[Greyhawk 07] - The Tomb of Horrors Read online

  Gerwyth, however, did not challenge his companion. “We can argue about this later,” he replied. “Right now, we need to get out of here before it’s too—”

  The sharp crack of splintering wood echoed loudly from a distance.

  “Late,” the elf finished.

  Kaerion heard the deep-throated grumble of voices followed by several muffled screams and knew that trouble had indeed found them. He only hoped that the bastards left the innkeeper and his family unharmed. The Griffon’s Wing wasn’t the best inn within the walls of Woodwych by any means, but its owners were decent people, even if their patrons left something to be desired. If any of their family were hurt tonight, Kaerion thought angrily, he just might make a personal trip back to Hammensend and gut that fat merchant himself.

  The door to his room shuddered beneath a fearsome blow.

  Instinctively, Kaerion reached for his sword and cursed when he discovered his scabbard was not buckled on. He scanned the room, trying to remember where he had dropped it. Battle tension ran through his system, chasing away a good portion of the aftereffects of the previous evening, as it always did. His head, however, still remained a bit fuzzy, and it took a few moments to locate the well-worn scabbard beneath a filth-encrusted cloak.

  Kaerion drew the sword just as the door rocked beneath another blow. He could clearly see the door’s thick wood beginning to split, and he looked to Gerwyth. The elf had just finished stringing his bow and held the weapon in one hand. Silver runes ran down the curved ash-wood body, bathing the room in cold fire.

  Kaerion gripped the worn hilt of his own weapon tightly. Years of habit brought his thumb forward to rub the pure white diamond set deeply into the leather-wrapped pommel. The action always calmed him before a battle. He stifled a curse as his finger touched only simple steel, and he cast a bitter glance toward the corner of the small room, where a finely wrought jeweled scabbard lay against the wall.

  Galadorn, he spoke the sword’s name silently, longingly, as if calling out to a long-lost lover. Where once he would have heard its response, deep-voiced and regal, sonorous tones ringing with unearthly purity, he sensed only the slightest of responses, like the tremulous whispers of that lover’s farewell, and he nearly staggered under the familiar weight of loss that descended upon him.

  Forged with powerful magic and blessed, legends said, by the hand of Heironeous himself, the mystic sword would protect its wielder from all but the most powerful spells, and its holy might would cut through the thickest of armor. But the power of the sword lay beyond him now, lost the moment his faith in his god shattered under the vaulted domes of a hellish temple. Try as he might to separate himself from this poignant reminder of his past, the sword always remained. He’d tried everything from weighting it down and tossing it into a river to hiring hedge wizards to cast spells of holding. The result was always the same. He’d wake up from a drunken stupor with the sword only a finger’s breadth from his hand—and permanently sheathed in its jeweled scabbard. Thus, he was forced to wield a simple piece of cold, dead steel.

  “We should climb out the window and make for the roof.” The elf’s voice broke through Kaerion’s mournful thoughts. “It’s too far to jump down to the lane below.”

  “Gerwyth, you know I will not run from this.”

  The ranger smiled, tossing his cloak behind one slender shoulder. “Who said anything about running? The roof will make it far easier for her,” he said, indicating the glowing bow, “to pick off whoever is after us.”

  Kaerion shrugged and followed his friend to the window. There was no time to put on any armor, and the close quarters of the room made it more likely that he could be cornered and overmastered by a rush of bodies. The roof was just as good a place as any to send these ruffians back to the dark mother who bore them.

  The door finally gave way under the combined attack of several figures, and they let out a shout of victory as the last plank shattered. Before he climbed out the window, Kaerion made out the glint of chainmail beneath some of the attackers’ cloaks. At least that will slow them down somewhat, he thought, as he pulled himself up over the jutting lip of the window.

  Above him, he could make out the scuttling form of Gerwyth. The nimble elf was already rolling quietly on to the rooftop. He caught the howls of outrage from the thugs in his room as they realized that their quarry was escaping. A few quick pulls brought Kaerion to the roof, where he took a moment to catch his breath.

