The Tomb of Horrors

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

  Kaerion pushed on, ignoring the chill sensation that crawled up his spine to curl with icy tendrils around the warm stone of his heart. There was evil here, an echo of a presence so palpably corrupt that Kaerion felt as if the very earth were screaming in protest. But he was no simple villager who had gathered his courage among the ale cups and set out with a sword as dull as his wits. He had faced the very heart of evil itself, and though he had broken beneath its power, he survived. And while he lived, he would not grant it another such victory.

  Through sheer force of will, he moved forward, breaking the paralysis that had unwittingly seized his limbs. He could see that the other guards were similarly affected, and he touched each gently about the shoulder, whispering words of strength and courage in their ears. However, it wasn’t until Vaxor spoke the name of Heironeous, and blessed light bathed the tunnel, chasing away shadow and fear alike, that the rest of the stricken company could move again. As one, the companions let out a breathy sigh, each praising and thanking the Valorous One in his or her own way. Glancing quickly at the center of their line, he was surprised and not a small bit proud to see that Adrys showed no fear. The lad gazed about his surroundings calmly and even managed a wan smile as he caught Kaerion’s gaze.

  Turning back to the now-advancing guards, he noted the passage they had been following opened wider as it continued on into true darkness. Moving forward, Kaerion could see by the light of Vaxor’s spell that the walls in the passage ahead were markedly different from the rough-hewn stone that had guided their travel so far—for these walls were smooth and straight. Reaching out a tentative hand, he ran roughened fingers across their length. Though he was no expert, it was clear that whoever had built this passage had flattened the wall with a covering of cement or plaster.

  As the party moved deeper into the passage, Kaerion found out why—and nearly had to catch his breath with the discovery. Every inch of the walls were covered in elaborate murals and frescoes, and the ceiling, which soared almost twenty feet high, had been marked by the hand of a long-dead artist. In the circle of Vaxor’s illumination, Kaerion could see kine grazing lazily amid a midsummer’s sun, a pack of wolves gazing fiercely from between the trees in a forest copse, and a plethora of human and animal hybrids cavorting and fighting among the pastoral scenes. It was Bredeth, however, who called his attention to the most disturbing scene of all—a reminder of the true nature of the place in which they found themselves. For on one section of the wall, recreated with unerring accuracy, Kaerion saw a trail of familiar wagons plodding across the snow-covered fields of Nyrond.

  Despite this ominous discovery, it was the colors that had caused Kaerion’s initial reaction. Ancient as the tomb might be, these paintings caught and reflected the party’s light as rich in tone and color as the day they had been painted. By some working of magic, or more likely, some foul curse, the artistry in this bizarre passage had been preserved against the ravages of time.

  Nor was the floor itself devoid of ornamentation. While the rest of the party examined the surrounding paintings, Kaerion knelt down and touched a mosaic of red stone. He was surprised to note that the red tiles of the mosaic made a small path, large enough for a single person to walk on, that wound its way farther into the room. Kaerion was about to call attention to this when he heard a muffled scream.

  He whirled, only to see one of the guards, a man called Joran, tumble into a hole that had suddenly opened beneath his feet. Desperately, Kaerion ran to the now-revealed pit, calling the nearest guards to assist him. Lighting a torch of his own, he tried to peer through the darkness. What he saw caused his heart to sink. Thirty feet below him, at the edge of his torchlight, Joran’s body lay in a broken heap, glistening spikes driven through chest and legs. Even from this distance it was clear that the man was dead. Kaerion let out a curse.

  The tomb had claimed its first victim.

  Majandra heard Joran’s cry and Kaerion’s subsequent curse as if from a distance. It was not that she was cold-hearted and indifferent to the man’s death. In fact, as she continued to stare at the strangely constructed passage, a part of her mind recalled memories of Joran. Her brief glimpses into his life—the easy familiarity with which he joked with comrades, his interest in horses, the way he always requested the liveliest tunes from the hill villages of Nyrond where he grew up—caused a dull ache in the pit of her stomach.

  But the part of her that hungered after ancient lore and long-forgotten tales, the part that drove her to memorize every line of every poem and saga she heard, that turned the slightest hint of mystery into a driving quest for knowledge and every note played upon the strings of her harp another step in a complex dance of mastery—that part of her stood rapt and amazed at the handiwork of the long-dead wizard. She drank it all in, every brushstroke and whorl of color, every symbol and hand-carved rune. It all became a part of a tableau, a tapestry of history that was woven in the long-ago years, ancient before the Kingdom of Nyrond was born in blood and fire. There would be time enough to remember the dead, Majandra knew. There was always time enough for that.

