The Tomb of Horrors (greyhawk)

by Keith Francis Strohm

  “The spirit of the forest recoils from every tread of yourwagons,” one of the druids said. His voice, though soft as the spring wind thathad followed their caravan through the Rieuwood, carried clearly to Durgoth.

  “Whatever unnatural force you carry through our homeland,”the second druid said, “you will not be permitted to travel any farther. Thespirit of this place and the will of Ehlonna bid you to begone.”

  Durgoth crept closer, keeping himself out of sight of the elves. Silently, he prayed that the cultist he had placed in charge of the caravan would hold together just a few more moments-at least until he knew thatEltanel and Sydra were ready for an attack.

  The leader of the patrol stepped forward once more. “You areinstructed to turn your wagons and follow the trade road back the way you came. We will escort you to the borders of the Rieuwood. If you make no trouble and harm no living thing on this journey, we will allow you to live. Break this law, and we will kill you and drag your corpses out of the forest so that your taint will not trouble our homes. Is this understood?”

  The caravan master stammered for a few moments, clearly too scared to answer the elf leader. Durgoth cursed, but stopped as he caught sight of Adrys. The young monk walked slowly and silently toward the front of the caravan, catching the cleric’s eye and nodding slightly. Durgoth gave a nodback, understanding that the guild members were in place. Moving forward swiftly now, he approached the gathered elves, his rain-soaked cloak trailing behind him.

  “Perhaps we can come to some other agreement,” Durgoth saidin a strong voice.

  The leader of the elves turned at the sound of the clerics voice, obviously stunned by this new arrival, but he recovered soon enough as the second druid hissed something in his ear. Swifter than Durgoth thought possible, the elf drew the length of his gleaming steel sword from its scabbard.

  “Archers in the trees!” Durgoth shouted as he drew hisobsidian mace, trusting that Sydra would neutralize this threat.

  He wasn’t disappointed. A fiery ball of energy flew out overthe head of the patrol as Durgoth closed with the elf leader. A moment later, a vicious burst of flames exploded in the treetops where the archers lay hidden. Durgoth could hear their screams as he parried a viper-quick thrust from his opponent. Both sword and mace hummed with power as they clashed.

  Though the muddy ground around him churned and oozed with each step, it became clear to Durgoth that his opponent suffered no disadvantage from the terrain, moving with perfect balance and near blinding speed. Durgoth barely managed to raise up his mace in time to deflect a killing stroke. He cried out as the blade bit deeply into his shoulder, and in desperation, he called upon Tharizdun as he grabbed the elf’s sword arm. The stench of burningflesh assailed his nostrils as the cleric withdrew his hand. The elf stumbled backward, clutching his arm and screaming in agony.

  Durgoth took that moment to withdraw a few feet, turning his attention to the rest of the battle. The shadowy form of Jhagren leapt forward to engage the wounded elf. He was pleased to see that Adrys was harrying two elves with a flurry of kicks and punches; both of those beleaguered fighters seemed surprised at the ferocity of this human child, and neither was able to mount a serious attack.

  “Durgoth, beware the druids!” Sydra shouted.

  He turned his attention to the two druids. One of them had drawn his scythe and was laying about with the sharpened edge, cutting the throats and chests of several cultists. The second, however, chanted something in a sharp voice and struck the ground with his staff. For a moment nothing happened, and then the limbs, branches, and trunks of the surrounding foliage writhed and grew before his eyes. If he didn’t do something soon, most of hisforces would be trapped within a verdant prison. Quickly, Durgoth recalled the ancient gestures to his spell and summoned the dark power of his Master once again. As he clapped his hands together, a small bubble of energy sprang forth before him, growing swiftly to encompass the caravan and the combatants. Wherever the druids writhing foliage touched the bubble, the plants blackened and died.

  Durgoth wiped the sweat and rain from his brow and cast about the battle. Though Adrys had felled one of his opponents, a new one had stepped up, and it was clear that the young monk would soon be overmatched. His master fared little better. Jhagren struck furiously at the elf leader, but even wounded, the elf managed to avoid the blows. Meanwhile, Durgoth noticed that the remaining elven warriors were quickly cutting down his cultists.

