The Tomb of Horrors (33 page)

Energized by his brief respite and the application of the
healing potion, Kaerion raised his sword and swallowed the second potion. Time
seemed to slow as the magical liquid took effect, and the fighter could feel his
blood quickening. He gave another cry before launching himself into battle,
delighted at the speed in which his feet carried him. Within moments, he had
delivered two swift cuts to the gargoyle’s side. The beast, in turn, lashed out
at the circling arrowhawks with its upper claws and then spun toward Kaerion,
intent on disemboweling him with its remaining attacks.

Kaerion’s magically enhanced reflexes acknowledged the danger
and wove a seamless defense. His blade flashed in the torchlight, knocking back
each of the gargoyle’s attacks. Obviously enraged by its ability to harm him,
the monster ignored the attacking arrowhawks that darted in and out of its
reach, concentrating all of its attention on Kaerion. Secure in his ability to
parry the gargoyle’s claws, the fighter was caught unawares as it lashed out,
grabbing hold of him with implacable strength and launching itself higher in the
air. Briefly, Kaerion caught sight of his companions nearly thirty feet below,
as he hurtled toward the far wall of the room. Just before it seemed as if the
gargoyle would slam itself against the wall, it let out a deafening roar and
released its grip on Kaerion. Gracelessly, the fighter plunged downward,
striking the wall with bone jarring force before crashing to the ground. His
sword flew from fingers suddenly gone nerveless and skidded several feet away.

Above, the gargoyle had completed its turn and now flew right
at him, claws extended for a final attack. Out of the corner of his eye, Kaerion
saw Adrys huddled behind a thin pillar of stone. For just a moment, he wondered
how the boy had slipped past the guards to get this far into the room, but his
speculation disappeared as the gargoyles shadow loomed larger.

“Adrys!” he shouted as loud as his stunned body would allow.
“Throw me my sword, lad—and hurry.”

Moving swiftly, the boy stood over the sword and looked at
the fallen fighter.

“Quickly, lad!” Kaerion shouted again. “I don’t have much
time.” A quick glance in the air confirmed his fears. The gargoyle would reach
him in seconds.

An evil smile creased Adrys’ face as he bent to pick up the
sword—

And threw it even farther away. “It’s time for you to die,”
the boy said in a voice too innocent for such words, and then melted into the
shadows.

Shock and desperation warred within Kaerion’s breast. He was
going to die now. Betrayed by a child even as he himself had betrayed a child.
There was a certain rightness to this act, a testament to the simple and brutal
poetry of Heironeous’ justice.

The razor claws of the gargoyle descended upon him like an
executioners axe—

Only to be met by the bulk of Vaxor’s body as the cleric
threw himself between the monster and its intended target. Horrified, Kaerion
watched as the beast’s diamond-sharp claws ripped through armor and skin, slicing
open the priest’s belly. Defiantly, Vaxor brought his own sword slashing against
the creature’s neck, the movement pulling apart the remaining string of muscle
that kept his entrails inside his body. Blood and organs spilled out onto the
floor as the force of the noble’s final attack severed the monster’s stone head
from its body. Bereft of its head, the rest of the monster shattered into a
thousand pieces.

In the ensuing silence, the cleric cast a single glance at
Kaerion before he coughed up a gout of blood and fell to the floor.

“No!” Kaerion shouted as he stumbled toward the fallen
cleric.

Vaxor lay on his back in the center of a widening pool of
blood. Amazingly, he was still clinging to life, his breath coming swift and
shallow, rattling ominously in his blood-gorged chest. Oblivious to the gore,
Kaerion knelt, cradling Vaxor’s head in his hands. The cleric stared sightlessly
at the ceiling.

“F-forgive me,” the priest said roughly, a thin bubble of
blood and saliva forming at the corner of his cracked lips.

“Forgive you?” Kaerion said incredulously. “You saved my
life, Vaxor. What have you done that I must forgive?” Behind him, Kaerion heard
the others gather. He could feel their sorrow, like a knife-edge of grief it
left his own heart exposed. Bitter tears stung his eyes.

