[Greyhawk 07] - The Tomb of Horrors Read online

  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?”

  “More ale!” Kaerion bellowed at the portly barkeep. “And bring along a few more fingers of that damned Dragons Breath. Packs a fine kick, it does.” He slammed down his mug on the chipped wooden bar and drew his other hand across his mouth.

  The common area of the Men O’Steel tavern was packed with bodies, hard drinkers all of them. Humans, elves, and even a few dwarves jostled and joked, drank and swore in its dim-lit confines—though Kaerion noticed that no one let their hands stray too far from their weapons. Dirty rushes covered the floor and serving maids swooped from table to table, collecting coins and absently swatting away roaming hands and pinching fingers. Somewhere off in a corner, a minstrel swept swift fingers across the strings of an instrument.

  Kaerion turned back to his drink, disgusted. Only a few moments later, the barkeep deposited two more mugs of dark ale and three small cups filled with a brownish liquid. He sniffed the cups, satisfied by the smoky scent that wafted up. Holding up his first cup, he saluted an elf, who had just tied the beard of a dwarf to the cheap wooden table upon which he rested his head, completely passed out. The elf gave a quick smile in return, and Kaerion could not help but think of his own companion. The thought forced him to drain the cup of its contents in one gulp.

  The drink filled his belly with the heat of a small fireball. The fiery sensation spread throughout his body, until he felt his very blood boil. He let out a deep bellyful of air, amazed at how the drinks flavor lingered on mouth and tongue. The din of the tavern and the warmth provided by ale and liquor had combined to lift the tension of today’s events. His head swam peacefully in a warm sea of alcohol.

  Until now.

  Damn him to the Abyss, Kaerion thought acidly, recalling his meeting with Gerwyth just a few hours ago. He had stormed out of the Platinum Shield and headed for the nearest tavern, intent on getting himself utterly and completely drunk. He had been well on his way when the elf walked in, fresh from his meeting with the wrinkled old mage.

  Ten years! Ten long years they had traveled together and fought side by side. Kaerion felt betrayed. Gerwyth should have told him what he was planning long before today. He had even said that very thing to the blasted elf. His companion had mumbled back something about friendship, honor, and duty.

  Words.

  They were simply words to him now. Once he had understood their meaning, had embodied them with his life. But looking back across the hard trail of choices he’d made, he could not quite recall that man. It was as a fading memory, nothing more than a dream.

  It wasn’t the journey itself that was making Kaerion angry, though the gods know he wouldn’t look forward to crawling through a steaming swamp in search of an ancient tomb, and it wasn’t even the presence of the Heironean priest—even if the pain and shock of that meeting still lingered. It was the fact that Gerwyth hadn’t filled him in on the whole truth regarding their next job.

  Kaerion had known few people he could depend on after… his thoughts hesitated a moment, still afraid to go there… after the god had pronounced judgment. Embittered and angry, Kaerion had spent a few years wandering from city to city, selling his sword where he could, keeping himself in food and drink. Mostly drink. It wasn’t until he had met Gerwyth—at swordpoint, no less—that he had felt comfortable enough to open himself up to the possibility of friendship. Over the course of several years, he had grown to trust the elf implicitly. They were shield mates and brothers. Inseparable.

  Or so he had thought.

  Kaerion broke from his painful reverie, only to discover that he had finished his drinks. He was about to order a few more, when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. “What?” he slurred as he spun around.

  The figure standing before him appeared hazy and indistinct. It took a few moments for Kaerion to realize that the figure was fine. He rubbed his eyes a few times and willed them to focus. After a few more moments, the blurred shape resolved itself into the form of a familiar half-elf face. Majandra, he remembered the bard’s name.

  “Mind if I join you?” she asked.

  He shrugged, though the movement cost him some effort. He’d lost track of how much he’d had to drink tonight. “It’s your country,” he replied. Something about his reply must have struck him as funny, because he found himself laughing right after he had spoken.

  He caught the quick frown on Majandra’s face, but the bard did not reply. Instead, she sat down next to him and ordered ale from the barkeep.

  “What are you having?” she asked in a neutral tone.

  “A really bad day,” Kaerion found himself replying. When the bard said nothing, he pursed his lips and then decided to be polite. “I’ll take an ale.”

  She relayed his order and then turned back to face him. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed her eyes before. Wide and slightly slanted, they reflected the dim light of the tavern like twin pools of gold.

  “You think us foolish, don’t you?” the bard’s voice cut through his ale-induced wanderings. He blinked and turned as much of his full attention as he was able back to her.

  He found himself shaking his head. “Don’t think yer foolish,” he said, forcing his now-sluggish tongue to function. But truly, he didn’t know what he really thought—about Majandra and the mission she and her friends wanted to undertake, or about Gerwyth.