  The gray light of false dawn hung over the rooftop, giving everything a dim, muted feel. Patches of fog rolled past, touching his face with its cool fingers. He spotted Gerwyth standing to one side, head cocked slightly, eyes scanning the urban horizon. Kaerion knew his friend had sensed something amiss and now relied on his hunting instincts—instincts which had made him one of the best trackers and guides in the southeastern Flanaess—to unearth the source of his unease.

  “We’ve got company,” the elf said after another moment.

  The twang of a bowstring and the sharp hiss of an arrow cut though the pre-dawn silence. Kaerion leapt to one side and noticed with satisfaction that the ranger had done the same. The arrow shattered as it struck stone.

  He wasn’t prepared, however, for the sudden emergence of six figures from the gloom. He had a moment to watch Gerwyth deflect two sword strokes with the hardened curve of his magic bow before his attackers were upon him. He ducked quickly as the blade of a sword came whistling for his neck, and he brought his own weapon across in a quick cutting stroke, satisfied when he felt the blade slash deeply into the stomach of his opponent.

  His other attacker wasted no time, however, taking advantage of the opening presented by his defensive move, and Kaerion grunted hard as a mailed boot connected with his side. He used the momentum brought on by the kick to place some distance between him and his opponents.

  There were four of them, hard-eyed and steel-jawed all, each with the look of practiced killers. The heavy-booted one wore chainmail and carried a wicked-looking curved sword. Of the three, his eyes were the coldest, like blue ice, and Kaerion knew he’d have to take that one out fast. Two others wore no armor, but each wielded long daggers in either hand. The fourth lay on the ground, holding in the bulge of guts that threatened to spill out.

  Kaerion opened his stance and shifted his weight toward his center, taking deep, easy breaths. The last remnants of the previous evening’s debauchery fled beneath the familiar thrill of battle. Let them come to me, he thought. They’ll have to fight me on my terms.

  The sounds of battle rang out over the rooftop, and he risked a glance at his friend, noting with satisfaction that the elf had dropped his bow and now wielded two gleaming short swords with expert precision. One of the figures, a grizzled human, lay at Gerwyth’s feet, clutching the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Blood spurted out between the man’s fingers, raining down upon the cold stone of the rooftop.

  A furious snarl brought his full attention back to his own problems. He raised his sword to parry as the mailed figure ran toward him, swinging his weapon in a wide arc. Kaerion gave a curse as the two blades clanged together with great force, nearly shattering his wrist. Gods this man was strong!

  Both dagger-wielding men moved in swiftly as Kaerion grunted with the effort of freeing his sword from the curve of his opponent’s blade. He sidestepped the first viper-fast dagger by stepping inside his main opponent’s guard with his left foot and bringing his right foot behind him while twisting his hips. The momentum freed his sword, but made his right side vulnerable to the second man’s daggers. He cried out as the twin blades punctured shoulder and forearm.

  Sensing victory, the mailed warrior redoubled his efforts, and Kaerion found himself hard pressed to block the vicious cuts of the man’s powerful attacks—especially while minimizing his exposure to the two other men who circled him like wolves waiting to pounce on a wounded elk. Sweat poured down his face now and his breathing grew labored. Grimly, Kaerion tried to summon his reserves. While
years of heavy drinking had not quite erased the effects of a lifetime of training and battle, he was like a weapon dulled by abuse and neglect.

  He saw his opening when one of the unarmored figures darted in for a quick attack. Kaerion brought his sword up, feinting a strike against the leader. Sidestepping the dagger, he reached out with his right hand and grabbed the collar of the man, throwing him into his mailed opponent. While the two stumbled against each other, Kaerion aimed a blow at the man’s weapon, grimacing only slightly as his sword neatly sliced off his opponent’s arm at the elbow. The mailed figure screamed and fell to the ground. His severed hand landed with a metallic clang several feet away, still holding the scimitar.

