The Tomb of Horrors (6 page)

The air stank. Damp and fetid, the awful stench filled the
sewer tunnels that snaked with labyrinthine complexity beneath Rel Mord. Built
of thick, dark stone, the sewers channeled waste and garbage—the unmentionable
castoffs of civilized society—from the city above into the deep-flowing waters
of the Duntide River. Small ledges in each tunnel allowed passage over the
oozing flow of sewage, though even the relatively high ceiling did not make the
journey anywhere near comfortable.

Durgoth fought down another gag at the oppressive fumes,
cursing silently at the necessity for such a demeaning entrance into the city. A
thin layer of slime and moss clung to the slick walls of the passage, and the
sound of dripping water echoed everywhere around him. Just for a moment, he
heard in the dreadful repeating sound thousands of voices calling out his name
in awe and terror. Moss-covered walls became towers and temples, draped with
banners proclaiming his majesty and the power of the god he served, and the
chill touch of the damp sewer air become the crisp bite of the winter wind
whipping hard across the plains and grasslands of Nyrond at his command. This is
how one should enter a city such as Rel Mord, the cleric thought, and he vowed
to make it so after he had completed his quest.

The moment passed and Durgoth glanced at his companions,
noting with a touch of bitterness that among the group that had traveled from
the monastery, Jhagren alone appeared serene and unaffected by their dank,
oppressive surroundings. Even young Adrys could not match the easy gait and
impassive mien of his master, though it was obvious that the apprentice tried
valiantly. Only the dull, heavy tread of the golem, walking dutifully behind
him, kept the clerics temper from fraying completely. He allowed a rare smile at
the thought of his creation. Let the others wonder about the extent of his
powers, now. He could command death, and soon, he knew, his Master would give
him the power to command life.

Their guide, a rough-voiced human with a small, angular face
that resembled a ferret, interrupted the clerics ruminations. “About twenty
yards up this passage is a narrow side tunnel that leads into a larger chamber.
We can take a few moments to rest there before continuing on.”

“I don’t understand,” Durgoth replied. “We are obviously
beyond the city gates, and we’ve passed at least four separate ladders that
would take us up into Rel Mord proper. Why don’t we push on and use the next
ladder?”

Truthfully, he was more than annoyed at the delay. The sooner
they settled in the city, the sooner they could make final preparations and
begin their journey.

“We may be beyond the gates,” the guide spoke in a calm
voice, “but the streets of Rel Mord are patrolled by armed sentinels, and we
can’t risk being spotted as we emerge from the sewers. It would endanger not
only us, but also the Guild’s relationship with the city watch. As long as we do
nothing overt, the watch commanders can take their bribes in good conscience.
And even were we to leave the sewers unnoticed, it would be difficult to travel
inconspicuously.” He indicated the hulking golem with a deft finger. “Even
cloaked as it is, it would be a risky thing to try and pass off the creature as
human. No. There are several passages that will take us into the Poor Quarter.
From there, I can take you to a Guild house, where you’ll be hidden until you’re
ready to leave as a respectable caravan master.”

Durgoth nodded reluctantly at the logic of the thief’s words.
“Then lead on, but hurry. I have much more important things to do than skulk
around in a gods-blasted sewer.”

When they entered the chamber, Durgoth was surprised at its
elegance. A high-vaulted ceiling arched into darkness beyond the light of their
group’s torches, and the walls, almost painfully drab in the sewer tunnels, were
almost garishly ornate, decorated as they were with grinning bas-relief
gargoyles and prettily accented stonework. Several passages ran off this
chamber, each one beginning with a wide archway. Above the center of each arch,
seemingly flying out of the very stone itself, hung the torso of a beautiful
winged human. The right hand of each sculpture bore a stone sword, while the
left hand lay open, palm up, as if holding something invisible to the eye.

The cleric looked around for a moment, almost enviously.
Their guide had said this chamber was used long ago as a way station for the
caretakers and guards that once patrolled the sewers, repairing any damage and
clearing the tunnels of any creatures that might have taken up residence there.
The quality of the stonework spoke volumes as to the skill and wealth of the
founders of Rel Mord, and Durgoth could not help but be impressed.

How far they have fallen, he thought as he watched several of
his cultists lay down their packs and wipe the muck from their boots. Out of the
corner of his eye, the cleric saw Jhagren talking softly with their guide. When
the two were finished, the monk made his way silently toward him.

“How long do we rest?” Durgoth asked.

“A few moments only,” Jhagren replied. “Our guide indicated
that we had perhaps another half hour of travel before we were deep enough in
the Poor Quarter to emerge from the sewers.”

“Good,” the cleric nodded. “How are the others holding up?”

The journey by river boat and then overland had taken over a
month of hard travel, and even he, nourished by his god and the finest
provisions he could purchase, felt the strain of such a trek. His concern,
however, was not truly for the welfare of his followers. Let Tharizdun give
strength to those who deserved it. He only wished not to be slowed down by those
who were undeserving.

“They are tired, blessed one,” replied the monk, “but they
are eager to accompany you on your quest. They will do what it takes to
continue.”

“Indeed they will,” the cleric confirmed with a hint of
steel. He would have replied further, but another voice interrupted him.

“Danger,” it hissed with the cold sibilance of the grave. It
took a few moments for Durgoth to realize that it was the golem itself that had
spoken.

“Where?” the cleric asked, searching for the cause of the
alarm.

But it was too late.

The room plunged into total darkness.

“What treachery is this?” Durgoth shouted above the wild
cries of his followers.

A moment later another voice answered, “Please, my dear
friend, let us not be too hasty in our pronouncements. This is not treachery.
This is merely a renegotiation of terms.”

Durgoth’s blood burned with anger. Was that amusement he
heard in the ringing tones of that voice? He was nobody’s plaything, to be used
and made a fool of. Quietly, he reached for his obsidian mace.

