[Greyhawk 07] - The Tomb of Horrors Read online

  The steel bit deeply into the creatures throat and it let out a shocked gurgle. A small trickle of steaming black blood fell on to the blade, and then the wound closed, pushing the blade out.

  Kaerion shouted in frustration. He backed away, letting Vaxor and Majandra keep the creature busy. Another two arrows buzzed angrily as they struck the creature, this time in the chest. Their enemy let out a roar and swept his tail before him, knocking Majandra and Vaxor out of the way. Quickly, the beast turned and faced Gerwyth. It pointed the wicked curve of a single claw at the elf archer and spoke a single, horrific word. A green bolt of energy shot out from the beast’s claw. Kaerion saw the elf try to roll out of the way, but it was too late. A green bubble of energy coalesced around the ranger, freezing him in place.

  “Here, take this!” Majandra shouted at him and threw her own blade at Kaerion. “I have to help Vaxor.” She indicated the fallen cleric, who was struggling to rise.

  Kaerion reached down and took the blade, catching a glimpse of a silvery glow before he was forced to dodge another barbed claw.

  Time seemed to slow as Kaerion met the creature’s blows with sword and shield, his world reduced to the ring and clash of steel on barbed flesh. It wasn’t until the creature launched forward with both claws that he saw his opening. Ducking under the beast’s attack, Kaerion let his momentum carry him forward and slightly left of the creature. With a curse, he spun and brought his sword down hard on the meaty expanse of tail.

  The beast recoiled as the mystic blade severed the section of tail. Kaerion tried to take advantage of the beast’s vulnerability, but his sword had bitten too deeply into the wood of the inn’s floor. He could not raise it up.

  It only took a moment for the barbed monster to recover, and Kaerion found himself hastily raising his shield. One of the creature’s clawed hands struck him hard on the shoulder, laying open muscle and sinew. The other batted away his shield and then lashed out, catching him directly in the chest.

  Numbed by loss of blood and fatigue, he could not muster the strength to free himself. The creature chuckled low in its throat as it brought Kaerion inexorably closer to its spiked chest. Once impaled, the fighter knew that he wouldn’t survive long.

  Just then, he heard Vaxor’s voice, deep and intense, chanting over the sounds of combat and the cries of the frightened crowd. A circle of white light formed behind the creature, a circle whose intensity grew by the moment. The beast must have noticed it, for it stopped trying to pull Kaerion closer and turned to look.

  The circle burned brilliantly now, like a miniature sun. With a high-pitched squeal, the monster threw Kaerion to the ground and fled.

  Kaerion cast about the room and saw Vaxor, bloodied and bruised, holding a section of the beast’s severed tail above his head with one hand. The other traced holy sigils in the air, glyphs that remained visible, burning with unearthly potence in the panicked atmosphere of the inn.

  Suddenly, the circle of light spun open, like the iris of a human eye. Power flooded into the room, white-hot and palpable. Kaerion nearly wept at the familiar presence. Vaxor had called upon the power of Heironeous, and the god answered, filling the room with a fragment of his puissance.

  Without thinking, Kaerion fell to his knees. Never in the time since his betrayal had he placed himself so close to the power of the god he had once served. The presence was like a knife that cut open a half-healed wound, and Kaerion ached with the sense of loss that swept through him.

  The creature, on the other hand, screamed in agony as tendrils of energy reached from the circle, pulling the creature toward its opening. It struggled vainly against the god-wrought force, and Kaerion watched in fascination as the monster fell into the opening and disappeared with a final, high-pitched wail.

  The pulsating circle remained open a few more moments. A sound like thunder filled the room, causing those members of the crowd who were still alive to dive on the floor with their heads covered. Kaerion cast a glance at Vaxor and knew, by the look of complete devotion that crossed the priest’s face, that the phenomenon had nothing to do with the activities of a normal thundercloud. It was clear that Heironeous had spoken—words that only the faithful could hear.