  “Then why do you carry around such anger?” she asked in a casual tone, but Kaerion could feel a quiet intensity from her.

  All at once, he felt tired. Tired of carrying around anger and pain. Just once, it would be nice to share his burden with someone else. To tell someone else the things that he hadn’t even told Gerwyth.

  She stared at him, eyes alight with intelligence, red hair flaming around her softly angled face. She was beautiful. Beautiful and interested. Kaerion felt his own heart soften beneath the soulful glance she was giving him.

  He started to talk, to unburden himself when Majandra pitched forward for a moment.

  “Hey!” she shouted at
the lout who had tried to stagger past her, but obviously misjudged his way. “Watch where you’re going.”

  The drunk muttered something incomprehensible under his breath and started to weave his way past the bard. Instinct, not quite dulled by the wash of alcohol in Kaerion’s system, sent an alarm ringing through the haze that had enveloped his mind. His hand shot out and caught the offending drunk by his stained shirt.

  “Hey,” the man complained in a loud voice, “let go of me you crazy bastard!”

  Several of the taverns patrons turned their attention to the happenings, and Kaerion could hear the mumbled stirrings of the crowd.

  “Kaerion,” the bard exclaimed, “what are you doing?”

  The fighter kept his grip on the drunk’s shirt. “Yer gold pouch,” he managed to say without too much slurring.

  Majandra stared for a moment without comprehending, but checked her belt when she realized his meaning. Her eyes flew wide when she discovered that the drunk had stolen her coin pouch.

  “You little—” she started to shout, but the thief grabbed a half-empty mug of beer and threw it at Kaerion.

  Caught off guard, Kaerion let go of his prisoner as the thick liquid stung his eyes. Blinded by ale and not a fair bit of rage, he threw a wild punch, hoping to stun the sneaky bastard before he had a chance to run away. His fist connected solidly and he heard a heavy thud along with the shattering of crockery.

  It wasn’t until he had cleared away the last vestiges of ale from his eyes that Kaerion realized what had happened. Three angry men stood around the remains of a wooden table. A fourth man, clearly not the cutpurse he was after, lay dazed atop the splintered wood.

  There was a moment of silence before all hell broke loose. Someone threw a bottle that shattered against the wooden bar, and the tavern erupted into violence. The three men advanced on Kaerion, brows furrowed in anger. All around him he could hear the telltale shouts and thuds of brawling fighters.

  Kaerion tried to sidestep the first man, who threw a punch at his midsection, but ale-dulled reflexes would not respond. Breath whuffed out of him as the man’s blow struck him solidly. It wasn’t until the third kick to his head that Kaerion realized he’d been knocked down. Dimly, he heard Majandra’s voice protesting and then a bright flash of light. The repeated blows to his head stopped for a moment, and Kaerion struggled to his feet.

  All around him, tight circles of men and women fought with each other. In the wild chaos, he could make out his three assailants, each crumpled to the floor clutching their eyes. He searched for Majandra and was relieved to find her calmly sitting on the bar and watching the exchange.

  He was about to speak with her when a thick-nosed man with a large circle of metal pushed through his left ear grabbed him by the shoulder. Kaerion spun around and blocked an incoming punch with a muscular forearm. He ducked another wild swing, but felt the floor spin beneath him. Overbalanced, Kaerion hit the ground. Desperately, he kicked out at his attacker, struck solid bone, and raised himself, once again, to his feet. No attack came.

  When he looked around, he saw his opponent curled up on the ground, holding the jagged edge of his shattered bone as it protruded brutally from his leg.

  “Kaerion, look out!” Majandra shouted from her vantage point by the bar.

  Warned of an impending attack, Kaerion brought up both arms. The movement saved him from the full crushing force of the chair, which broke as it struck him from the side. Dazed, Kaerion could do nothing as two men leapt upon him and brought him crashing to the ground. Instinctively, he curled into a ball, warding off as many blows as possible, but even he could not delay the inevitable. He caught sight of the bottle descending upon his head before darkness claimed him.

  * * *

  Terys Van stood with arms folded, surveying the damage in the tavern’s common room. Wooden tables and chairs lay overturned or smashed Splinters of wood and broken shards of glass and crockery crunched under the booted tread of his guardsmen. Here and there, he spotted small clumps of bloodied rushes, and the occasional tooth. The stench of stale beer and cheap smoke mingled with the sour musk of sweat, producing the familiar smell of desperation.

  Fourteen years as a sentinel in the city watch, however, had pretty much inured him to the darker and more violent aspects of life in Rel Mord. So it was with a somewhat bored nod of his head that Terys acknowledged the young guardswoman who stood at attention to his left, waiting to offer her report.

  “Typical bar fight, sir,” the smartly uniformed guard spoke at his signal. “No deaths. Three wounded seriously. The clerics are seeing to those. They’ll be ready to meet the king’s judgment. The rest are being escorted to the prison now.”