  Durgoth called on the golem, knowing that the construct’spower would turn the tide of battle. He felt clearly its answering acknowledgement a few moments before its dark-cloaked mass came running up to the front lines, crashing into the knot of elves that fought with his followers. The warriors stumbled back beneath the ferocity of the golems attack, and one fell to the ground, head split open by the tremendous force behind the monsters closed fist.

  The cleric nodded, satisfied, and made his way toward the druids, smiling grimly at what he found there. Sydra had kept both priests off-balance by sending wave after wave of glowing missiles at them. This had allowed Eltanel to position himself for a clear shot with his crossbow. His first bolt struck one of the druids squarely in the back of the neck. Durgoth heard the elf’s spine snap under the force of the blow as the druid fell to theground. As the second priest turned to gape at his fallen companion, Durgoth moved forward and brought his mace down upon the druid’s head. Blood and grayliquid spattered everywhere as the elf’s skull splintered.

  Durgoth turned to find the golem lifting two elves by the throat. The construct cast a dark gaze at the cleric before crushing the windpipes of his opponents and casting their bloodied corpses at the remaining two elves, who were still locked in combat with Adrys.

  “Help Jhagren!” Durgoth shouted to the golem as he ran pastto aid the young monk. The golem moved quickly to Jhagren’s side, and Durgothcaught a glimpse of the elf striking desperately at the hulking mass of flesh.

  Still a few yards away from Adrys, Durgoth watched as the novice dropped to the ground and lashed out with a booted foot at his nearest attacker, tripping the elf. The lad’s second opponent swung his sword downward,hoping to spit the monk as he tried to get back up. Adrys clearly saw the attack and brought his left leg up in a snapping kick that knocked the sword from his attacker’s hand. Durgoth closed in and finished off the elf who had fallen underthe novice’s original attack.

  Confident that the monk could defeat his last unarmed opponent, Durgoth turned back to the elf leader. Bruised and bleeding from several gaping wounds, the valiant elf nevertheless continued to fend off both the golem and Jhagren. The cleric was even surprised to see several gashes in the golem’s flesh, where the warrior’s magical sword had managed to penetratethe golem’s defenses.

  While that battle continued, Durgoth motioned for Eltanel to take a contingent of cultists and make sure that the archers or any other remnant of the elven patrol did not survive. The thief nodded grimly and took off with several bloodied cultists to carry out his will.

  A strangled cry made Durgoth turn back to the elf leader. Jhagren had finally managed to break the elf’s sword arm, and his continuingattacks pushed the warrior into the waiting arms of the golem. The patrol leader struggled valiantly to free himself, but the creatures strength was too much. The elf made a few more feeble attempts before the golem’s inexorable gripcrushed the life out of him. His corpse slid noiselessly to the ground.

  Durgoth stood in the center of the road, blood streaming from the cut in his shoulder. He felt lightheaded and more than a little battered. For a few moments, he could hear the short gurgled cries of the wounded as Eltanel and his group administered killing blows, and then a deep silence fell over the forest. The cleric looked around worriedly. It felt as if the silence bore down upon him, as if the forest impaled him with its ancient gaze.

  And then, suddenly, he laughed. Softly at first, and then finally in explosive bursts of gut-heaving mirth that echoed wildly across the trade road. He caught s
everal of his followers glancing at him with worried looks on their faces, and for some reason, he found this even funnier. The laughter held on to him for several more moments, until Jhagren moved toward him and stood silently, obviously waiting for his next command. Durgoth wiped tears from his eyes and began to exert control over himself.

  “Jhagren,” he spoke between gasps of breath, “gather all ofthe corpses and pile them into the second wagon. Make sure to hide, gather, or erase all signs of this battle. And be quick about it.”

  The monk nodded and ran off. Durgoth wiped a final tear from his eye and sent a prayer of thanksgiving to Tharizdun. They had to move quickly now. Once the elves discovered this treachery, they would send out patrols in force. But once free of this blasted place, there would be nothing that could stop him from retrieving the key.

  He turned back toward his wagon and made his way through the carnage. The eyes of the dead stared at him accusingly.

