[Greyhawk 07] - The Tomb of Horrors Read online

  Perhaps, Durgoth thought, there may be a way to use such strength. Possibilities began to spin in his mind—plans and plots as cunning and twisted as the man who created them.

  The sound of combat caught his attention, and he looked out from his vantage point in the darkened alley, smiling as he caught sight of Jhagren locked in battle with some sword-wielding brute. At least, Durgoth thought with some satisfaction, he could still count on the monk to succeed at his tasks. Though Jhagren’s opponent looked imposing, blood ran from several deep wounds, and it was clear that he was no match for the monk.

  Durgoth watched a few moments more. He found himself slightly disappointed when the whistles and alarms of approaching sentinels drew closer. The presence of the elven archer had just made the battle interesting.

  “Ah, well,” he whispered to the chill night air. “We shall all meet again. Very soon.”

  He faded into the darkness of the alleyway.

  “The Scarlet Brotherhood… here?” Bredeth’s voice, grating at its normal volume, was pitched just short of a shout.

  Majandra winced at the harsh tone, but managed to keep her face impassive. It was clear that the night’s events had rattled the young noble, and she had no wish to antagonize him further. Dark bruises stood out vividly on the man’s cream-tinted complexion, and several cuts crisscrossed both arms.

  Despite herself, the half-elf was impressed that the young warrior had acquitted himself well during the battle. Perhaps, she thought, he won’t be a complete liability on the journey.

  “How could those damnable assassins have found out about our plans?” the young noble asked in a slightly softer voice. “And why would they take such an interest in us?”

  “The Brotherhood has its eyes and ears in every major city,” Phathas replied from his chair in the corner of the room, “and we have made little secret about our intentions. In that, we may have been a bit foolish. As for their interest, well, I believe that a united and healthy Nyrond would be a severe impediment to whatever dark schemes they are hatching.”

  Majandra listened to the old mage’s words, trying to look attentive, but concern for her mentor kept clouding her thoughts. Despite the healing prayers of Vaxor, dark circles ringed the deep hollows of the wizards eyes, and his face seemed shrunken, almost ghoul-like in the firelight—weathered flesh stretched taut across the skull, like the cracked skin of an ancient drum.

  Tonight’s attack had drained them all, but it seemed as if the battle had taken something permanent from the old mage. Vaxor had dealt with the sentinels and the hysterical rambling of the Platinum Shields proprietor. Even after leading the weary group to the spell-sealed chambers of the Royal University, Phathas seemed strangely silent, bent beneath burdens only he could identify. Now, as they sat within the relative comfort and safety of the university walls, the bard watched in dismay as those burdens continued to consume the flesh of her beloved teacher.

  “Something just isn’t right,” interjected Gerwyth, as he drew himself out of the shadow-spun corner of the chamber. His lilting accent caught Majandra’s attention, turning her mind away from dark thoughts. She was surprised to find that despite the evening’s exertions, the elf appeared unruffled. Though he had discarded his usual cloak and wore his studded leather armor openly, the elf would not have drawn comment had he been attending a banquet, such was the effect of his still-immaculate waves of golden hair and unearthly beauty. His eyes reflected back the golden light of the fire, shining like emeralds in the small room, and if not for the grim set of jaw, one would have never known the ranger had fought a pitched battle just hours ago.

  “Despite the fact that the attack was well planned,” he continued after a nod from Phathas, “it did not feel like the Brotherhood’s handiwork. It was too… straightforward, if you ask me.”

  “I agree,” Vaxor’s deep voice resonated in the chamber. He turned to the silent figure of Kaerion, staring idly into the fire. “Are you sure that you encountered a member of the Scarlet Brotherhood? Perhaps it was someone else—a different group trying to shift blame onto the Brotherhood?”

  The fire crackled and hissed within the stone hearth for several long moments before the burly fighter answered. Majandra listened with great interest. Unlike the rest of their group, Kaerion had refused Vaxor’s offer of healing, instead popping the wax seal on a clear flask and drawing a few swallows. After that, he’d bound his remaining wounds and stalked oft. Beyond recounting the events that had transpired, he’d hardly said two words since entering the University grounds.