  The circle irised closed and then disappeared, plunging the room into stunned silence. Kaerion watched as Vaxor fell to his knees, whether from his wounds or from some movement of faith Kaerion could not be sure. Panting, he picked up Majandra’s sword and moved toward Gerwyth, who still stood frozen at the stairs landing.

  Before he could offer any assistance, an explosion from somewhere upstairs caused the already damaged building to buckle. Kaerion spun around and saw Majandra helping the priest to his feet. She looked back at him, eyes wide. “Phathas!” she shouted. “He’s still upstairs!”

  “Vaxor, see to Gerwyth. Majandra and I will head up to the suite. Follow as soon as you can.”

  In the heat of battle, Kaerion’s voice had assumed a ring of command, carrying easily over the worried shouts and murmurings of the crowd In his haste to aid the old mage, he did not see Vaxor’s raised eyebrow before the cleric moved toward the frozen elf.

  Turning, Kaerion launched himself up the carpeted stairs, conscious of Majandra’s worried breathing behind him. A few moments later, they plunged through the doorway of their suite and into the heart of chaos. Tables and chairs lay smashed or overturned in various parts of the rooms, and several tapestries were pulled from their hangings. One entire wall of the suite had disappeared, replaced by a flaming wreck of blackened wood and cinders. A chill wind blew threw the room, stirring ash and fanning small flames that flickered across the carpet and licked at the wood ceiling.

  Phathas leaned feebly against the frame of a door, surrounded by a nimbus of red light. Three figures closed him in, each hacking at him with short swords that gleamed in the mystic light. The swords rebounded harmlessly every time they struck the red glow, but Kaerion could clearly see that the mage was weakening. One gnarled hand gripped a silver-shod brown staff, while the other supported the mage’s weight against the frame.

  Another figure stood slightly back from the main battle, directly across from where the mage was making his stand. From his vantage point, Kaerion could make out the face of a woman that was as beautiful as it was cruel. Icy features were stretched taut in concentration as her lithe form undulated to an unheard tempo. Silver lines streaked out from a pair of gleaming bracers as she reached into the air with slender arms. Between the smooth curves of her palms, the fighter could see a crackling ball of light growing brighter, as if she pulled the energy from the very air itself. Kaerion had no doubt that she intended to launch this magic at the struggling mage.

  Just then, he heard Majandra cry out a single, unintelligible word. Three bluish bolts of energy flew over his shoulder to strike the gesticulating sorceress. The woman screamed and recoiled as the bolts spattered against her flesh. The ball of energy between her hands dissipated, and she turned a hateful eye upon Majandra.

  “Kaerion, look out!” he heard a male voice cry out.

  Spinning, he caught a glimpse of Bredeth, holding his own against two cloaked figures, before a shadow launched itself at him from the side. Kaerion met the attack with the full face of his shield and slid his own blade between the ribs of his opponent with an absent thrust.

  Pulling his blade from the dying figure, Kaerion ran toward Phathas, whose spell was collapsing. With a shout, Kaerion lashed out with his boot and caught one of the assassins hard in the knee. The man cried out and hit the floor. Without breaking his rhythm, Kaerion stepped forward and ran his sword through a second cloaked figure, careful not to get too entangled in the treacherous maze of debris and bodies on the floor.

  The third assassin turned away from the mage and launched three silver edged disks at Kaerion. He brought his shield up, blocking one of the missiles with a metallic clang. The other two sank painfully into his arm and shoulder.

  Kaerion grunted once as the figure drew another shor
t sword and pressed the attack. Unable to pull out the blades that penetrated his skin, Kaerion’s attempts at parrying these attacks pushed the pointed barbs of the metal deeper into his flesh.

  Fatigue made Kaerion’s sword seem as heavy as a suit of mail, but he raised it again and again to beat back the assassin’s attack. It was only after he failed to parry an easy thrust with his shield that he suspected he had been poisoned. His limbs simply wouldn’t respond with their normal speed. It was as if he were submerged in water. Desperate now, for he knew he wouldn’t last too much longer, Kaerion raised his own sword and aimed a vicious sideways swipe at his opponent. When the man brought one of his swords down to parry it, Kaerion spun and bashed his shield into the assassins head. Stunned, his hapless opponent could not block the steel that imbedded itself into his chest. With a wet gurgle, he fell to the floor.

