The Tomb of Horrors

by Keith Francis Strohm - (ebook by Flandrel; Undead)

  When Gerwyth called their next halt, Kaerion was surprised to see the rosy pink of dawn pushing up on the horizon. His lungs sucked in air greedily as he stood bent with hands on knees. Beside him, Adrys drank deeply from their waterskin, and even the normally unflappable elf looked exhausted as he examined Bredeth, who had collapsed in a heap.

  Ahead, the path widened and descended at a fairly steep angle. Looking through the ragged wall of trees and brush before him, Kaerion could see that the trail dipped into a large plain of stagnant water. In the distance, several flat-topped hills rose out from the plain. But before he could take time to examine them in more detail, a triumphant gurgling hiss broke the silence of the dawn.

  Kaerion cursed as he saw four bullywugs emerge from either side of the undergrowth ahead of him, blocking their way. Turning to warn his companions, he was reassured to see that Gerwyth had already identified their danger. The elf had drawn both of his short swords—though his hands shook with exhaustion. Kaerion was no better. He drew his own blade and stifled another curse at the weakness in his limbs. This would be a difficult battle. They’d have to push past these creatures before others could come and reinforce them.

  With an incoherent battle cry, Kaerion launched himself at the bullywugs, the arc of his sword catching the newly risen sun. Confident that Gerwyth was no more than a few steps behind, he crashed into the nearest opponent, aiming a slash at the creatures neck. Exhaustion and lack of water had taken their toll, however. The bullywug knocked the feeble attack aside with its own spear and then brought the shaft of the weapon down hard on Kaerion’s skull. The world swam as he reeled beneath the force of the blow. His opponent connected a vicious kick to his stomach. Kaerion was knocked backward and rolled hard down the steep incline of the path. As he fell, he caught glimpses of his companions fighting their way past the bullywugs and running down the path.

  The breath left Kaerion’s chest with a whumph as he landed face first into the muck. Desperately, he tried to pull himself up and collect his sword, sure that death would soon follow. What he saw almost caused him to drop his weapon in surprise.

  Along the top of the hilly path, the four bullywugs raised their own weapons in the air, hissing angrily at the intruders. Another line of bullywugs emerged behind them, covering the length of the hillside. One by one each of the creatures turned its bloated head to the dawn sky and emitted a horrifying cry. The ululation echoed wildly across the plain.

  As Kaerion, still gasping for breath, stumbled toward his own companions, who now stared dumbfounded halfway up the path, he wondered why the bullywugs hadn’t attacked. Surely there was no way that the four of them, wounded and exhausted as they were, could prevail in the face of such overwhelming odds.

  Then, as the sun peeked over the horizon, Kaerion caught a glint of reflection from somewhere behind him. He turned and surveyed the scene. In the distance, along one of the flat-topped hills, he could make out a strange formation. Black rocks erupted like daggers from the top of the hill, forming the shape of a grinning skull.

  Suddenly, Kaerion knew why the bullywugs refused to move any closer, knew why the entire plain before them lay silent and brooding beneath the newly risen sun. Kaerion shuddered at his discovery. He and his companions were safe for the moment.

  They had found it.

  Before them, marked with a gruesome symbol, lay Acererak’s unholy resting place—the Tomb of Horrors.

  Part 3

  “In cruelty there is strength; in power, pleasure.

  Compassion is the only true weakness.”

  —The Book of Nine Shadows

  A ragged shout went up from the assembled guards. Majandra turned from the supply inventory she was taking—her fifth since they had arrived at the supposed site of Acererak’s tomb nearly three days ago—and sent a prayer to any god listening. She looked at the knot of guards scrambling with picks and shovels. It was clear they had found the collapsed remains of yet another tunnel. She only hoped this one would actually lead into the tomb.

  Over the course of the last three days, they had found four such collapsed tunnels. After hours of backbreaking labor, they had unearthed each one and sent a contingent of guards into them. Three had proven to be useless, ending in walls of solid rock. The fourth had led to an ancient metal door and a trap so cleverly constructed that it had nearly killed three of the guards when huge sections of the tunnel crashed down upon them. Only the quick work of the remaining guards and a judicious use of Phathas’ magic had freed them quickly enough for Vaxor to call upon the healing power of Heironeous and save the wounded men.

