The Tomb of Horrors (4 page)

Rel Mord sat like a giant fist in the vast grasslands of
northern Nyrond. Beyond its fortified wall, the marble spires of the Royal
Palace soared into the afternoon sky, but even its exquisite craftsmanship could
not disguise the crenellated barbicans and manned towers visible even from
outside the city. Other stone structures, less lofty perhaps but no less
imposing, proudly thrust their own elaborate heights skyward, like the teeth of
some great dragon. The swift-moving Duntide River lay at the city’s feet, a
jeweled serpent whose sun-dappled scales burned bright beneath the noonday
light. Everywhere the sound of life thrummed, strong and sure.

Despite the press of bodies milling about the stone-fortified
gatehouse guarding one of the three entrances to the city, Gerwyth hummed a
lively elven song. Kaerion looked over at his companion, wishing, not for the
first time, that he could share in his friend’s high spirits. But a sense of
unease had stolen over him these past few days, and it had grown steadier as
they approached the capital.

If Rel Mord was the martial and political heart of the
country, Nyrond itself was an aging soldier. Roads that had once crisscrossed
rolling plains and gentle hills, connecting and supporting cities, towns, and
hamlets, lay damaged and in disrepair, their earthen lengths scarred with deep
ruts and pocked with wheel-snapping ditches and holes. Or they stood uncared
for, allowed to run wild with bracken and the thorned scrub vines that grew as
wild as the almost endless grass fields. What’s more, the village folk were
withdrawn, sullen. Farm doors remained closed to strangers, and merchants
refused to trade, no matter how heavy the purse before them.

Kaerion had noted all of this and voiced his unease to
Gerwyth. The ranger had just shrugged and proclaimed the ways of humans too
inscrutable to his elven sensibilities. The rest of the journey had taken place
in silence, as Kaerion’s distress grew.

Now, the two stood amid a crowd of wagons and people, waiting
for their turn to enter Rel Mord. The rank stench of unwashed bodies and animal
dung burned in Kaerion’s nostrils, and he tried to ignore the rising shouts of
squabbling traders and farmers as they all pressed forward, eager to enter the
city. He wondered how his friend’s trained senses could handle such a miserable
assault, and was just about to ask when a large weight slammed into his side,
nearly toppling him over.

With a grunt, he disentangled himself from the net of arms
and feet that surrounded him and came face to face with a red-faced bull of a
man who stared back at him with an unpleasantly furrowed brow. The man’s eyes
were drawn together sharply and his mouth seemed frozen in a permanent frown.

“My apologies,” Kaerion began in his friendliest tone, “I did
not mean to stand in the place that you intended to fall into.” He gave the
unpleasant man a hard look, at odds with his congenial tone.

Though broad of shoulder and thick of limb, the offending man
still did not have Kaerion’s mass. At first it seemed as if he might actually
growl something back, but he took another look at the fighter’s well-tended mail
and leather scabbard and hastily grumbled an unintelligible phrase before
scampering off into the crowds.

Kaerion felt a slender hand rest upon his shoulder.

“Easy, Kaer,” Gerwyth said in a soothing tone. “No sense
traveling all the way to Rel Mord only to spend time in the city prison.”

Kaerion exhaled through his nose before replying, “Gods, you
know how much I hate large cities!”

In truth, it wasn’t the unending crowds and lack of privacy
that was really bothering him. The wineskins had run out quickly, and he was
afflicted with a throbbing head that never seemed to leave him. His nights,
never the refuge they were for other people, were now filled with nightmares. If
anything positive could be said for this city, it was that he could soon find
himself in the taproom of some inn, cradling a blessed mug of ale. Maybe even
two.

“I know you do,” replied the elf, “but if you can relax for
just a bit, we’ll soon be inside.” He indicated the line, which had moved
considerably closer to the gatehouse.

They reached the gatehouse a few candlespans later, only to
be challenged by a guardsman in plate armor. The soldier flicked a bored gaze
over the two men. “State your name and business in the city of Rel Mord,” the
guardsman intoned in a flat voice.

“Gerwythaeniaen Larkspur and Kaerion Whitehart, lately from
Woodwych,” the elf responded. He would have continued, but the bored guard had
already moved on to the next person in line, waving the two travelers in with an
impatient shake of his halberd.

