The Tomb of Horrors (11 page)

Kaerion shouted in frustration. He backed away, letting Vaxor
and Majandra keep the creature busy. Another two arrows buzzed angrily as they
struck the creature, this time in the chest. Their enemy let out a roar and
swept his tail before him, knocking Majandra and Vaxor out of the way. Quickly,
the beast turned and faced Gerwyth. It pointed the wicked curve of a single claw
at the elf archer and spoke a single, horrific word. A green bolt of energy shot
out from the beast’s claw. Kaerion saw the elf try to roll out of the way, but
it was too late. A green bubble of energy coalesced around the ranger, freezing
him in place.

“Here, take this!” Majandra shouted at him and threw her own
blade at Kaerion. “I have to help Vaxor.” She indicated the fallen cleric, who
was struggling to rise.

Kaerion reached down and took the blade, catching a glimpse
of a silvery glow before he was forced to dodge another barbed claw.

Time seemed to slow as Kaerion met the creature’s blows with
sword and shield, his world reduced to the ring and clash of steel on barbed
flesh. It wasn’t until the creature launched forward with both claws that he saw
his opening. Ducking under the beast’s attack, Kaerion let his momentum carry
him forward and slightly left of the creature. With a curse, he spun and brought
his sword down hard on the meaty expanse of tail.

The beast recoiled as the mystic blade severed the section of
tail. Kaerion tried to take advantage of the beast’s vulnerability, but his
sword had bitten too deeply into the wood of the inn’s floor. He could not raise
it up.

It only took a moment for the barbed monster to recover, and
Kaerion found himself hastily raising his shield. One of the creature’s clawed
hands struck him hard on the shoulder, laying open muscle and sinew. The other
batted away his shield and then lashed out, catching him directly in the chest.

Numbed by loss of blood and fatigue, he could not muster the
strength to free himself. The creature chuckled low in its throat as it brought
Kaerion inexorably closer to its spiked chest. Once impaled, the fighter knew
that he wouldn’t survive long.

Just then, he heard Vaxor’s voice, deep and intense, chanting
over the sounds of combat and the cries of the frightened crowd. A circle of
white light formed behind the creature, a circle whose intensity grew by the
moment. The beast must have noticed it, for it stopped trying to pull Kaerion
closer and turned to look.

The circle burned brilliantly now, like a miniature sun. With
a high-pitched squeal, the monster threw Kaerion to the ground and fled.

Kaerion cast about the room and saw Vaxor, bloodied and
bruised, holding a section of the beast’s severed tail above his head with one
hand. The other traced holy sigils in the air, glyphs that remained visible,
burning with unearthly potence in the panicked atmosphere of the inn.

Suddenly, the circle of light spun open, like the iris of a
human eye. Power flooded into the room, white-hot and palpable. Kaerion nearly
wept at the familiar presence. Vaxor had called upon the power of Heironeous,
and the god answered, filling the room with a fragment of his puissance.

Without thinking, Kaerion fell to his knees. Never in the
time since his betrayal had he placed himself so close to the power of the god
he had once served. The presence was like a knife that cut open a half-healed
wound, and Kaerion ached with the sense of loss that swept through him.

The creature, on the other hand, screamed in agony as
tendrils of energy reached from the circle, pulling the creature toward its
opening. It struggled vainly against the god-wrought force, and Kaerion watched
in fascination as the monster fell into the opening and disappeared with a
final, high-pitched wail.

The pulsating circle remained open a few more moments. A
sound like thunder filled the room, causing those members of the crowd who were
still alive to dive on the floor with their heads covered. Kaerion cast a glance
at Vaxor and knew, by the look of complete devotion that crossed the priest’s
face, that the phenomenon had nothing to do with the activities of a normal
thundercloud. It was clear that Heironeous had spoken—words that only the
faithful could hear.

The circle irised closed and then disappeared, plunging the
room into stunned silence. Kaerion watched as Vaxor fell to his knees, whether
from his wounds or from some movement of faith Kaerion could not be sure.
Panting, he picked up Majandra’s sword and moved toward Gerwyth, who still stood
frozen at the stairs landing.

