the inn, who were knocking
each other over in an attempt to flee.

In the remaining light of the taproom, Kaerion could see that
what he’d first thought armor was actually a thick collection of wicked barbs
covering the monster’s whole body—including the length of a meaty tail that
whipped back and forth behind the creature’s substantial bulk. The barbs
glistened with blood.

At that moment, Kaerion heard a familiar voice shout
something at the creature. He looked again at the panicking crowd and saw both
Vaxor and Majandra. The two had placed themselves in front of the crowd.

“Gerwyth, we have to do something to distract that…
thing
,” Kaerion shouted. It was clear that the two nobles couldn’t hold out
much longer. The bard’s hair was caked with blood that streamed down from a
vicious wound on the temple, and the priest’s once-shining chainmail looked
severely battered and rent in several sections.

The elf nodded assent and knelt. “I have just the thing, my
friend,” he said, and then in one fluid motion drew two arrows from his quiver,
knocked his bow, and released them in swift succession. The wooden missiles flew
unerringly across the space and caught the creature between barbs in the
juncture of neck and shoulder.

They had no effect.

The creature opened its mouth, revealing row upon row of
needle sharp teeth, and let out a high-pitched ululation. Kaerion dapped hands
to ears and watched in horrified fascination as the monster advanced. The twin
arrows fell from the monster, as if worked out by unseen hands.

Gerwyth let out a curse and grabbed two more arrows. This
time he rubbed the curved length of his ash bow and spoke several words in
Elvish. The weapon’s silvery runes pulsated with a blue-tinted glow as the
ranger took aim and fired. This time, the arrows streaked across the room,
leaving a trail of blue fire in their wake.

The creature let out another wail, this one even worse than
before, as the missiles pierced the hollow beneath its right arm. It stopped its
advance and whipped itself around to face Kaerion and Gerwyth. The creature’s
tail struck out behind it, and only Vaxor’s hastily raised shield protected him
from a deathblow to the head.

Kaerion rushed forward to meet the creature, swinging his own
sword in an arc. The steel rang loudly as it struck the monster square in the
chest. Sparks flew out from the violent contact, but the creature did not slow.
He ducked once as the figure lashed out with its own razor sharp claw, just
barely missing him. He took a step back, hoping to find some weak spot on the
beast—

And cried out as the monsters tad struck him hard on his
shieldless side. The pain was incredible. It was as if thousands of needles
penetrated his skin and were simultaneously making their way through his veins
toward his heart. He felt as if his blood had turned to ice and his stomach
churned with a familiar sensation—fear.

Kaerion cried out again as the walls of the inn melted away
and he found himself surrounded by walls of solid stone—white stone, carved and
worked like the walls of a temple. He knew this place, and the knowledge caused
him to choke with panic. This was the scene of his disgrace.

“No!” he shouted in defiance, and the stone walls
disappeared.

Kaerion lay on the ground, curled up in a ball. Around him,
he could see Majandra and Vaxor attacking the barbed beast, keeping it
distracted, unable to concentrate on killing its fallen victim. Three more
arrows thudded into the monster, one catching it in its baleful red eye, and at
last it gave ground.

Kaerion rolled to his feet. Anger had replaced the fear that
had chilled him, and he let out a bellow as he rushed in. The beast struck out
with its barbed tad, but he managed to deflect the blow with his shield. The
shock of that contact nearly broke his forearm, but he kept pressing forward.
Twice he landed blows that would have felled a bugbear, but the monster just
shrugged them off. The third time, Kaerion blocked the creature’s razor claw
with his own blade and then spun, slicing out with his sword as he turned with
his hips.

The steel bit deeply into the creatures throat and it let out
a shocked gurgle. A small trickle of steaming black blood fell on to the blade,
and then the wound closed, pushing the blade out.