“They must take their duties very seriously,” the elf said
with a smile as they passed through the stone gateway.

Kaerion simply scowled at his friend. Disgust with the
soldier’s obvious laziness warred with his own painful memories. There was a
time when he would have called the gods’ own thunder down upon anyone serving
under him who shirked his duties so blatantly, before—

He shook his head to deny that memory. It was another life.
No one served under him now. He was master of nothing. Let the city commander
worry about the discipline of his own troops. Kaerion certainly wasn’t about to
start caring. And when, he thought as he loosened his cloak, did it get so
blasted warm? There were still several weeks left until Readying and the early
spring thaw.

“Where are we supposed to meet this contact of yours?” he
asked Gerwyth, who had stopped to converse with a blue-cloaked elf maiden. “I’ve
a powerful need to wash the dust of the road from my throat.”

The two elves continued to speak for a moment more, the
mellifluous tones of the Elvish tongue flowing between them like quicksilver,
before the ranger nodded and touched hand to heart in the elven gesture of
farewell. He turned to Kaerion slowly, with a familiar grin on his face.

“Has anyone ever told you, Kaer, that you are a prime example
of your race?”

Knowing that he wasn’t about to get a quick answer to his
question, the fighter sighed. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied
sardonically.

“Hmm, yes. You would.” The elf’s grin widened after a moment.
“Fear not, my friend. I have just been informed of the location of our meeting
place.” He sketched a courtly bow and spoke in his best high-class accent, “If
you’ll just follow me, my lord,” and turned into the crowd.

Kaerion threw up his hands and followed.

* * *

Despite its fortress-like appearance, the City of Rel Mord
was abuzz with domestic life. Traders and merchants of all races and
nationalities drove wagons teeming with bolts of brightly-colored cloth, silks,
and woven fabrics toward the market, while a seemingly endless train of
livestock and other animals plodded their way through the wide streets. Soldiers
patrolled the lanes and avenues, some as bored as the gate guard, others careful
to watch the collection of street urchins, beggars, and musicians that wove in
and out of the passing crowd.

Drawing close to the market, Kaerion could hear the strident
call of booth merchants and the hum of commerce taking place in a variety of
languages and dialects. Common, Baklunish, and Flan mixed with the tongues of
elves, dwarves, and even a few gnomes to form a multi-layered wave of sound that
washed over the two companions.

Despite the outward signs of life, Kaerion clearly felt the
same sense of quiet desperation that had greeted both he and Gerwyth on their
journey south toward the city. The music and laughter and tenor of the entire
city seemed just a bit too loud and forced, the faces of its citizens a bit too
wary, or worse, apathetic. Walking through its streets, Kaerion could see a film
of dirt covering the magnificence of its stone temples and buildings. Even the
royal palace, which had quickened the beat of his heart with its martial
splendor, now seemed hollow and empty, like an ancient tomb, as the two
adventurers drew closer. Nyrond had been a kingdom divided, sapped of strength
by war and betrayal, and it was clear to Kaerion that the wounds had still not
healed.

As they moved deeper into the city, the press of the crowd
eased somewhat. Streets narrowed, wood and stone buildings drew closer together,
and the anxious stamp of merchant feet was replaced by the soft-soled tread of
robed priests, royal messengers, and court functionaries, who carried on their
business with an air of self-conscious dignity. Kaerion’s heart lurched for a
moment as he caught sight of several mailed priests of Heironeous heading right
toward them.

He must have stopped in his tracks, for Gerwyth spoke in a
gentle voice at his side, “Peace, Kaer. Let us be about our business.”

The comforting tones settled him somewhat. He nodded and
continued on his way past the group of approaching clerics. “Traitor,” he
expected them to yell. “Betrayer! Coward!” He was all of those things—and more.
How could the Beloved of the Arch-Paladin not see his shame? It was clearly
written on his soul.

But the priests walked right by, intent on their own private
conversation. No one had even spared a glance his way. Kaerion wiped the cold
sweat from his brow and followed his friend down another street.