  Kaerion quickly surveyed the battle as he removed the sharp metal discs from his arm and shoulder. Freed from his attackers, Phathas had regained his footing and now launched spell after spell at the leather-clad sorceress. He watched for a moment in awe at the speed and grace of the elderly mage. Bleeding and bruised from several wounds, the sorceress had erected her own shield against the attacks. It spattered and sparked as Phathas’ spells slammed against it. Already it showed signs of collapsing.

  With a cry, Bredeth finished off his last opponent, and Kaerion could see him slowly advancing with Majandra. Both were intent on killing the beleaguered sorceress. It looked to Kaerion’s trained eye that this battle was nearly ended.

  A slight scuffling sound caught his attention. Turning, he peered into the shadowy expanse of Phathas’ room. The sound came again, and this time Kaerion saw a deeper shadow, a figure skulking within the darkness.

  “Intruder!” he shouted and ran as fast as his sluggish limbs would carry him into the mage’s chambers.

  The well-muscled, black-skinned figure rifling through the mage’s scrolls regarded him with obvious surprise. Kaerion raised his shield, expecting an attack. The thief, however, grabbed a handful of the scrolls lying on the desk before him and launched himself out the open window to his left.

  Kaerion ran to the window and watched in amazement as the thief floated gracefully down to the street, already running before his feet touched the ground. He regarded the fleeing thief for just a moment before running out of the room and through the suite, ready to give chase.

  “Where’s the sorceress?” he asked Majandra, who was guiding the wounded Phathas to the only remaining chair in the suite.

  “She fled,” the bard replied. “Stepped through a portal and disappeared.”

  “I’m going after them,” he said, halfway out of the door to the suite. “When you’re done there, take Bredeth and make sure the area is secure.”

  He didn’t wait for the half-elf to respond, but took the stairs two at a time in his haste to reach the street. As he ran through the common area, he saw Vaxor and Gerwyth. The elf was no longer immobilized, but it looked as if he needed a few minutes to compose himself.

  “It seems we had visitors,” Kaerion said. “They fled and now I’d like to pay them a visit. Come when you can.”

  With that, he ran out the main door to the inn and checked the street. The night air was crisp, washing away the copper tang of blood and rent flesh, but Kaerion could spare no time to enjoy it. He cast several long looks down either direction of the street that ran parallel to the inn, hoping to find some clue as to the direction the thief had taken.

  So intent was he on tracking down their enemies that he almost didn’t see the scarlet-cloaked figure detach itself from the shadows of an alleyway. He paused for a moment and watched as the figure approached, padding silently across the cobblestone street. A trickle of unease made its way down Kaerion’s back as the cloaked figure, clearly a man by the rough cut of his face and the broad bulk of shoulders, stopped and slowly drew off his cloak. Every move seemed deliberate, graceful. Kaerion was reminded at last of a panther he had once seen stalking wild deer while out hunting with his father.

  He took another moment to survey his opponent, for clearly the man did not intend to let him pass. The newcomer wore no shirt beneath the scarlet cloak, and in the dim moonlight, Kaerion could see the smooth ripple of sinewy muscles across the well-defined expanse of chest, shoulder, and stomach.

  The man carried no weapons, nor looked as if he had any hidden on his person, and yet, he stared quite calmly at the length of steel held expertly in Kaerion’s hand. Loose-fitting scarlet pants flowed like water with every deliberate movement, held up by a belt of yellow cloth wrapped around twice and knotted elaborately on the side. The man wore no boot or sandals, but rather slid across the winter-cold ground on heavily calloused feet.

  Kaerion was taken aback as the man drew forth his left hand to the center of his chest, perpendicular to the ground, while his thumb and index finger were bent parallel to the body, and sketched a deep bow. Carefully, he raised his own sword in salute, one honorable opponent to another.