  Nor was it only their expedition that had suffered the sting of the cruel traps protecting the ancient tomb. During the course of their excavation, the guards had uncovered fragments of armor, bits of bone, even the cracked and shattered remains of almost whole skeletons—all of it a grim testament to the devilishly cunning construction of the tomb’s protection. Not for the first time, Majandra found herself wondering how many enterprising souls had braved the horrors of the Vast Swamp, only to die here at the doorstep of Acererak’s tomb.

  These were truly dark thoughts, she realized, for one so close to completing a quest that had occupied much of her time these past three years. And yet, she found most of her thoughts taking dark turns ever since Kaerion and Gerwyth had set out in search of Bredeth.

  “Worried, child?” asked a voice from somewhere close behind her.

  Majandra jumped with surprise before recognizing Vaxor’s deep baritone. Turning, she saw that the cleric had walked up while she had been deep in thought. He now stood there solicitously, his deep-set eyes searching yet compassionate as they seemed to look through her. Often, when confronted by full-blooded humans who insisted on classifying her as young—and therefore the target of patronizing discourses on life—the half-elf fought the urge to point out that she was, in all likelihood, as old, if not older, than they.

  Somehow, the urge never manifested itself when she spoke with Vaxor. Nor did it do so now. Something in the man’s demeanor would have made any such statement seem crass and petty. Instead, she swallowed and said, “They have been gone nearly five days, Vaxor, and even Phathas’ attempts at scrying have not revealed anything. Of course I’m worried.”

  The cleric placed a battle-roughened hand upon her shoulder. “I understand your concern, but Gerwyth is as skilled a ranger as ever I’ve seen. He has led us safely through danger countless times. If anything, I’d worry about those bullywugs. They are probably still trying to find out what army has swept through their tribal lands.”

  In spite of everything, Majandra found herself smiling. What Vaxor said was most likely true. Yet for all of his comforting words, he had not mentioned Kaerion, and it was clear to the bard’s trained ear that the omission was deliberate. Despite all they had gone through these past several months, the fallen paladin stood as a barrier between Majandra and the cleric, as if Vaxor’s obvious distaste for Kaerion had now somehow extended to a part of her. She should have been angry at the priest’s uncompromising righteousness, his unyielding judgment. Instead, Majandra found herself profoundly saddened. That a good and noble man such as Vaxor should be so blinded by his own fanaticism was a cause for sorrow, not fury.

  Her smile fading, the bard returned Vaxor’s steady gaze. The two stood in tense silence until the cursing shouts of several guards broke the deadlock. It was Landra, however, all cool efficiency and control, who actually approached the gruff Heironean priest.

  “The men say the rock in the collapsed tunnel is too hard for them to break through with their tools,” the guard captain reported. “They’ll need some help, preferably of the arcane kind.”

  “At once,” was all that Vaxor said, before hurrying off to find Phathas. As Majandra watched the cleric go, she couldn’t help but see Landra’s face twist into a grimace.

  “Bit of an old lemon, if you ask me,” the weathered fighter said conspiratorially. “That man could use the largest wineskin
this side of the Glorioles. Do him some good.” And then she, too, turned and walked back toward her charges. This time, Majandra’s face split into a wide grin, her spirits truly lifted.

  Moments later, the bard watched as Phathas walked slowly up to the small passage the guards had cleared in the collapsed tunnel. Quietly, the sweat-soaked men and women assembled behind the mage as he raised thin arms above his head. Silence filled the camp as the old man’s dexterous hands wove complex patterns in the air. Again, the half-elf watched her former master with pride and not a little awe. Even bent by age and the weight of his long life, Phathas’ consummate skill was apparent in every gesture and motion. Here was a wizard who had dedicated his life to the pursuit of knowledge and the mastery of arcane forces—forces that gathered even now at his fingertips.