  “No,” Kaerion said in an even tone, “I’m sure it was the Brotherhood. I’ve got the bruises to prove it.”

  This last was said with a rueful smile, one of the few Majandra had seen the fighter allow himself. The effect was devastating—even with the deep scratches that cut across his chin—and the half-elf found herself dreaming up a hundred different ways she could bring such a smile to his lips.

  “Well then, if the Scarlet Brotherhood is behind the attack, what should we do?” asked Bredeth.

  The young noble paced restlessly about the confines of the chamber, anxiety present in every move. The group looked at Phathas, but it was Vaxor who responded.

  “What we do next is get some rest. We’ve been up almost all day and night, and we have plenty to do in the coming hours. Because of tonight’s events, it’s clear that the city is no longer safe. We must push up our scheduled departure. Bredeth, you and Majandra should contact the caravan masters after you’ve had a chance to sleep. Tell them to be prepared to leave by tomorrow morning. Phathas, Gerwyth, Kaerion, and I will make sure that all of our provisions are stocked and ready to load on the wagons. Agreed?”

  Majandra found herself nodding tiredly along with the rest of the group. Lack of sleep and fatigue had begun to take their toll. She smiled wryly at the probable reaction of the caravan masters, who would no doubt shriek and complain until more gold was thrown their way, but that experience would have to wait until she’d closed her eyes for just a few hours.

  Stifling a yawn, she shuffled past Phathas, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze, and was rewarded with a tired smile. Despite the old man’s kindness, she found herself wondering, not for the first time, if he had the strength to complete the journey.

  How much will this expedition cost us?

  * * *

  “Unforgivable!” Durgoth shouted into the dimly lit room, noting with smug satisfaction the faces that flinched before the sound of his voice included those of the two thieves’ guild members. In truth, he wasn’t all that angry—anymore. Anger had long-since given way to pragmatic cunning, yet he still raked the assembled cultists and their newfound allies with the fiery edge of his gaze. Fear was a useful tool, and one he wielded like a master.

  “But lord,” Sydra replied in an uneven voice, “our targets possessed considerable strength. Rarely have I encountered such power as when I battled the old mage. He was exceptionally skilled—even for a master wizard.”

  He listened to the sorceress’ pathetic excuses with an impassive mien. The fact that she addressed him with a noble honorific amused him greatly, but she needed to understand what the rest of his followers already knew: He wouldn’t tolerate failure.

  “I was under the impression,” Durgoth said, his voice lashing out like a whip, “that the Guildmaster offered me his very best. Apparently, he was mistaken.”

  “Not so, blessed one,” a voice spoke from the shadows.

  It took Durgoth a few moments to locate Eltanel’s black-cloaked form. The thief moved confidently forward, pushing past several cultists who stared wide-eyed at the man who so brazenly challenged their master.

  Durgoth couldn’t help but smile at their reaction. The thief continued forward, wounded pride evidenced in every motion, and for a moment the cleric wondered whether the man would be foolish enough to strike at him. He was about to signal the golem that stood ever vigilant at his back, but the dark-skinned thief stopped several paces a
way and stood with hands clasped behind his back, stance easy and open.

  “What happened tonight was unfortunate,” Eltanel said, taking a moment to glare at his companion, who returned his scowl measure for measure, “but it was not a complete loss.” He brought one hand forward, holding several thin scroll tubes. “I managed to acquire these before our friends gained the upper hand.” The thief shot another look at Sydra before handing the scrolls to Durgoth.

  The cleric accepted the offering with a cold smile. This Eltanel was a cunning one. In a manner of moments, the thief had managed to distance himself from tonight’s defeat, subtly place the blame on his companion, and allow himself to look like the only one who had succeeded in any way. He would bear watching.