  “Good work,” he responded. The entire investigation had been quick and efficient. The sentinel was calculating the time it would take him to stamp the paperwork through and head home for the night when he noticed the guardswoman still standing stiffly to his side.

  “What is it, Kendra?” he snapped. He was in no mood for complications.

  “Sir,” the young guard straightened at her commander’s tone, “several witnesses identified the one who started the fight.”

  She pointed to a spot near the bar, where a bear of a man leaned heavily against the wall, arms bound behind his back. Blood covered his tunic, and even from his position, Terys could make out an angry bruise beginning to blossom on one side of his face.

  “I see,” he said, dismissing the guardswoman with a sharp wave of his hand. “I’ll handle it from here.”

  “But, sir,” Kendra called out, “I think—”

  Another wave of his hand silenced the protesting guard. “I said that I would take it from here, Corporal.” He sent her to deal with the proprietor of the tavern, who was complaining loudly about the loss to his business.

  The prisoner looked up as he approached, and Terys’ steps faltered for just a moment. The man’s face was handsome enough, even with the rapidly deepening bruise, but his eyes—they were hard eyes, steel blue and penetrating. The eyes of a killer.

  The guard stopped a few feet from the sulking prisoner, leaving enough room to draw his sword should the need arise. The man was still drunk, evidenced by his slightly swaying posture and his rapid, irregular breath, but there was no reason to leave himself completely vulnerable should the man’s anger overcome his common sense.

  Terys ran calloused fingers across his goatee, in a move calculated to disguise his own tension. He regarded the prisoner briefly, hoping that the interrogation would move along quickly so that he could finish up for the night, but the man’s flat gaze revealed nothing.

  Puzzled, he drew breath to speak but was cut off by the sound of a feminine voice. “There you are, Captain. I’m glad to see you’ve finally arrived.”

  Terys flinched. The voice was rich and textured, almost sultry, but even he could hear the biting tone of self-conscious authority mixed with reflexive disdain. Noble, he thought. No doubt slumming the Poor Quarter, looking for some lowborn excitement before she returned to the trying world of servants and sumptuous meals. It wasn’t that uncommon. He just wished it had happened on someone else’s watch.

  He turned to face the source of the voice, hoping that his face disguised the frustration he was feeling, and caught his breath. Before him stood one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She smiled gracefully, throwing exquisite features into stunning relief, and all at once he felt an ungainly fool. It wasn’t until he gazed at the gold ring and matching medallion, etched with the long-antlered stag, symbol of House Damar, that he realized just how complicated his evening had become.

  “Milady, I was simply going to interrogate the prisoner,” he responded, looking back at the hulking drunk.

  “Well,” the noble said, ice creeping into her voice, “I would hardly call a friend of the daughter of the Duke of Flinthill a prisoner now—” she paused “—would I?”

  Terys swallowed hard. This wasn’t going well at all. “Milady,” he manage
d to force out the words, “other witnesses name this man the cause of the evening’s… brutalities. I do have my orders. He must be detained and questioned.”

  “Nonsense,” she exclaimed. “You will release him at once, and I will take full responsibility for his actions. I’ve already paid the innkeeper—” she spoke the word with such disgust that it was clear to him what she truly thought of this establishment—“for any damages that may have resulted from tonight’s mishap. I’m sure you’ll agree that everything is taken care of.”

  “B-but my orders…” Terys stammered. “Surely you understand that I have to follow procedure on this.”

  “Now, Captain,” she said, drawing closer, and he could feel his face flushing red at their proximity, “I would hate to have to tell the city commander that I had difficulty with one of his captains the next time I see him at dinner.”

  The threat was as real as it was politely delivered, and Terys found himself backed into a corner. Enforcing the law was his duty, but the labyrinthine complexity of Nyrondese politics was not unknown to him. The city commander would not appreciate the daughter of one of the major noble houses of the realm criticizing his troops. On the other hand, a favor delivered now might cause this Damarian daughter to smile upon the commander’s efforts, something he would surely reward the one who dispensed the original favor.

  “Well, Milady. If you are taking responsibility for this . . . gentleman, then who am I to gainsay you? I will release him,” he replied, and ordered one of his subordinates to loosen the man’s bonds.

  And may you both be damned, he thought.

  “Thank you, Captain. I’m glad that we could come to such an understanding.” She smiled again, the graceful upturn of her lips belying the condescension that Terys could hear dripping from each word.

  Bitch, he thought as he turned to go.

  “Oh, and captain, one more thing,” the lady said, “next time we meet, please feel free to address me as Lady Majandra.” With a toss of her fire-red hair, she put a slim-fingered hand on her companion’s shoulders and guided him out of the tavern.