The Tomb of Horrors (15 page)

Sydra’s clear voice interrupted his ramblings. The sorceress
had begun a soft chant as she poured more of the sacrificial blood into the
ornate bowl that hung suspended from the ceiling by a thin chain. When Sydra was
finished, she added a few more bundles of spiced wood to the brazier that burned
dully about two feet beneath the bowl. The heat from the brazier would prevent
the blood from thickening, thereby extending her ability to scry on their
enemies. Frankly, Durgoth didn’t care much for the details. He simply wanted the
witch to give him the information he needed—and soon.

When it was clear that he would yet have to wait to fulfill
his desire, the cleric turned to Jhagren and acknowledged the silent man with a
wave of his hand. “Is everything in readiness?” he asked.

The monk nodded his head slightly. “Yes, blessed one. We have
secured wagons and enough horses to carry everyone. The merchant we dealt with
was more than happy to provide for our needs, once we explained the
alternatives.”

“Excellent,” Durgoth replied, wishing for a moment that he
could have been there to see the terror in the merchant’s eyes. “What of
Eltanel?”

“The thief has arranged for provisions, though I’m told that
the Guild Master was less than pleased to discover that he was funding our
expedition.” The monk spoke softly, but Durgoth was sure he could detect a hint
of amusement in the man’s voice.

“That old cur shouldn’t complain,” the cleric barked with
laughter. “After all, he’ll be drowning in riches.” For all the good it will do
him, he added silently, casting a glance at Sydra.

Durgoth turned from Jhagren without another word and rubbed
his hands together, imagining the power that would flow through them. Once
Tharizdun was free, nothing on Oerth would be able to stand against him.

“It is time, blessed one,” Sydra said suddenly, and for a
moment, Durgoth forgot his dreams of power.

Quickly, he moved to stand by the sorceress, peering into the
blood-filled bowl. The woman brought her hands together in a sharp clap and
exhaled deeply. Durgoth felt the hair on his neck rise. Whatever else he thought
of Sydra, the woman was gifted. Eldritch energy filled the room.

Eyes closed, the sorceress waved smooth-skinned hands over
the bowl—once, twice. On the third pass, Durgoth saw the dark red liquid
shimmer. In a few moments, the shimmering became a crimson radiance that pulsed
like the beat of a heart. The cleric stared at the arcane display with great
interest, the rhythm of his heart matching the pulsing incandescence.

Eventually, the light within the bowl grew brighter, and in a
single powerful flash, resolved itself into startling detail. Sydra opened her
eyes and rested her hands at her side. “It is done,” she said simply, and moved
to the side, allowing Durgoth full view of the image in the bowl.

The cleric stared down at an image of an old man, wrapped in
thick blankets. By the looks of his surroundings, he appeared to be resting
within a small wooden structure. It was the mage, Durgoth decided after a
moment. The old fool slept peacefully, never dreaming of the danger that haunted
his every step.

“Could we not destroy him now, as he sleeps?” the cleric
asked.

Sydra shook her head before answering. “There are a few
spells I could cast through this mystic link. However, it is likely that a mage
as powerful as Phathas would detect the arcane energy and erect a barrier.”

“It is just as well. The senile fool will prove useful to us
before we destroy him. Once we are through with him, I leave his fate in your
hands.”

The sorceress gave him a grim smile. “As you wish, blessed
one.” Durgoth could almost hear the anticipation in her voice.

“I wish to see more,” he informed her after another moment
spent examining the mage.

She nodded and stepped forward, this time whispering several
words as she traced patterns into the surface of the steaming blood with a
single finger. The scene shifted with a disorienting lurch, resolving again into
an image of several wagons slogging across a snow-covered landscape.

“Do you recognize where they are?” he asked Sydra.

“Yes,” she replied after spending a few moments peering into
the bowl. “They are in the grasslands to the south and east of Rel Mord. It is
as you said, blessed one.”