  “My thanks, Eltanel, for your efforts. Perhaps I spoke too hastily. It appears that Reynard was partially correct in his assessment.” Durgoth watched as the sorceress’ golden eyes flashed angrily at the other thief. There, he thought with satisfaction, with one phrase he had widened the gulf between the two thieves and insured that Sydra would kill herself to prove better than Eltanel.

  Satisfied, Durgoth turned his attention back to the rest of his followers. “It is true that our enemies have great strength,” he said, pitching his voice so that it carried to the farthest corners of the room. “But the wise man may use the power of his enemies to his own advantage. This is what we will do. With the information we have gained this evening—” at this he cast a benevolent glance at Eltanel—“we will have a better idea of the location to which our foes will travel.”

  “But what about the prophecy?” a voice shouted from the center of the assembled cultists, eliciting a supporting murmur from the group.

  “The prophecy has led us here,” Durgoth snapped. He noted the identity of the speaker and absently reminded himself to have the man’s tongue cut out for his insolence. “I have faith in the will of Tharizdun, and it is his will that has guided us here.”

  He glanced out at the assembly with satisfaction. Invoking the name of the Imprisoned One had brought them to silence. He could see the gleam of faith in their eyes. They would follow his lead unquestioningly.

  “Our enemies seek the tomb of Acererak, as do we. There will no doubt be great danger on the journey, and we shall let our foes spend their strength overcoming these perils. They shall lead us to the tomb, and when they stand exhausted at the gates of the wizards resting place, we shall sacrifice them to appease the dark god’s hunger. Once our enemies have been vanquished we will be able to collect the key and release Tharizdun from his eternal prison.”

  This last he delivered triumphantly, hands raised above his head in the traditional blessing. The group responded instantly, chanting the Eight Dark Names of Tharizdun. Durgoth lowered his hands slowly before him, and the assembled cultists fell to their knees in homage to the dark god.

  The cleric watched as Sydra and Eltanel left the room, no doubt to report their findings to the Guildmaster. It was important for Reynard to know exactly with whom he had made a deal. It would make it that much sweeter when Durgoth bent his power to destroying the city—including the scum who lived in its shadows—in the name of Tharizdun.

  Durgoth smiled in anticipation and closed his eyes as the prayers of his followers swelled over him in waves.

  Everything was proceeding perfectly.

  Part 2

  “Darkness shall be your Diocese,

  Night, Your Ministry …”

  —The Book of Nine Shadows

  Gray clouds hung like a shroud over the sweeping grasslands of Nyrond, casting a chill shadow on the line of wagons and horses that crept along the rough road. Wet snow and freezing rain fell hard from the sky, driven by the bitter lash of the wind. Even the thick-skinned oxen, normally dull and placid as they pulled their wagons, bent their heads beneath the wintry blasts and let out deep-throated grumbles of protest.

  Kaerion pulled the thick expanse of his winter cloak tightly about him, seeking in vain for some protection against the needles of ice that struck painfully against exposed skin. Cold beads of moisture ran down from his matted hair, gathering at the frozen tip of nose and beard. These he swept away with an angry mutter and a swift motion of his gloved hand, but he couldn’t prevent the occasional drop from running down his neck and underneath the bulk of his chainmail. He shuddered once again and was forced to grab hold of the reins as his horse, a powerfully built roan stallion, shifted nervously beneath him, obviously sensing its rider’s discomfort.

  Not an auspicious beginning to their journey, Kaerion thought miserably, and ran a hand across the bulk of his saddlebag, absently checking the complement of filled wineskins he’d brought along. The group had awoken well before dawn and made their way from the University to the caravans staging area in the trade district. They spent most of their time during the pre-dawn gloom double-checking their supplies and making last-minute deals with the caravan merchant’s agents, who were only too eager to sell any in-demand item or service for twice its price.

  They left Rel Mord as soon as the gates were thrown wide against the unrelieved gloom of a forbidding winter sky—though the weather had been kind enough to wait until mid-morning before showering them with its gifts. Now, the expedition plodded forward, six wagons full of food, clothing, spare wood and nails for repairs, pick axes, shovels and other excavating equipment, empty chests for carrying Acererak’s treasure, and all the sundry provisions and supplies required for such an undertaking.