  He ignored them.

  13

  Steel burned with silver fire in the harsh sun as Kaerionraised his blade to meet the descending attack. He cursed as the shock of the blow jarred fever-weakened tendons and muscle. He stepped forward and slightly to the side of his opponent, allowing the attacker’s sword to force his owntoward the ground. At the last moment, he withdrew his blade and spun away, hoping to catch his breath.

  Sweat that had only very little to do with the blazing sun overhead streamed down his face, stinging eyes and leaving a sharp salty taste on lips pursed in frustration. He had discarded his normal mail shirt in favor of a lighter armor made from leather, but Kaerion still felt as if he were parading around in a set of full plate. Knees and shoulders protested, and breath came grudgingly, in ragged gasps. It felt as if a giant had him in a deadly bear hug.

  Damned convalescence, he thought, all the while keeping a careful eye on his opponent. During the days since they had left the sheltered confines of the Rieuwood Forest, his strength had returned, slowly at first and then with more speed. Walks with Gerwyth, begun so gingerly at first, had turned into long, bone jarring rides, as the ravages of nearly two months of bed rest gave way before the restorative properties of warm spring winds and the rugged beauty of the Sunndi countryside. As the caravan continued on its journey, finally wending down into the humid arms of the Pawluck River Valley and its lush basin of trees and thick green undergrowth, Kaerion had begun his weapons practice in earnest, first privately and then with anyone who cared to test his returning skills. And here it was, just a few days before the expedition would reach the border of the Vast Swamp, and he still wasn’t at his best.

  Kaerion grunted and shifted the grip on his sword. His wrists throbbed with an ache he hadn’t felt since his first days of sword training as asquire. He only hoped that his returning strength would be sufficient to protect his companions.

  “Pay attention!” Gerwyth shouted, obviously mimicking thetones of an arms master rebuking a nettlesome novice.

  A chorus of laughter and catcalls erupted from the knot of guardsmen who had come, with surprising regularity, to these daily training sessions-some to test their mettle against the recovering fighter, but most towatch two masters of the sword polish and hone their own breathtaking skills.

  The weary fighter cast the guards a fierce glare, but they continued to jeer, some even offering him advice on his grip or his stance. He scowled again and shook his head. The early formality between the caravan guards and the rest of the expedition had dissolved beneath the tread of many miles and the assault of the elements, replaced now by an easy camaraderie. There were times, however, where he yearned for the quiet distance of those early days.

  “Are you finally ready to yield, old man?” Gerwyth called outagain. “I’ll understand if your rather delicate nature gets the better of you.”

  This brought another round of laughter from the assembled guards-laughter that ceased as Kaerion summoned his last reserves of strengthand launched a series of blinding attacks. The metallic clash of steel rang through the small clearing as the two combatants traded blows almost too fast for anyone to see.

  Kaerion pressed forward, weaving a net of sun-kissed steel before him, trying to use his greater size and reach to his advantage. Sweat continued to pour from his brow, but he ignored it, concentrating only on his opponent. The elf crafted an almost perfect defense, meeting each of the fighter’s attacks with an economical grace. Kaerion could feel himself weakeningpast the point of his own endurance. He analyzed his opponent for any weakness, any misstep-for he knew that he had to end this fight in the next few moments.

  He found his opportunity as he aimed a horizontal blow at the ranger’s head. Years of fighting alongside his friend had given him insight intothe elf’s style; he knew it almost as well as he knew his own. Thus, it was easyto predict Gerwyth’s response to the head blow. The elf dropped to hisknees-where he would aim a deadly thrust at his opponent’s unprotected belly.

  Kaerion shifted his stance and redirected his attack as soon as he felt the elf commit to his defense. His blade slashed downward, meeting the elf’s outthrust sword and driving its point into the ground. Before Gerwythcould react, Kaerion lashed out with a booted foot and caught the elf in the chest. Gerwyth fell backward, his sword falling from his hands. The fighter moved forward quickly and laid the point of his sword at his friend’s throat.

  Silence filled the clearing, broken only by Kaerion’s gaspsas he forced air into his lungs. The two opponents held their position for a few moments, eyes blazing.