  As Majandra surveyed the area around her, she noticed that Bredeth, too, had stayed behind and gazed with seeming fascination at their surroundings. This was yet another mystery. For as long as she had known the brat of a noble, he had been all fire and arrogance. Yet since his rescue from the bullywugs, the young man had been withdrawn and tentative—almost introspective. Majandra wondered exactly what could have happened to the noble to bring about such a drastic change. She had seen men and women return from war broken and twisted, but this was something else entirely. If anything, Bredeth seemed dulled somehow, blunted like a sword used to dig trenches and then cast aside.

  The bard was about to question Bredeth about this when Vaxor’s god-light illuminated something upon the floor—a pattern laid out upon the winding mosaic, one that was almost familiar. And then she knew: Runes. They ran along the path, intricate and spidery, flowing like molten silver. Her question to Bredeth forgotten, Majandra recalled a spell that Phathas himself had taught her. In a quiet voice, she sang the notes that would activate the magic and floated gently toward the ceiling, propelling herself slowly in the direction of the path by pushing along the painted stone overhead. Dimly, she was aware of Vaxor, cradling Joran’s broken body. The cleric intoned the final blessings upon the dead man, speeding his journey into Heironeous’ arms, but the bard could make no sense of his speech, for the runes that she read burned in her mind. Without trying, Majandra found herself entering the bardic trance that preceded the telling of the longest tales. When her voice washed, unbidden, over the assembly below her, it was with the practiced timbre that had stilled even the rowdiest crowds.

  “Go back to the tormentor or through the arch,

  and the second great hall you’ll discover.

  Shun green if you can, but night’s good color

  is for those of great valor.

  If shades of red stand for blood, the wise

  will not need sacrifice aught but a loop of

  magical metal—you’re well along your march.

  “Two pits along the way will be found to lead

  to a fortuitous fall, so check the wall.

  These keys and those are most important of all,

  and beware of trembling hands and what will maul.

  If you find the false, you find the true,

  and into the columned hall you’ll come,

  and there the throne that’s key and keyed.

  “The iron men of visage grim do more

  than meets the viewer’s eye.

  You’ve left and left and found my Tomb,

  and now your soul will die.”

  It was Gerwyth at last who broke the silence that fell over the company. “That,” he said in a critical voice, “was truly dreadful, Majandra. I hope you didn’t make that up yourself. I’ve heard better from a dockside drunk on a ten-day binge.”

  Freed from the strange compulsion that had mast
ered her, the bard felt her anger rise. It was, she knew, irrational. Gerwyth had just attempted to break the growing mood of gloom that was plaguing the expedition, but something in his words stung her pride, and she found herself snapping a retort. “Of course I didn’t make it up. It was placed here by Acererak and written in an ancient language. The words lose a great deal in translation—and in the interpretation by dense minds.”

  “Peace, Majandra,” Phathas, silent since their entry into the tomb, spoke at last, his voice carrying in the smooth-walled chamber. The mage combed a dirt-stained hand through his unruly beard, lips pursed in thought. “It appears that Acererak left a map of sorts for those who would plunder his tomb.”

  “But why would anyone do that, Phathas?” Kaerion asked. “Why would a wizard who knew that thieves would seek to disturb his resting place offer them assistance? It doesn’t make sense.”

  It was Vaxor, much to Majandra’s surprise, who answered the question. The cleric gently closed Joran’s eyes and stood, regarding the assembled group with a grave expression. “It was said of Acererak that he enjoyed games, for none was as clever as he in all the world. Through riddles and such cruel games as he could devise, he demonstrated his mastery over those who sought to challenge him. At the last—” he indicated Majandra with an apologetic shrug—“the bards say that death was his greatest opponent, and no one is sure who emerged victorious from that final game.”

  Gerwyth’s throaty chuckle sliced through the silence once again. Though still pleasant to hear, Majandra found herself unaccountably irritated by the rangers seeming mirth. “What in all the Nine Hells do you find so funny?” she asked in a voice intended to sting.