  Roughly a dozen drovers and an equal amount of caravan guards had joined them on their journey, sharing crude humor and a rough camaraderie as they went about their business. Kaerion noted the guards with interest. Though most of them seemed like typical down-on-their-luck hired swords, their captain, a steely-eyed woman of indeterminate age, moved with the confidence and grace of a trained warrior. He watched as the woman, who called herself Landra, barked orders that sent the various guards stumbling into formation around the caravan. It was clear to Kaerion after a few moments that her tongue was as sharp as her wit, and he made a note to find out more about her.

  Of the nobles who embarked upon this journey, Kaerion was pleasantly surprised to discover that only Phathas remained in the relative comfort of a wagon. Still recovering from his wounds from the battle at the Platinum Shield, the old mage had originally insisted in joining the rest of the group on horseback, and it wasn’t until Vaxor had threatened the mage with bodily harm that he had finally relented.

  Though there was little danger of being attacked so close to the capitol of Nyrond, their recent battle had added a cautious element to the expedition. They did not want to leave anything to chance. Thus it was decided that Gerwyth would scout ahead of the caravan, alert for any danger, while Kaerion and a small complement of guards would lag behind, ready to discourage any pursuit. Vaxor, Bredeth, and Majandra wove themselves into the patrols of the remaining guards, roving on either side of the caravan train. Once they left the shadow of Rel Mord, it would be several weeks before they found themselves near the walls of a major settlement or city, and this area could hold dangers beyond that of simple brigands.

  A sharp gust of wind blew across the grasslands. Kaerion gasped as its swirling fingers rustled through his cloak, sending shivers throughout his body. He cursed and reached for the edges of his wet cloak once again. He didn’t know if he’d be able to survive the coming weeks and months. Between the bitter assault of the weather and the suspicious silence that had grown between he and Vaxor, Kaerion didn’t know how long he’d be able to last.

  He’d studiously avoided the Heironean cleric ever since the night of the battle, and it was fairly clear that the priest was doing the same. Kaerion thought the cleric might have discovered his secret, and the very possibility had kept him from sleeping ever since. He had shared his suspicions with Gerwyth, but the elf had quickly dismissed them. If what Kaerion had reported to his friend about the Heironean church was true, the elf had suggested, then Vaxor would have been h
onor bound not to offer any aid, comfort, or sustenance to Kaerion. Vaxor would not have allowed Kaerion to remain a member of the expedition. The elf’s argument was a good one, but Kaerion couldn’t shake the belief that Vaxor’s silence implied condemnation. The strain of such belief, combined with nearly two days without sleep, had begun to wear upon Kaerion. Already his head ached with the need for strong wine—and it would only get worse. At least, he thought, his insomnia had kept the nightmares at bay.

  By midafternoon, the falling rain and snow had eased up, and the grassland winds were, for the moment, held in abeyance. Kaerion sighed and cast a look behind him. Rel Mord still loomed in the distance, a brooding giant. He was surprised to note, however, that despite the brutal weather, the caravan had traveled a fair distance. Looking forward, he saw the undulating tide of grasslands stretch out before him. About a mile ahead, he saw the black line of caravan wagons. From this distance they looked like the great behemoths of the Aerdi Sea, their long bodies cresting across a sea of grass. Patches of white snow dotted the landscape, and Kaerion recalled the whitecaps on the storm-tossed waters of his youth.

  He reined his stallion to a halt and stood up in the stirrups, stretching tired legs. Around him, several guards had dismounted and were walking their mounts. Despite the calm in the weather, he couldn’t quite shake the chill that had gripped him since leaving Rel Mord. His hands shook as he continued to watch the slow progress of the caravan in the distance, though he wasn’t sure if his twitching muscles were due to the weather or his sudden thirst.

  Deftly, the fighter dismounted and undid the knot in his saddlebag. He drew forth a skin filled with sweet Nyrondean wine and quickly took a draught. The weather-chilled wine filled his mouth with its crisp texture and he swallowed greedily.