  Kaerion took advantage of the distraction and quickly ran one of the dagger wielding figures through with his blade. The remaining attacker turned to flee. Kaerion cursed and started to take off after him, but stopped short as the figure stumbled once and then pitched forward, an arrow protruding from his throat.

  Kaerion turned to see Gerwyth lowering his bow, an exultant smile on his face. The elf’s cloak and studded leather armor were spattered with gore, and his blond hair was streaked red with blood. In the lanes below, the two companions could make out the stirrings of the city watch come to investigate the early morning disturbance. The remaining assassins would no doubt have high-tailed it out of the inn, not wishing to be exposed to the authorities.

  “So, Kaer, what do you think now?” the elf asked as the two caught their breath.

  “I think,” Kaerion replied, wiping blood from his blade, “that you are an insufferable fool who is right more times than is good for him.”

  “Does this mean you’ll come with me to Rel Mord?”

  Kaerion nodded in the first rosy light of day. The shouts of the watch grew louder and more frantic as they neared the Griffon’s Wing.

  “What choice do I have?” he replied.

  Fire spat an unkindly illumination in the large stone room. Gray tile, already slick with blood, caught the hellish light, its hue transforming to a grisly crimson. Bits of bone and discarded flesh were strewn about the central blaze, sizzling beneath the intense heat. The awful stink of butchered meat lay heavy about the hall.

  Durgoth ignored the gruesome sight in the same way he ignored the moans and pitiful cries of the faithful who lay wounded and bleeding at his feet. Instead, he concentrated on the hulking figure standing naked before him. Nearly eight feet tall and brutally constructed, the creature was all muscle, sinew, and vein—a mass of bulging flesh and bone held immobile in the rigor of death.

  The cleric sighed once in satisfaction, inspecting the vessel in front of him. Days of painstaking preparation had brought them to this moment. Endless hours of study and toil transformed the monastery’s ancient refectory into a focal point of the Dark One’s power, until the sacrifice began. Everyone had contributed—a bit of flesh here, a limb there, and in the case of the most faithful, their entire bodies—all given freely to build the creature before him. Only the seer had resisted, struggling weakly until Durgoth removed his head and fused it, mouth still open in mid-scream, upon the cold shoulders of the vessel.

  Now, all that remained was the final prayer, the ancient rite that would infuse the mass of flesh before him with the dark power of Tharizdun. Durgoth breathed deeply and recalled the hallowed text. At first, his mouth refused to form the words; the ancient phrases withheld their dark meanings from him. Sweat beaded down his face and his hands trembled, for he knew that his Master would brook no failure here. Without an outlet, the accumulated power would rise up and destroy him, like a swollen river bursting its dam.

  Years of study and self-discipline took over just as Durgoth’s will was about to break. An easy calm stole over him. He opened his mouth again, and this time the words spilled out, sibilant as asps. There was a moment of stillness as his voice echoed in the vast hall. The cleric feared that he had made a mistake in reciting the ritual—until he felt a presence in his mind as horrifying as it was intangible. He resisted a shudder as Tharizdun’s power flowed through him, a vast wave of darkness that threatened to sweep away everything in its path. The cleric cried out beneath the force of the god’s will, struggling to keep the spark of his life flickering beneath the divine assault. Finally, the vessel of flesh before him twitched twice and Durgoth felt the pressure ease off of his mind. Secure in the knowledge that he would survive, he gathered what little resources he had remaining and plunged toward the final blessings, ending the dark prayer with a shriek.

  Silence descended upon the ancient hall. Even the most grievously wounded held their sobbing tongues. The cleric rose wearily to his feet, not remembering the moment he had fallen to his knees, and stared at the misshapen creature. It twitched twice more in the silent room before giving a great shudder. When at last it turned its gruesome face to survey the hall, Durgoth could see that its eyeless sockets held a darkness more absolute than night.

  “Golem,” he nearly shouted, “whom do you serve?”