Before he could offer any assistance, an explosion from
somewhere upstairs caused the already damaged building to buckle. Kaerion spun
around and saw Majandra helping the priest to his feet. She looked back at him,
eyes wide. “Phathas!” she shouted. “He’s still upstairs!”

“Vaxor, see to Gerwyth. Majandra and I will head up to the
suite. Follow as soon as you can.”

In the heat of battle, Kaerion’s voice had assumed a ring of
command, carrying easily over the worried shouts and murmurings of the crowd In
his haste to aid the old mage, he did not see Vaxor’s raised eyebrow before the
cleric moved toward the frozen elf.

Turning, Kaerion launched himself up the carpeted stairs,
conscious of Majandra’s worried breathing behind him. A few moments later, they
plunged through the doorway of their suite and into the heart of chaos. Tables
and chairs lay smashed or overturned in various parts of the rooms, and several
tapestries were pulled from their hangings. One entire wall of the suite had
disappeared, replaced by a flaming wreck of blackened wood and cinders. A chill
wind blew threw the room, stirring ash and fanning small flames that flickered
across the carpet and licked at the wood ceiling.

Phathas leaned feebly against the frame of a door, surrounded
by a nimbus of red light. Three figures closed him in, each hacking at him with
short swords that gleamed in the mystic light. The swords rebounded harmlessly
every time they struck the red glow, but Kaerion could clearly see that the mage
was weakening. One gnarled hand gripped a silver-shod brown staff, while the
other supported the mage’s weight against the frame.

Another figure stood slightly back from the main battle,
directly across from where the mage was making his stand. From his vantage
point, Kaerion could make out the face of a woman that was as beautiful as it
was cruel. Icy features were stretched taut in concentration as her lithe form
undulated to an unheard tempo. Silver lines streaked out from a pair of gleaming
bracers as she reached into the air with slender arms. Between the smooth curves
of her palms, the fighter could see a crackling ball of light growing brighter,
as if she pulled the energy from the very air itself. Kaerion had no doubt that
she intended to launch this magic at the struggling mage.

Just then, he heard Majandra cry out a single, unintelligible
word. Three bluish bolts of energy flew over his shoulder to strike the
gesticulating sorceress. The woman screamed and recoiled as the bolts spattered
against her flesh. The ball of energy between her hands dissipated, and she
turned a hateful eye upon Majandra.

“Kaerion, look out!” he heard a male voice cry out.

Spinning, he caught a glimpse of Bredeth, holding his own
against two cloaked figures, before a shadow launched itself at him from the
side. Kaerion met the attack with the full face of his shield and slid his own
blade between the ribs of his opponent with an absent thrust.

Pulling his blade from the dying figure, Kaerion ran toward
Phathas, whose spell was collapsing. With a shout, Kaerion lashed out with his
boot and caught one of the assassins hard in the knee. The man cried out and hit
the floor. Without breaking his rhythm, Kaerion stepped forward and ran his
sword through a second cloaked figure, careful not to get too entangled in the
treacherous maze of debris and bodies on the floor.

The third assassin turned away from the mage and launched
three silver edged disks at Kaerion. He brought his shield up, blocking one of
the missiles with a metallic clang. The other two sank painfully into his arm
and shoulder.

Kaerion grunted once as the figure drew another short sword
and pressed the attack. Unable to pull out the blades that penetrated his skin,
Kaerion’s attempts at parrying these attacks pushed the pointed barbs of the
metal deeper into his flesh.

Fatigue made Kaerion’s sword seem as heavy as a suit of mail,
but he raised it again and again to beat back the assassin’s attack. It was only
after he failed to parry an easy thrust with his shield that he suspected he had
been poisoned. His limbs simply wouldn’t respond with their normal speed. It was
as if he were submerged in water. Desperate now, for he knew he wouldn’t last
too much longer, Kaerion raised his own sword and aimed a vicious sideways swipe
at his opponent. When the man brought one of his swords down to parry it,
Kaerion spun and bashed his shield into the assassins head. Stunned, his hapless
opponent could not block the steel that imbedded itself into his chest. With a
wet gurgle, he fell to the floor.