Yes, Durgoth thought. The scrolls that Eltanel had managed to
pilfer from their room indicated this route. If they were headed for the Vast
Swamp, which was a certainty according to their notes, they would avoid drawing
too close to the coastline where the activity off Fairwind Bay would increase
the ferocity of the winter weather. More than likely, they were headed for the
confluence of the Harp and Lyre Rivers. From there, they would probably turn
south, skirt the Bonewood Forest, and follow the river south into Rieuwood. It
was a good plan, one that he would have created himself. Perhaps these nobles
were not so foolish as he originally had thought. It mattered little, however,
as he would make sure that they were all dead before he completed his task.

Durgoth was about to order the sorceress to end the scrying
and prepare his followers for their journey when he caught a fiery flash of red.
Looking closer, the cleric was pleased to discover that the distracting color
was not the result of a torch or other such incendiary device, but it was due to
the wind lashing through the hair of an enchanting woman. Her elven ancestry was
apparent in the elegant cheekbones and slightly alien features, but these only
served to heighten her beauty. Durgoth felt an unfamiliar warmth building in his
loins. It had been quite some time since he had deigned to indulge himself in
the pleasures of the flesh—perhaps too long. He would keep this one alive after
he had dealt with the rest of her companions. He knew he would tire of her in
time, but his nights would be filled with sport until then.

The fire-haired beauty turned suddenly and smiled, as if
greeting a friend, but Durgoth could see no one else nearby. “What manner of
trickery is this?” he asked Sydra.

The sorceress stepped forward and gazed into the bowl. She
spoke a single command, and a gray cloud shimmered near the image of the
half-elf, but no figure resolved. “I do not understand, blessed one,” Sydra said
after a moment of tense concentration. “Something is blocking the effects of my
spell, but only in a localized area.” She closed her eyes again, and sweat
beaded on her forehead. “It is not a spell, blessed one, but whatever it is, it
holds great power. I can feel it working against me.”

“I am not interested in your feelings, Sydra,” the cleric
snapped. “I am interested in finding out exactly what this power is and who it’s
protecting.”

Swallowing hard, the sorceress closed her eyes and cast
another spell. Durgoth ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. They
couldn’t afford to be surprised by anything else on this mission. Success was
critical. He watched a few moments as Sydra continued her spell, then he turned
to Jhagren. The monk had stood silently throughout this scrying. Perhaps he
could shed some light on the situation.

Before Durgoth could open his mouth, Sydra screamed and threw
her hands up to her temples. The scrying bowl exploded, sending silver shards
and splatters of scalding blood across the room. Durgoth raised his own hands
instinctively as the crimson rain poured down upon him.

Heavy footsteps came pounding down the hallway soon after,
and the cleric could hear the frantic questions of his followers as they
gathered beyond the closed door. He ignored the pain of his burns and turned to
leave, only to find Jhagren quietly opening the door to address the concerned
cultists beyond. Durgoth noted with irritation that the monk had avoided the
burning spray and moved with complete calm. Left with nothing else to do,
Durgoth surveyed the damage.

Sydra lay in the center of the room, covered in blood and the
remains of the silver bowl. It was difficult to tell how much blood was her own
and how much was the remains of her scrying medium. Durgoth felt little
compunction to find out. The brazier underneath the bowl had somehow managed to
remain upright, but the fire in it had been extinguished by the bowl’s contents,
which ran steaming down its sides.

So, Durgoth thought bitterly, there yet remains another
mystery to be solved. Deep in his heart he knew that these obstacles were merely
tests by which the Dark One measured the strength and the commitment of his
servants. He would not be found wanting.

Slowly, he walked to the door of the room and opened it, sure
of his next move. They would leave tomorrow on the trail of their enemies, and
there would be nothing in this world that could stand in Durgoth’s way.

* * *

Kaerion slowed his horse to a trot as he neared the line of
wagons that stretched before him. Even from this distance he could hear the hum
of activity coming from the caravan. Drovers and teamsters exhorted their beasts
of burden with sharp cracks of leather whips and equally sharp tongues.
Occasionally, he heard the strains of their frank and good-natured banter, which
still managed to bring color to his cheeks at its most outrageous points.