  Kaerion fell backward as the man crossed the distance between them in a blur and caught him with a knife-edged strike to the shoulder. Kaerion grunted and tried to bring his shield forward, protecting the numbed expanse of his sword arm. His opponent moved faster, spinning on one foot and planting a kick that connected hard with the side of his face.

  Pain exploded in his head, and he staggered to the side. The man followed through with another strike, this time square in the throat, and Kaerion felt his entire body go numb as he gasped for breath.

  The man simply smiled, casting his pockmarked face into a ghoulish grin, and waited for him to recover. Kaerion took that time to reassess his opponent. Although the assassins poison still flowed in his veins, slowing down reflexes, and fatigue from several different wounds drained what remaining strength he had, he didn’t think he’d be able to match the speed of his opponent even if he’d been fully rested. The man moved like lightning.

  But there were more ways to beat an opponent, Kaerion thought as he launched himself at the smiling figure. He was bleeding from his wounds, but it was draining away the poison, and Kaerion was slowly gaining back some control of his body. His sword whistled as its keen edge cut sidewise in an attempt to lay open the man’s stomach. The smile fell from his opponent’s face as he was forced to roll out of the way of the attack.

  Kaerion followed through as quickly as he could, not wanting to give the unarmed man a chance to regain his footing. A second cut with his sword should have laid open the man’s bowels, but his opponent’s agility saved him again. Instead of a deathblow, the sword had made a shallow cut on his hip.

  Pressing the attack, Kaerion noted with satisfaction that his opponent was giving ground. Soon, he’d have the man backed into an alleyway. With little room to maneuver, the pockmarked man would not be able to dodge the deadly strokes of his blade.

  A few more moments, Kaerion thought as his sword wove a net of steel, driving back his opponent.

  There!

  Kaerion raised his sword, intent on cutting a deadly swathe of steel across the man’s body—

  And struck nothing but air.

  The monk had run up the side of the nearby wall and used his momentum to launch a flurry of kicks at Kaerion. Each one shot pain through Kaerion’s already battered body. Another kick caught him straight in the chest, and he found himself knocked backward out of the alleyway.

  Kaerion rolled gracelessly to his feet, but already he could feel the presence of his opponent, waiting to rain death down upon him. Kaerion knew he was at the last of his strength.

  The twang of a bowstring cut through the night, followed by the hiss of arrows. His opponent cast a baleful eye toward the source of that sound, and Kaerion watched in disbelief as his opponent’s hands moved quicker than his eye could follow, knocking aside the incoming missile. Two more followed soon after, and Kaerion knew that Gerwyth had arrived on the scene. Unbelievably, the pockmarked man deflected two more missile
s. The fourth, however, caught him in the shoulder, and he let out a grunt of pain.

  In the distance, Kaerion could hear the sounds of the city watch heading toward the embattled inn. His opponent must have heard it too, for he ducked back into the alleyway, safe from the deadly arrows.

  “This is far from over,” the man growled at him in a rough voice. He brought both hands together and began a low-throated chant. The air rippled beside him, shadows within shadows. He cast another hard look at the fallen fighter and then stepped into the moving shadows, disappearing as if he’d stepped through an unseen door.

  Kaerion groaned and struggled to his feet. By the time he made it into the alleyway, it was clear that his opponent was gone.

  * * *

  When the upper storey of the Platinum Shield exploded in a burst of flames, Durgoth knew that his henchmen had encountered some difficulties. Just how great these difficulties were didn’t become clear until he saw both Sydra and Eltanel fleeing the inn. Rage and frustration at their incompetence ruled him for just a moment. He wanted to strike down their fleeing forms then and there.

  Mercifully, the moment passed. Durgoth knew he could deal with their failure later. What concerned him now was the sheer strength of those who unknowingly sought the same thing as he: the Tomb of Acererak. His distraction had been dealt with very effectively. The presence of that other god still shook him deeply, and he marveled at the faith and power of anyone who could wield such holy might. This was no motley collection of treasure-hungry adventurers arrayed against him. Surprised and unprepared, they had still beaten back a carefully planned attack.