Kaerion quickly surveyed the battle as he removed the sharp
metal discs from his arm and shoulder. Freed from his attackers, Phathas had
regained his footing and now launched spell after spell at the leather-clad
sorceress. He watched for a moment in awe at the speed and grace of the elderly
mage. Bleeding and bruised from several wounds, the sorceress had erected her
own shield against the attacks. It spattered and sparked as Phathas’ spells
slammed against it. Already it showed signs of collapsing.

With a cry, Bredeth finished off his last opponent, and
Kaerion could see him slowly advancing with Majandra. Both were intent on
killing the beleaguered sorceress. It looked to Kaerion’s trained eye that this
battle was nearly ended.

A slight scuffling sound caught his attention. Turning, he
peered into the shadowy expanse of Phathas’ room. The sound came again, and
this time Kaerion saw a deeper shadow, a figure skulking within the darkness.

“Intruder!” he shouted and ran as fast as his sluggish limbs
would carry him into the mage’s chambers.

The well-muscled, black-skinned figure rifling through the
mage’s scrolls regarded him with obvious surprise. Kaerion raised his shield,
expecting an attack. The thief, however, grabbed a handful of the scrolls lying
on the desk before him and launched himself out the open window to his left.

Kaerion ran to the window and watched in amazement as the
thief floated gracefully down to the street, already running before his feet
touched the ground. He regarded the fleeing thief for just a moment before
running out of the room and through the suite, ready to give chase.

“Where’s the sorceress?” he asked Majandra, who was guiding
the wounded Phathas to the only remaining chair in the suite.

“She fled,” the bard replied. “Stepped through a portal and
disappeared.”

“I’m going after them,” he said, halfway out of the door to
the suite. “When you’re done there, take Bredeth and make sure the area is
secure.”

He didn’t wait for the half-elf to respond, but took the
stairs two at a time in his haste to reach the street. As he ran through the
common area, he saw Vaxor and Gerwyth. The elf was no longer immobilized, but it
looked as if he needed a few minutes to compose himself.

“It seems we had visitors,” Kaerion said. “They fled and now
I’d like to pay them a visit. Come when you can.”

With that, he ran out the main door to the inn and checked
the street. The night air was crisp, washing away the copper tang of blood and
rent flesh, but Kaerion could spare no time to enjoy it. He cast several long
looks down either direction of the street that ran parallel to the inn, hoping
to find some clue as to the direction the thief had taken.

So intent was he on tracking down their enemies that he
almost didn’t see the scarlet-cloaked figure detach itself from the shadows of
an alleyway. He paused for a moment and watched as the figure approached,
padding silently across the cobblestone street. A trickle of unease made its way
down Kaerion’s back as the cloaked figure, clearly a man by the rough cut of his
face and the broad bulk of shoulders, stopped and slowly drew off his cloak.
Every move seemed deliberate, graceful. Kaerion was reminded at last of a
panther he had once seen stalking wild deer while out hunting with his father.

He took another moment to survey his opponent, for clearly
the man did not intend to let him pass. The newcomer wore no shirt beneath the
scarlet cloak, and in the dim moonlight, Kaerion could see the smooth ripple of
sinewy muscles across the well-defined expanse of chest, shoulder, and stomach.

The man carried no weapons, nor looked as if he had any
hidden on his person, and yet, he stared quite calmly at the length of steel
held expertly in Kaerion’s hand. Loose-fitting scarlet pants flowed like water
with every deliberate movement, held up by a belt of yellow cloth wrapped around
twice and knotted elaborately on the side. The man wore no boot or sandals, but
rather slid across the winter-cold ground on heavily calloused feet.

Kaerion was taken aback as the man drew forth his left hand
to the center of his chest, perpendicular to the ground, while his thumb and
index finger were bent parallel to the body, and sketched a deep bow. Carefully,
he raised his own sword in salute, one honorable opponent to another.

Kaerion fell backward as the man crossed the distance between
them in a blur and caught him with a knife-edged strike to the shoulder. Kaerion
grunted and tried to bring his shield forward, protecting the numbed expanse of
his sword arm. His opponent moved faster, spinning on one foot and planting a
kick that connected hard with the side of his face.

Pain exploded in his head, and he staggered to the side. The
man followed through with another strike, this time square in the throat, and
Kaerion felt his entire body go numb as he gasped for breath.