  Far more quickly than he had thought possible, the creature turned to face him and opened its mouth. At first, he could see it struggle for speech, its swollen black tongue squirming in its mouth like a blood-gorged leech. It gained some control, however, and after a few moments managed a thickly voweled response. “Y-you, blessed one. By the will of my Master, I serve you.”

  The hall erupted into spontaneous murmurs, as the once-miserable cultists writhed in holy fervor. Durgoth accepted their adoration and gave back twice more to great Tharizdun. Gently, almost as if he were congratulating his own child, the cleric placed his hand upon the construct’s shoulder.

  “Good,” he replied to his latest triumph. “That is very good indeed.”

  His power spent, Durgoth turned from the golem and regarded his flock. Men and women, grievously injured by their own hands, were sprawled in clumps before him, muscle and bone exposed to the air where they had sawed off limbs and flesh as a gruesome offering to their god. One of them reached out a bloodied stump and tried to touch the clerics robe. Durgoth curled his lips reflexively and kicked out at the offending cultist—angered by the woman’s audacity. His person was inviolate, a precept he drilled into his followers’ heads from the moment they arrived at the monastery.

  He watched the mewling cultists for a few moments more. Their ecstatic cries reminded him of the pitiful moans of jhapeth addicts, men and women who had long-since given away their humanity, losing themselves in the seductive comfort of that narcotic root. Like the jhapeth-lost, these cultists represented the castoffs and dregs of the Flanaess, fugitives that he had welcomed in Tharizdun’s name.

  And now they would be the instruments of the Dark One’s freedom.

  He called Jhagren over with an absent wave of his hand, quietly satisfied at the monk’s quick response. Behind him, Durgoth could feel the presence of the golem looming in the shadows. If his pock-faced advisor felt any discomfort at the constructs presence, the red-robed man didn’t show it. He simply bowed once as he approached and regarded Durgoth with his usual even expression. The cleric smiled, but waited a few moments before speaking. For all the mystery that surrounded this man, he knew that it was tied closely with the Scarlet Brotherhood. Perhaps Jhagren felt that he could steal the codex and deliver it to the Order in Hesuel Ilshar, or perhaps he was simply a spy. Either way, Durgoth enjoyed testing the man’s patience.

  “What do you say, Jhagren? It appears that our lord has truly blessed us.”

  Jhagren nodded impassively. “Indeed, we have been blessed Durgoth.”

  “Now, my friend,” Durgoth said, in that slightly superior tone that he knew must make the monk yearn to send his hand striking at the soft cartilage of his throat, “it is time to prepare for our journey. Tharizdun has granted us a great boon this day, but we will still need support for our expedition.”

  “Yes, blessed one,” Jhagren replied. “The tomb we seek lies many weeks to the south, beyond the kingdom of Sunndi. I have already con
tacted some associates of mine. We shall meet them in the Nyrondese city of Rel Mord, and from there we will strike out for the Vast Swamp.”

  “Good,” Durgoth said. “Will we have difficulty remaining inconspicuous in the city?” He motioned, indicating the golem behind him.

  “No, blessed one. The companions who will accompany us on our journey know several, shall we say ‘less-traveled’, ways into Rel Mord. And, like any large city, there is no dearth of innkeepers who are willing to look the other way as long as they have enough gold coins to distract them.”

  The cleric nodded, confident that the always-efficient monk had everything in order. “Excellent,” he replied. “Then I leave you to find what able-bodied help you can to load our boats for travel. We leave in two days’ time.”

  He gestured once, knowing that the golem would follow him out as he left the room. Durgoth had done some research on his own. The tomb they sought was none other than Acererak’s, an ancient wizard who, it was said, had sought to conquer even death. Legends surrounded Acererak’s tomb, rumors and old tales of magic and treasure beyond the imagination. And danger. Those heroes who set out after Acererak’s legacy never returned.

  Durgoth smiled.

  There would be plenty of opportunities to make sure Jhagren met with an accident. And then the world would be his.

  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.