  “Rather inelegantly done,” Gerwyth remarked after anothermoment, “but effective.”

  A cheer rang out from the assembled guards, and Kaerion could hear the sound of money changing hands. Despite his own aversion to gambling, he couldn’t keep a wicked smile from his face. He wasn’t surprised to see that samesmile appear on Gerwyth’s face as the elf motioned for some aid in getting up.

  His smile never faltered as they pushed their way through the press of guards who offered their congratulations and good-natured sympathy to both victor and defeated alike. Kaerion accepted his accolades with shrugs as he fumbled with the straps that held his now sweat-soaked armor.

  “You fought well,” Gerwyth acknowledged in a not-quite ruefultone. He led the exhausted fighter down a small path that meandered away from the clearing. “I’m thinking that you are almost fully recovered, my friend.”

  Kaerion, distracted by the effort of walking and shedding his seemingly cursed armor, only grunted at the elf’s praise.

  “I mean it, Kaer,” Gerwyth said, turning to assist him. “Idon’t mind saying now that I was very worried about you while you were ill. I’venever seen anything like it-not even magic seemed to help. And Galadorn, welllet’s just say that sword of yours has stirred quite a bit of interest.” Thislast was uttered through gritted teeth as the elf wrestled with the final attachment.

  Kaerion let out a contented sigh, as much to distract Gerwyth from talk of his ancient blade as from the sheer pleasure of shedding the thick leather armor and underpadding he’d worn the last hour. The ensuing weeks ofsundrenched activity following his illness had darkened his skin to a rich, bronze hue, the even tan broken only by the puckered edges of battle scars that stood out angrily in the harsh noon glare. He stretched luxuriously, enjoying the cool sensation of wind across the sweat-covered expanse of chest, shoulders, and back, before clapping the elf companionably about the shoulder.

  “I understand, Ger,” he said, “and I appreciate all thatyou’ve done for me. But-” Kaerion stopped, unable to put voice to his thoughts.He was indeed touched and grateful for the elf’s companionship. Even had he notrecognized the elf’s deep affection for him long ago, the ranger’s actions sincehis illness made it very clear. But there was still part of him that ached with a grief so deep he’d spent the last ten years trying to drown it with ale andspirits. Though he was surprised that his other companions hadn’t yet called himout, he waited in dread for the moment of revelation, the m
oment when the discovery of what he had done would shatter the fragile peace he’d found, andhis newfound friends would turn their backs on him. No. He wasn’t quite ready toface them.

  The elf seemed to sense his mood and lifted one corner of his mouth in a smile. “It is I who understand, Kaerion,” the elf said softly, thenin a louder voice, “Come my loutish friend! Let’s see if you can move thathulking human frame of yours as fast as you move your mouth.” He pointed downthe path, where somewhere in the distance the burbling call of a swift-moving stream promised relief from the unrelenting heat of the afternoon. “First one tothe stream fetches dinner for the loser,” he said, and then swiftly disappeareddown a bend in the path.

  Kaerion cursed and dropped his armor in an undisciplined heap on the rock-strewn trail. A few moments later, both he and the elf were wrestling at the edge of the stream, each declaring the other defeated. The ranger wrapped one leg around Kaerion and pushed, hoping to trip the less-agile human, but the stubborn fighter held on and both plunged into the stream.

  “No fair!” Kaerion sputtered. The shock of the still-coolstream water on his sun-warmed body nearly made him gasp again, but he contented himself with sending a cascade of water into the surprised elf’s face instead.The sight of the normally immaculate elf, hair drenched and ears dripping water, sent him into paroxysms of laughter that continued for quite some time.

  “It appears,” Gerwyth finally said after he’d attempted toquiet his giggling friend with a stern glare for the third time, “that the sunand spring wind have healed more than just an illness.”

  Sobered by his friends words, Kaerion stared thoughtfully at the elf. “Leave it be, Ger,” he said after a moment, but smiled to soften theremark. He really wasn’t ready to talk about it, but it was difficult to stayangry at an elf who resembled a dried grape. His laughter soon returned, and with it, another round of splashing. Bush and tree alike were soon soaked as the combatants continued their heroic combat.