  Majandra watched as the spell neared its completion. The hair at the base of her neck prickled with the strength of the latent power Phathas had summoned With a final flourish and several short commands in the elusive and subtle language of magic, the wizard extended one fist sharply before him.

  Nothing happened.

  And then the world exploded in a cloud of dust and rock as large volumes of dirt and stone were obliterated. Another round of cheers rose up from the guards when the gentle wind blew the haze of detritus away, revealing the smooth worked stone of a passageway leading deeper into the hill. Cheers soon turned to cries of dismay, however, as a blast of fetid air erupted from the passageway, causing everyone in the assembly to fall to their knees retching. Even from her relatively safe vantage point among the supply rafts, Majandra gagged as the stench of corruption wafted toward her. If there was ever any doubt that something dark and evil inhabited the ancient tomb, it was put to rest by the foul odor emanating from the newly unearthed tunnel.

  This time it was Vaxor who rose to his feet before the entrance. Covering his face with one arm, he raised his holy symbol before him and called upon the Arch Paladin for aid. A bluish-white glow suffused the silver symbol, flaring sharply as another gust of wind brought a rush of foul air up from the passageway. For a moment, Majandra thought the cleric would fall back before the blast, but instead he moved a step forward and called upon his god again. A peal of thunder erupted as Vaxor completed his prayer, and a gentle rain began to fall.

  Majandra cried out in surprise as a familiar smell washed over the company. For where every drop of rain struck, there sprang the lush scent of roses. The rest of the expedition was equally stunned. Each member raised their arms in wonder at the sweet relief of the god’s rain, and several burst into laughter. And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the misting rain stopped. And yet, the smell of roses lingered still, overpowering the rank air from the tomb.

  The half-elf walked quickly over to where the priest was assisting Phathas to his feet. “That was wonderfully done, Vaxor,” she said with more feeling than she intended.

  The cleric offered her a courtly bow. “Though Heironeous is the Lord of War, there is beauty in his service, my lady,” he said with only a hint of reproach reaching her ears.

  Phathas, quiet during this exchange, placed a shaking hand upon Vaxor’s shoulder. “Well done, my friend,” he said. “Well done.” And then to Landra, who had approached quietly—“Assemble your guards and have them gather the supplies we’ll need for the rest of our journey. We will soon enter Acererak’s tomb.”

  Majandra turned and walked back to the supply rafts, planning to assist the guards in their task. She very nearly stumbled when a familiar voice cut across the camp.

  “How very much like humans,” Gerwyth shouted to no one in particular, “leaving before the guests arrive!”

  The half-elf cast a hopeful look in the direction of the voice and felt her heart lurch as she saw only the ranger helping the battered Bredeth down the path toward the encampment. Just as a sob welled in her throat, she caught sight of Kaerion, and, to her surprise, another figure—a young man, walking behind the elf. Somewhere inside the excited jumble that made up her thoughts, Majandra knew that she should be curious about the new arrival, but her feet had already begun to propel her toward a certain black-maned fighter, and all questions evaporated as she threw her arms around him.

  * * *

  Kaerion fastened the last catch of his armor before girding on his shield. The comfortable weight of the mail settled around him, and for the first time in several weeks, he felt truly protected. Though the early morning sun had already begun its relentless, burning assault against the land, he could feel the chill air emanating from the tunnel before him. At least he’d be able to wear the heavy chain without covering himself in sweat after the first three steps.

  Around him, the rest of the expedition was making final preparations before descending into the dark depths of the tomb. Gently, he drew his sword from its scabbard and stretched out the muscles in his sword arm by practicing some basic drills. He felt refreshed after a long night’s rest and was grateful that Phathas had decided to delay the party’s entry into the tomb until Bredeth and his rescuers had a chance to rest.

  Speaking of which, he had promised the young noble he would keep an eye on Adrys. Bredeth had been most insistent, to the point of not letting Vaxor tend his wounds until Kaerion had sworn an oath to watch over the lad. He would never have guessed that the formerly arrogant noble would have grown so protective of a commoner, but battles such as they had fought since leaving Rel Mord were enough to change anyone. Kaerion was grateful that Bredeth had changed for the better.