The cleric coughed weakly, bringing up more blood. “I
failed,” he said simply, his voice growing weaker. “In Rel Mord… at the inn.
The god… spoke… to me.”

“Heironeous spoke to you,” Kaerion repeated, dread beginning
to rise in him.

Vaxor nodded his head and swallowed a few times before
continuing. “The god… spoke to me. Told me… who…
what
you
were.”

Kaerion held his breath, watching as the cleric’s features
twisted in pain. The wounded man’s body gave a violent shudder.

“I… was supposed to… forgive you,” he continued. “To
bring you… back to… to the fold. But I could… n-not. My—unnhh—pride
wouldn’t let me. I failed.”

“Nonsense,” Kaerion replied. “You shouldn’t talk of such
things. It’s just the pain. A few healing potions will take care of everything.”
The words came out fast—an attempt to deny the revelation contained in the
cleric’s confession. Vaxor was obviously delirious. The cleric needed help now,
and perhaps he’d forget the words he’d just spoken.

“Someone reach into my pouch,” Kaerion shouted at the
assembly of guards behind him. “I have some healing potions.”

With surprising strength, Vaxor reached out a blind hand and
grabbed hold of Kaerion’s arm. “No, my son. It’s too… late for that. Save
them… for when… they’ll do some… good.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Vaxor. You’ll be up and walking
through this tomb with the rest of us in no time at all.” Kaerion turned his
head to face the others. “Someone grab the healing potions!” he shouted, tears
rolling down his face. “Please!” This last came out as more of a heaving sob
than anything else—though truthfully Kaerion did not know whether it was the
cleric’s words or his impending death that broke the dam of emotion he had been
carefully constructing ever since he fled the dungeons of Dorakaa.

“Enough…” Vaxor’s voice cut through Kaerion’s grief with
an echo of its former power. “I have… battled death… long enough to not… shrink from it… when it comes for me. However… I ask… two things
from the Arch Paladin’s greatest… living servant… before I…surrender.”

“Anything, Vaxor. Ask anything and I shall grant it to you if
it lies within my power.” The words spilled from Kaerion’s mouth without
thought.

Another shudder racked Vaxor’s body, this one greater than
the previous one. The cleric took a moment to recover before continuing. “Grant
me… your forgiveness,” he asked, his voice little more than a gasp.

“Freely given, Vaxor,” the Kaerion said, still cradling the
dying man’s head.

A thin smile creased the cleric’s face. “Then let me…
place my hand upon… Galadorn… once b-before the… the
darkness…claims me. I would… feel its light before I die.”

Without a word, Kaerion unbelted the leather scabbard that
held the holy sword. With infinite care, he extended the sheathed weapon, pommel
first toward the cleric. Vaxor reached out blindly for a few moments before
clasping the hilt with trembling hands. Incredibly, Kaerion watched as the
central diamond set within the pommel glowed with a soft, white incandescence.
It let out a single pulse, and then another as a third tremor struck the
cleric’s frame. Gradually, the ghostly gleam of the diamond faded into
nothingness. With a final breath, Vaxor released his grip upon the blade and
died.

The screaming wouldn’t stop.

Despite himself, Durgoth grimaced at the shrill sound. Even
with their ability to see what those Nyrondese fools had done, some of his
followers still fell victim to the tomb’s diabolical traps. This situation,
however, came about through the man’s own stupidity. Sydra had given the
cultists explicit instructions on how to open each of the secret doors,
information she had gleaned from the nobleman she controlled as completely as
she did secretly.

The man curled in a bloody heap before Durgoth, the wicked
barb of a spear imbedded in his stomach. The fool had simply misunderstood
Sydra’s direction.

The screaming stopped for a moment as the wounded cultist
noticed his master’s presence. “H-help me,” he pleaded, and Durgoth noticed with
distaste that blood flecked the man’s lips and chin.