The weather had warmed a bit, offering the travelers a
respite from the continuous assault of winter, and Kaerion was surprised to note
the number of offerings left to Fharlanghn and his divine children before the
caravan had started its journey for the day. Even so, the wind still carried a
bite, and steam rose off the flanks of his stallion.

Earlier in the day, the expedition had passed the remains of
the bandit-razed wagon. Both Gerwyth and Kaerion had decided to take a
complement of caravan guards and patrol the area around their vulnerable wagons.
Thankfully, there had been no sign of bandits or other dangers in the
surrounding plain, and Kaerion made his way back to report the good news.

He slowed the stallion to a walk as he caught up with the
caravan, weaving his mount expertly through the press of supply wagons, oxen,
and teamsters. The horse snorted once and pranced forward, obviously
disappointed that their morning exertions were over so soon. Kaerion smiled at
this display of spirit and patted the stallion’s neck.

“There’ll be time enough for running free on this journey, eh
Jaxer?” he said, addressing the horse by name. “No sense spoiling it by risking
a broken leg on this gods-cursed snow.”

Despite himself, Kaerion couldn’t help his smile from turning
bittersweet. Jaxer was a fine stallion with a long, powerful stride and a heart
that was a match for any warrior, but thoughts of his qualities only invited
comparisons to another steed—Kaerion’s own war-horse, dead these ten long years,
killed by the same cowardice that had shattered everything he had held sacred.
Memories of the golden-maned stallion came unbidden to his mind, echoes of its
grace and power, the almost total union of mind and body that allowed both steed
and rider to anticipate the needs and movements of the other. All of it was gone
now, lost like so much else.

“I thought druids and elves were the only folk crazy enough
to talk to their mounts,” a familiar voice broke through Kaerion’s gloomy
ruminations. He looked up to see Majandra flashing the dazzling light of her
smile at him.

“How goes the patrols?” she asked as she drew closer.

“Uneventful, thank the gods and anyone else who is willing to
listen,” Kaerion replied. “There was no sign of the bandits anywhere within a
league of our caravan. Whoever or whatever attacked the wagon has moved on.”

“That is good news,” the half-elf said, “though I fear
Bredeth will be disappointed.”

Kaerion was about to answer, but was surprised into silence
when Jaxer bucked wildly. He grabbed the reins hard and fought for control of
the stallion. Searing pain shot through his left thigh and he gasped with the
force of it, nearly unseating himself in the process.

“Kaerion, what’s wrong?” Majandra asked, but he could spare
no attention to the bard’s worried question. Every ounce of his skill and
experience was turned toward gaining control of his mount.

The pain in Kaerion’s thigh intensified, and he cried out.
The distraction was enough to give Jaxer his head. The stallion reared up on his
hind legs, sending its hapless rider tumbling to the ground.

Kaerion hit the snow-packed ground hard, knocking all of the
wind from his lungs. He lay there doubled up, gasping for breath. Majandra
started to run toward him and then stopped, her eyes wide with wonder. Dazed, it
took the fighter a few moments to focus on the source of the half-elf’s
amazement. What he saw filled him with horror.

The contents of his saddlebag lay strewn about the
snow—including Galadorn’s jeweled scabbard, which had rolled free from the
thick, oily cloth that hid its presence from the rest of the expedition. Worse,
the precious stones adorning the scabbard each pulsed with an intense light, the
first signs of true life he had seen from the blade in over a decade.

Kaerion wanted to reach out and grab the sword, return it to
its humble wrappings and hide it away again, but his body would not respond. He
heard Majandra say something, but the words slowed and elongated, as if they
were spoken underwater, and Kaerion could not make them out.

He tried to turn his gaze to the bard, but the pulsating
light of the scabbard drew his attention like a lodestone. The incandescent
stones grew brighter with each rhythmic pulse, until he was sure that he looked
upon a collection of fallen stars. The surrounding snow absorbed the
illumination, magnifying it until it shone brighter than the sun. The pure white
of the stones burned his eyes, searing through thoughts and memories like a
fiery blade. He was lost in a landscape of diamond brilliance. Lost and alone.

Until everything, at last, became the light.