  Searching the surrounding encampment, he spied Adrys in conversation with Landra. The guard captain seemed to be in the midst of lecturing him. He drew nearer just in time to see her hand the lad a short training sword. “Can you handle one of these?” she asked in that no-nonsense tone that Kaerion had come to identify with the seasoned veteran.

  Adrys shook his head. “No,” he managed eventually. “My da kept me away from guardsmen as much as possible. He preferred my learning how to keep his ledgers and accounts rather than any weapons work.”

  The guard captains slow clearing of her throat told Kaerion just exactly what she thought of that notion. He found himself smiling, just a bit, at Adrys’ obvious discomfort.

  “Well lad,” Landra said, finishing her lecture with one final admonition, “see to it that you poke the sharp end into anything that tries to bite you, and stay out of everyone’s way.” With that, she clapped the boy hard about the shoulders and turned, barking several orders at her men.

  Adrys held the sword awkwardly in his hand for a few more moments. Catching sight of Kaerion close by, he shrugged. “She doesn’t like me very much, does she?” he asked in a despairing tone.

  Kaerion’s smile deepened. “She likes you just fine, lad. She just wants to see you come out of the tomb alive,” he said as kindly as he could.

  In fact, the very subject of Adrys accompanying the party inside the tomb had sparked a lively and heated debate within the company. Keeping Adrys out of the tomb meant weakening the expedition’s strength, as they would be forced to post some of their number as guards to protect him, while allowing him to accompany them meant that someone would always have to keep an eye on him. Personally, Kaerion was glad that Phathas had decided to allow the boy to journey with them inside the tomb. The oath he swore to Bredeth would have seriously complicated matters. As it was, the lad would be safest traveling in the protection of the entire party.

  Just then, Gerwyth tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “It is time, Kaer,” the ranger said. “Phathas has ordered everyone to gather at the mouth of the tunnel. Three guards will lead in, with you and I following. We’re to keep an eye out for any sign of danger. Phathas, Vaxor, and Majandra will march behind us, with Bredeth, Landra, and the remaining guards bringing up the rear.” And then, turning to Adrys, he said, “You, my young friend, have the honor of walking next to one of the wisest mages I have ever known. Try and stay out of trouble there.”

  The ranger smiled, taking the st
ing from his words, and then turned toward the crowd gathering at the mouth of the tunnel. Kaerion shrugged apologetically as Adrys rolled his eyes at the ranger’s retreating back, then he placed a gentle hand on the lad’s shoulder and guided him toward his place in the assembling line.

  Vaxor was just finishing his benediction when Kaerion found his own place in the party’s order. Years of habit forced him to recheck his gear one final time. Countless lives had been lost, he knew, from carelessness. His would not be one of them. Armor, shield, pack—everything checked out, as he knew it would, but he shook his left leg gingerly as the unfamiliar weight of a second scabbard pulled at his hip. He had, with a great deal of silent cursing, decided to take Galadorn with him. Knowing the blasted curse he labored under, it would do him no good to try and leave the sword with the supplies on the rafts. At least this way he wouldn’t find the bulk of the sword suddenly tangling his pack when he least needed any distractions.

  Kaerion gripped the pommel of his other sword, which rested lightly in its scabbard, as Phathas signaled the expedition forward. A man at ease with the gods would have breathed his own personal prayer as the guards in front of him descended into the tunnel—for they were about to despoil one of the deadliest tombs in all the Flanaess. Kaerion merely spit once and cast a quick smile at Gerwyth before heading down into the darkness of the tunnel.

  Though Vaxor’s blessing the previous day had neutralized the worst of the tomb’s fetid stench, the air blowing up from the deeper recesses of the tunnel carried with it a hint of its former corruption. Breathing through his mouth, Kaerion avoided the remaining stink. The chill breath of the tomb touched something deep within him. He sensed, if such a thing were truly possible, the promise of malevolence within its dank passage—and something deeper, something that spoke of darkness and isolation, and a power stronger even than death.