The Tomb of Horrors (38 page)

The stone door sank noiselessly into the floor, revealing a
dust-filled room beyond.

“Congratulate yourselves while you can,” Durgoth said,
feeling a frisson of anticipation work its way up his spine as the Nyrondese
slapped each other heartily on the back. After a few unsuccessful attempts at
opening the door, Majandra had tried the first key—successfully. That woman was
as intelligent as she was beautiful. Briefly, he remembered catching sight of
her in Sydra’s scrying, and he also remembered what he had planned for her.

Durgoth pushed his excitement away and concentrated on
following the Nyrondese silently. At his command, the sorcereress had cloaked
all of them with an invisibility spell. Though he couldn’t see them, he knew
that his followers lurked somewhere behind him, ready to attack when the time
was right.

He entered the chamber protected by the sinking door just a
few moments after his enemies. The nearness of Acererak’s spirit nearly crushed
his mind. The protective wards he had woven like a castle wall around him were
fraying and ready to split.

Swirling dust caught his attention as the Nyrondese party
fanned out to explore the room. Within moments the dust had formed into the
semblance of a man and approached the tomb’s defilers. Looking at the creature
through senses that were stretched to their breaking point beneath the dark
wizard’s metaphysical assault, it was clear that the mystic construct offered no
real danger. The true presence of Acererak lingered somewhere within this room,
cleverly hidden.

Phathas too must have realized this, for the mage commanded
the rest of his party to ignore the insubstantial creature. Instead, he ordered
the bard to place a cylindrical key within the indentation that marked the
center of this high-peaked vault Durgoth watched as the fiery-haired half-elf
carefully inserted the key and turned it three times. The floor trembled
mightily.

Durgoth watched in amazement as the south section of the room
rose into the air, disgorging centuries of dust and powdered stone. He fell back
quickly as his enemies each backed away from the moving floor. When the dust
cleared, he could see a vault, composed entirely of silver, now filled the
latter half of the room. Beyond that door he could sense Acererak’s spirit
rising in power, eager to be set free upon the world once again.

After a brief hesitation, the elf walked up to the door,
grabbed the inset ring in the vault’s center, and pulled. The vault door swung
open slowly, revealing a veritable king’s ransom in treasure. The glitter of
gems, jewelry, and countless thousands of coins mesmerized the eye as light
entered the vault’s interior for the first time in innumerable centuries.
Durgoth nearly jumped as he heard a slow whistle of appreciation behind him. He
cast an angry glance at his followers, knowing that they couldn’t see him, but
wishing that he could kill them all now. Thankfully, the Nyrondese were
engrossed in their own examination of Acererak’s burial vault and hadn’t
detected them—yet.

His anger dissipated as he watched Bredeth jerk violently
forward, like a rag doll responding to the commands of a cruel owner. The
prophecy had been explicit about the steps needed to summon Acererak and
retrieve the key. Durgoth had made sure that Sydra knew what she needed to have
Bredeth do once they had stumbled upon the wizard’s crypt.

Durgoth smiled as the noble’s companions called out to him.
Heedless of their cries, the young man reached out and touched the top of a
small skull that lay in the back of the tomb. Durgoth fell to his knees as he
felt Acererak’s spirit respond to the touch and phase into this plane of
existence. Waves of dark energy filled the room, and the last of Durgoth’s
spiritual defenses crumbled.

“Now!” he shouted to his followers—and watched calmly as
their shimmering forms winked into existence moments before they reached the
confused knot of Nyrondese nobles.

The battle had begun.

* * *

Kaerion spun at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, hastily
raising his shield as shadowy figures appeared out of nowhere. Among them, he
recognized the familiar shape of a red-cloaked man, moving with unearthly speed
toward him. Anger warred with disbelief. Their attackers from Rel Mord had
returned. But how?