“And what if I choose not to renegotiate?” he asked of the
mysterious voice.

When the reply came, it was yet a different voice. “That
would be most… unfortunate.”

“Then here is my reply,” said the cleric.

He touched the tip of his mace and shouted into the darkness.
The room filled with a dim bluish light. Durgoth could see figures skulking out
of the shadows toward their group.

Suddenly, the air was filled with the hiss of flying crossbow
bolts. Two cultists fell to the stone floor immediately, bolts imbedded in the
center of their chests, while a third clutched his leg in obvious agony. Durgoth
shrank back for a moment, expecting the sting of metal, but Jhagren Syn sprang
into action. Soundlessly, the monk stepped to Durgoth’s side, his hands moving
blindingly fast. Three bolts to the left clattered harmlessly to the floor,
while the fourth, which sped right for Durgoth’s throat, split in two beneath
the knife edge blow of Jhagren’s calloused hand.

The cleric was stunned for only the briefest of moments
before he turned to the golem. “Defend me!” he shouted at the mass of flesh and
muscle. Without a word, the creature stepped in front of Durgoth, ready to meet
the advancing figures.

He turned to give orders to Jhagren, but the monk was already
gone, carrying the fight to their attackers. Durgoth spotted the man rolling to
his feet amid three opponents. The monk was a red blur, spinning, kicking and
punching. When he was through, two men lay dead on the floor, and the last one
clutched at the red ruin of his throat, unaware that he was already dead.
Durgoth watched as the monk opened his hand, dropped the shattered cartilage to
the floor, and then rushed forward to meet more attackers.

Another deadly hiss brought his attention back to the fight
at hand. Five crossbow bolts hit the golem in the chest with a meaty thunk. The
creature ignored them and reached out with a thickly-muscled arm to slap away
the short sword of a thief. Another swipe of its arm struck the attacker
squarely, and Durgoth could hear a sharp snap as the man’s bones broke beneath
the blow. The thief crumpled into a pulpy heap on the ground.

That nuisance taken care of, the cleric scanned the room for
bowmen. Sure enough, he spotted five figures hastily reloading their crossbows
on a ledge in the northern section of the room. With a vicious smile, he focused
his will and began to chant in a deep-throated voice. He twisted his arm up in a
swift motion and then finished the words to his prayer. A beam of pure darkness
shot from his hands, consuming all light in its path. When the beam struck the
bowmen on the ledge, they screamed and began to tremble. Durgoth watched in
satisfaction as the darkness consumed their flesh from the inside out, until
nothing living was left on that ledge.

The sounds of battle and the cries of the wounded filled the
wide chamber. Jhagren and Adrys continued to strike blow after blow against the
treacherous thieves, and Durgoth noted the pile of bodies they had left in their
wake. The slightest whisper of sound alerted him to the presence of a cloaked
figure approaching from behind. He cursed once and spun, trying to avoid the
inevitable attack, but it was too late. He cried out as a dagger plunged deeply
into his side. Blindly, he struck out with his fist and felt it strike the
would-be-assassin with a satisfying crunch. Swiftly, the cleric grabbed his
obsidian mace and swung it hard at his attacker, hoping to take advantage of the
thief’s surprise at being struck. His opponent, however, was far faster. The
thief ducked beneath the whistling mace and drew his own sword. The two
opponents circled each other warily, though Durgoth spared an occasional glance
at the golem, hoping to maneuver his attacker within reach of the creature’s
grasp.

His opponent attacked left. Durgoth allowed himself to be
drawn in by this obvious feint, blocking hastily with his mace. When the thief
drew a second dagger and struck at his right side, the cleric stepped easily
aside and kicked his attacker with a heavy boot. The man doubled over only for a
moment, but it was enough time to bring his own mace crashing down on his
opponent’s head. The thief’s skull cracked open like an egg. Gray matter and
blood spilled out on the floor.

Durgoth turned from his defeated opponent and surveyed the
scene. The battle was clearly over. Jhagren and his apprentice were moving
quickly through the center of the chamber, scanning the shadows for any more
opponents, and the golem had just cracked the back of his last attacker.

Silence descended upon the room. Dead bodies littered the
floor, and the ground was slick with pooling blood. Several of his followers
were among the corpses, but he noted with some satisfaction that most of those
who journeyed with him from the Fellreev forest were still alive.

It wasn’t until Jhagren shouted, however, that Durgoth noted
the single figure slinking away toward the shadowy recesses of a side passage.
He turned toward the retreating figure, one hand on the onyx-wrought symbol of
his faith, and spoke the words of another prayer. He shuddered once as the
divine energy of his god poured forth from him.

The figure froze in place.

As Durgoth approached, he noticed the fine weave of the
thief’s cloak and the jewelry on hand and ear. This was no simple gutter snake
or cutpurse, but someone of substance in the Thieves’ Guild. Someone they could
use. He motioned the golem forward and commanded it to hold the helpless human.
The creature reached out and grabbed the thief by the neck.

Secure in the knowledge that their prisoner could not escape,
the cleric released the thief from the bonds of his spell. The man struggled
briefly, but stopped when the golem tightened its grip around his throat. The
thief stared bug-eyed at his captor.

“So, my
dear
friend,” Durgoth said to the terrified
man, “I think it’s time we continued our conversation.”

“W-what do you want from me?” the thief managed to gurgle.

The cleric smiled and sent out a quick prayer of thanksgiving
to Tharizdun, for even compressed by the crushing grip of his golem, he could
hear the familiar tones of the voice that first spoke to them in this chamber.

“Why,” replied Durgoth in an overly sweet tone, “I want to
take you up on your offer. Let’s renegotiate our terms, shall we?”