“I shall, my child,” the cleric replied in his most soothing
tone, conscious of the other cultists watching this exchange. Gently he laid a
hand upon the now-whimpering man’s forehead. Closing his eyes, he whispered a
dark prayer to Tharizdun. With a final hiss, the cleric sent the power of his
god arcing through the cultist. The man screamed one final time and then lay
still, the life burned out of his body.

Durgoth rose and made a simple gesture of blessing on the
corpse. Stupidity, he knew, should never be rewarded.

It was Eltanel, emerging from the shadowy length of the
passage ahead, who finally broke the ensuing silence. “The way ahead is clear,
blessed one,” he said. “I have marked the passage that the Nyrondese party has
taken. I recommend that we rest for a bit, or else we risk coming too close to
them.”

Durgoth nodded at the man’s report, noting with interest the
sweat covering the thief’s dark brow and the small wet circle along the man’s
right thigh—no doubt blood. Whatever Eltanel had discovered, his passage through
the tomb had not been as easy as he tried to pass off.

Durgoth offered the thief a knowing smile and was about to
turn away when Jhagren spoke. “What of Adrys?” the monk asked, not quite hiding
his concern. “Did you see any sign of him?”

Durgoth blinked in surprise. In all of their time together,
this was the first time he had seen a chink in the monk’s armor of emotional
detachment. So, he noted, the man does care for his apprentice. This was useful
information—information that could serve as a weapon in the future.

“No, Jhagren,” the thief replied at last. “I did not see any
sign of Adrys.”

“Come, my friend,” Durgoth said, offering the monk a
sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Adrys is a clever lad—and trained very well.
He will find his way back to us, and when he returns, I shall reward him greatly
for his service.”

Truth be told, Durgoth had been enraged by the pup’s
presumptuous actions. The boy had specific instructions yet chose to ignore
them. It was only when it became clear that his involvement had caused the death
of that cursed Heironean priest that Durgoth had calmed down. The loss of Vaxor
weakened the Nyrondese expedition considerably. Adrys may have handed them the
key to an easy victory. In light of that fact, it was easy to view the boy in a
more charitable light. If only he could pry Adrys out from under the tutelage of
that damned monk. He’d make an excellent servant of Tharizdun.

Obviously not reassured by the cleric’s words of
encouragement, Jhagren turned without a word and stormed off in silence. It took
a great deal of self-control not to blast the impudent monk as he skulked about.
It was only the fact that they were so close to their goal that stayed the dark
priests hand. When the Dark One was finally free, Jhagren and all his cursed
brethren would be crushed beneath his heel.

“Blessed one?” a tentative voice asked interrupting his
thoughts.

Durgoth spun to face the owner of the offending voice,
irritation scribed in every muscle of his body. “What is it, now?” he asked.

“Pardon the intrusion,” replied a scar-faced cultist, “but
the others were wondering what we should do with the body.” He indicated his
recently deceased companion who still lay upon the floor, a pool of blood
surrounding his body like a scarlet halo.

Durgoth thought a moment before responding. He had no use for
the blasted corpse and would just as soon leave it to rot. However, he had no
desire to spend any length of time near the soon-to-be-decaying mass of flesh
and, if Eltanel was correct, they’d have to spend a good deal of time here
before moving on. In another instant, the cleric made his decision.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said to the cultist, who bowed
obsequiously before retreating back to the safety of his brethren. Durgoth sent
a silent command and was rewarded a few moments later by the hulking presence of
his golem. As the construct regarded him with its cold, eyeless sockets, the
cleric pointed to the dead body on the stone floor and said simply, “Dispose of
this.”

Without a sound, the golem laid a single meaty hand upon the
corpse and lifted it up, walking back the way the group had come, following
their original path into the tomb. Despite his initial worries that the creature
would slow the group down once inside Acererak’s trap-filled lair, the golem had
proven exceptionally useful—both in resisting the deadly force of spears,
sliding walls, darts, and other nefarious devices meant to kill intruders, and
in cowing the rest of the cultists in continuing on when fear would have caused
them to retreat.