He didn’t have time to answer. The robed figure leapt the
remaining few feet between them and aimed a vicious kick at Kaerion’s head.
Kaerion brought up his shield, blocking the kick, but the force of the blow
knocked his shield a few inches to the left, offering the monk’s follow-through
punch no resistance. Kaerion rolled with the blow, letting some of its force
dissipate as his momentum carried him toward the vault’s far wall.

The monk continued forward, pressing the attack. Though
Kaerion was armored and relatively unhurt, he still had difficulty parrying the
flurry of kicks and strikes the pock-faced man was delivering. Desperately, he
ducked beneath a roundhouse kick and sliced viciously with his sword. Obviously
surprised by the maneuver, his opponent didn’t quite dance out of the way in
time. Kaerion’s blade cut deeply into the man’s calf.

Kaerion would have pressed his sudden advantage, but he
stumbled as an explosive wave of frost-chilled air enveloped the room. At the
same time, needles of hot fire stabbed into his brain. He tried to close himself
off to the agony, to find a center of focus in the maelstrom of pain, but he was
unsuccessful. The fetid presence of Acererak pressed in on him. He could feel
the corruption that was the ancient wizard’s spirit surrounding him—a miasma of
pollution and evil that sucked the air from his lungs. He knew that Bredeth’s
hasty actions had somehow summoned the creature back from beyond the grave.

Kaerion forced open eyes that he did not remember closing,
trying to blink away the pain-wrought tears that threatened to blind him. He
scanned the immediate area for his opponent, wondering why the monk hadn’t
finished him off when he had the chance. He found the man standing completely
still, gazing up above Kaerion’s right shoulder. Carefully, lest it prove some
trick, Kaerion looked in the same direction.

Bands of ice pressed round his heart at what he saw.

Behind him, floating idly in the air, a bleached white skull,
a terrifying intelligence alight in its ruby eyes, gazed upon the scene of
battle. The skull’s eyes pulsed with an unearthly glow, and Kaerion saw the
wicked delight shining in their depths. This perception was heightened by the
row of diamonds inset into the creature’s jaw, forming an array of teeth that
were exposed in such a way as to resemble a cruel smile.

From the waves of pure evil that flowed from this thing,
Kaerion knew that the skull must be the focal point for Acererak’s spirit It
continued to survey the battle that still raged around it. As if searching for
something, Kaerion thought, but what?

Dimly, Kaerion saw Majandra, Gerwyth, and Landra battling a
hulking figure that lashed out with large, misshapen fists. Kaerion cried out as
he saw, in the light of the party’s torches, that they battled nothing less than
a golem. Its disfigured mass made each of them look like a small child in
comparison. Gerwyth ducked underneath a powerful swing and sliced the creature’s
chest twice with his gleaming short swords, while the light of Majandra’s spells
slammed into its puckered flesh. Landra aimed a devastating blow at the
monster’s neck that might have had an effect if the golem hadn’t knocked the
blade aside as if it were a gnat and launched the veteran against the wall.

He had to do something, but trapped between the awful
presence of the skull and the coiled power of the monk, Kaerion felt a moment of
indecisiveness. If he attacked the skull, surely the monk would strike at his
back. Yet, he couldn’t allow the demi-lich to perpetrate whatever foul plan it
had in mind. And where in the Nine Hells was Bredeth? Kaerion hadn’t seen the
nobleman since he had ignored the party’s warnings and touched the skull.
Wherever he was, Kaerion thought angrily, he’d better appear soon. His
companions couldn’t stand against that golem too much longer without some aid.

Just then, he felt a warning tingle flash down his back.
Turning slightly, he saw that the skull had fixed its gaze upon Phathas, who was
currently unleashing spell after spell, with surprising speed, at the
blond-haired sorceress who had attacked them in Rel Mord.

“Phathas, look out!” Kaerion shouted, and had to duck as the
monk sprang back into action.

Without turning his back upon his arcane adversary, Phathas
looked in the fighter’s direction. The mage held one hand forward, summoning
blue-tinged energy that streaked toward the sorceress, while he raised his staff
in the air with his other hand and shouted a single word. A bubble of white
force cocooned around the ancient mage. Kaerion winced as he saw a ray of pure
darkness shoot out from the ruby eye of Acererak’s skull. The two opposing
forces met with an explosion that rocked the room. Looking past his opponent,
Kaerion watched in horror as the mage’s shield collapsed under the assault. To
his relief, however, the mage emerged unscathed.