Most of the buildings in this area were made of stone, with
an impressive amount of gilt marble facades. A few of the decorously crafted
houses even had small yards surrounded by iron gates or stone walls. The few
folk who were walking about the cobblestone streets were richly appointed,
wearing fine tailored velvets, thick cloaks, and an array of gold jewelry around
throat and hands.

“Where are you taking us?” Kaerion asked his friend in a
tight voice.

“To our destiny,” Gerwyth replied in a voice so heavy with
melodrama that the fighter wondered how his friend could still stand.

He shot the elf a barbed look and crossed his meaty arms in
front of him. “No more joking,” Kaerion said tersely. “I’m tired and hungry, and
I don’t have any patience for your damned elven wit!”

Gerwyth sighed, the ever-present smile falling from his
angular face. “Fine. If you must know, we’re going right there.” The elf pointed
a slim finger at a two-storey wooden building just past the bend in the street.

Kaerion eyed their destination carefully. Despite not being
made of stone, the elegantly carved lines of the structure blended perfectly
with the surrounding architecture. A high-peaked roof lent the building a sense
of dignity, matched by the elaborately framed windows and exquisitely worked
door. A masterfully painted sign hung above the lintel, proclaiming the name of
the establishment.

“The Platinum Shield?” he asked. “Who in the hells are we
meeting here, Ger? The Nyrondese Royal Family?”

When the elf failed to reply, Kaerion stared at him in
disbelief.

“No,” he said after a few moments, “you didn’t. Phaulkon’s
feathered ass, what have you gotten us into this time?”

Gerwyth just shook his head and pulled his friend toward the
inn. “Come on, Kaer, just relax. At the very worst you’ll have the chance to get
drunk in the best taproom in the city of Rel Mord.”

Against his better judgment, Kaerion followed his friend into
the Platinum Shield.

* * *

“They’re late,” Bredeth snapped in an arrogant tone as he
slammed the door to the sumptuously decorated suite.

Majandra Damar gave a breathy sigh at the intrusion and
stopped running graceful fingers across the strings of her harp, upon which she
had been composing the final themes for a new work. It didn’t matter anymore,
however, as the man’s interruption had already driven the melodic line from her
mind.

The yew harp cast out its final, plaintive note and the room
descended into silence. Majandra regarded her guest thoughtfully. The noble’s
perfectly sculpted face held a slight red tinge that was deepening even as she
watched, and his gold-flecked eyes flashed dangerously in the dim light of the
room. Even his normally immaculate close-cropped blond hair lay askew, tousled
by wildly gesticulating hands.

Good, she thought. He’s angry. This should be fun.

“They are not late, Bredeth. Phathas made arrangements for
them to meet us three Stardays hence, and the last I checked,” she said, looking
out of the stained glass window to her left, “it is still Starday.”

“I have wandered the streets and the situation is even worse
here than in the other
cities,”
the noble replied. “My country is
suffering. My people are exhausted. Nyrond is but an echo of the great nation it
was. And we—” he leaned over and stabbed his finger violently down on the table
before him—“who have a plan that can help restore the country to its former
glory, have to wait on the whim of two foreigners who are probably sitting in a
brothel right now laughing at their good fortune.”

“First off,” retorted the bard, “these are not
your
people. You are cousin to His Majesty, and a distant one at that. Your head,
however inflated with its own sense of importance, will never, gods’ willing,
wear the crown. And second, Phathas himself chose these ‘foreigners’. If he
believes that they offer us our best chance of success, then I shall not gainsay
him.”

“Such insolence.” Bredeth nearly spat as he drew closer to
the bard. “If we were in my father’s castle, I would have you beaten and cast
out with the other criminals.”

“I pray that I never fall so low as to have to ply my skills
for a family of tone-deaf boors who couldn’t appreciate a song if it came from
Olidammara’s own mouth. With any luck, I’ll never find myself near the drafty
wreck of a keep where you were born.”

Bredeth recoiled as if he had been slapped, and Majandra
wondered if perhaps she had gone too far this time. The young noble drew even
closer to her, his perfect teeth clenched tightly. “You have noble blood in you,
Majandra,” he whispered, “and that has protected you so far. But don’t ever
forget what other blood flows through your veins.”