“The skull, Kaerion!” Phathas shouted. “You must destroy the
skull! It’s the key to Acererak’s power!”

Kaerion nodded in understanding. He feinted high with his
sword and then reversed the attack, stabbing at the monk’s thigh. Quicker than a
tiger, the man jumped back, offering Kaerion an opening.

Time slowed as the fighter placed both hands upon the hilt of
his sword and, turning hard along his center, using the movement of his hips to
add force to the blow, brought his blade down along the side of Acererak’s
skull.

The blade shattered, exploding into a host of small metal
needles that shot across the room.

Kaerion fell back, weaponless except for the familiar weight
of Galadorn, which he could not draw. The monk moved forward, a cruel smile upon
his face. “Let’s see how good you are without your little weapons,” he
challenged.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kaerion saw Phathas raise his
staff, ready to come to his aid. The mage stumbled forward, however, a look of
surprise and pain upon his face, before he fell to the ground with a sword
lodged in his back. Kaerion cried out as he saw Bredeth, a look of horror drawn
across his noble features, bend down and pick up the sword that he had just
plunged into the back of his own companion. Bloodied sword now raised in the
air, the nobleman screamed once and brought his other hand to his head.

“Get out of my mind!” he shouted fiercely.

Kaerion couldn’t see any more as he thrust his shield up to
block two kicks that would have surely connected with his head. Concentrating,
mostly unsuccessfully, on avoiding the blows that rained down upon him, it
wasn’t until he heard another scream, this time coming from Majandra, that he
spared a glance from his opponent.

And stopped dead in his tracks.

The bard stood transfixed by a black beam, a look of agony
upon her face. Within moments, her body began to dissolve. Kaerion shouted once
and then sprang into action, hoping to get past his red-robed opponent. A palm
strike to his neck blasted all feeling from his body. Kaerion’s limbs would no
longer obey him. He was forced to watch in horror as the black beam consumed
Majandra.

In moments, there was nothing left of her at all.

“No!” Kaerion screamed, a wave of despair washing over him. It
had happened again. He had failed, and people who he cared about had died. The
rest of his friends were dying even now, and he couldn’t do anything about it.

Some protector,
a voice in his head whispered. Anger,
fear, and grief threatened to overwhelm him, but the voice offered release.
You know where there is safety,
it said in a honeyed tone.
You know where
you can find peace.

Images flashed through his head: A dark hole, covered in
shadow—the slime-covered wall of a dungeon. Darkness called out to him, wanted
to wrap him in its arms. He could feel the pain easing as it drew near. He
wanted to go to it—to lose himself in its endless embrace.

Yes,
the voice said.
Here there is freedom from your
burdens. You can forget your pain.

Another image appeared suddenly, this one of a red-haired
woman whose nose had the tiniest dusting of freckles. She smiled.

And Kaerion knew with sudden clarity that there were things
he didn’t want to forget. Ever. Majandra had taught him how to live again. In
the shelter of her arms, he had relearned the power of forgiveness and trust.
And he saw now that pain and grief could be gifts, their presence a reminder of
exactly how precious are the things that we have lost.

No. He didn’t want to forget his pain at all.

Shaking his head, Kaerion ignored the voice. It’s dulcet
tones transforming into shrieks of fury at his actions. He tried to pull back
from the hole and the darkness that flowed out of it like burnt molasses, but he
couldn’t The comforting embrace became bands of iron that closed about his arms
and chest.

He felt as if he were falling from a great height. Above him,
he could see the image of Majandra, growing more and more distant. Helpless,
still reeling from his loss, Kaerion uttered words he hadn’t spoken in over ten
years.

“Heironeous!” he shouted into the darkness. “Help me!”

His world exploded into light.