  The elf merely continued to chuckle, seemingly undisturbed by her discomfort. That thought caused her temper to flare even more, and she was about to send a blistering retort his way when Gerwyth held up his hands in entreaty. “Please, my Lady,” he said as formally as he could between the laughter still present in his voice, “do not wound me further. I was merely thinking that if what Vaxor has said is true, then Acererak built this tomb hoping that foolhardy men and women would come to defile his resting place in search of hidden wealth. If this is a game, then we have played right into his hands.”

  That thought sent the anger draining from her like water from a burst dam. With a sinking feeling, she realized that the ranger’s words were true. The tomb wasn’t simply a repository of ancient knowledge ready to be lifted from its hoary grasp. She had been wrong to think so. Rather, the bard and her fellow companions were playing pieces in a vast game whose board had been built by a long-dead wizard. And they had already lost one of their own in pursuit of victory. She looked around at her companions and saw, by the haunted look in their eyes, the same thoughts flash into each of their minds.

  Phathas cleared his throat. “There is wisdom in your words, Gerwyth,” the mage said softly, “however bitter the humor that lurks behind them. Yet I believe that courage and cunning and, yes, a fair bit of luck, will see us through. If this is a game, we have been given a glimpse of the rules.” He pointed at the spidery runes inlaid on the mosaic. “So let us gather ourselves for the challenge and proceed. Perhaps we will find, at the end, that our strength and nobility of purpose will be the equal of Acererak’s fiendish traps.”

  It was a good speech, Majandra thought—inspiring, impassioned, and with just the right inflections and oratorical nuances. Quickly, the party reformed, and she heard Kaerion’s voice booming out instructions.

  “Landra, have your men break out the poles,” he said with that familiar note of authority. “We will follow along the mosaic path, but we must move carefully, lest we fall victim to more pits.”

  In a few moments, the company began to follow the winding red path across the length of the chamber. Three times, the guards triggered pit traps with their ten-foot poles, each one opening up to a thirty-foot drop and ending in spiked doom. At last, they drew near the end of the passage. Looming straight before them, set into the smooth stone wall, Majandra could see the leering face of a devil. Whoever had sculpted such a disturbing portrait must have had personal experience with these foul creatures, for every detail of the creature’s face was rendered in horrifying complexity. Two great horns curled out from the top of the beast’s scaled forehead, and its gaping mouth was opened, as if it were roaring its hellish curses upon the world. From this distance, Majandra could see that the sculpture took up almost an entire ten-foot section of wall, and the mouth itself opened to a diameter of almost three feet.

  As the party approached the stone face, Majandra saw, somewhere off to her left, an archway covered entirely with a dense mist. In the dim light, the half-elf could see several shadowy forms weaving through the misty veil. She shivered as she drew closer to the bizarre sculpture and wondered if the others had noticed how cold it had become this close to the face. Several guards flanked Phathas, who had walked up in front of the gaping mouth. The mage drew forth a wand of bleached bone and passed it slowly before the face. The stone pulsed red in the wand’s wake.

  Phathas nodded once. “There is magic here,” he said simply.

  “Well,” Gerwyth said, motioning toward the face and the arch with graceful hands. “It appears we have a choice. The hole inside the mouth could lead to another passageway inside the tomb, or we could walk through the mist and beyond that arch.”

  Majandra pulled at her lower lip, watching as the guards conferred among themselves. Bredeth, she noted with interest, had moved closer to the archway and was staring intently at the stonework. “If you believe the words of Acererak,” she said after a few moments, “we should probably take the arch.”

  Kaerion threw her a questioning look, his brow knitted in obvious confusion, and the half-elf was reminded once again that not everyone had spent a lifetime perfecting the ability to memorize vast amounts of information.

  “‘Go back to the tormentor or through the arch, and the second great hall you’ll discover,’” she quoted.

  “As you said, Majandra, the question is whether or not we can trust Acererak’s words,” Vaxor said from his place next to the old mage. “Perhaps the words laid out by the canny wizard are a trap, and we’ll follow them to our doom.”

  “Then maybe we should divide into two groups, each covering one of these passages,” said Bredeth, as he drew nearer to the swirling mist inside the archway. “That way we could cover more of the tomb within the same time.”

  There was a startled exclamation from the collected guards at this suggestion, and even Majandra found herself reacting instinctively to such a comment. Gerwyth, however, had moved quickly toward the young man, and the bard could see that he laid a companionable hand upon the noble’s shoulder.

  “I have traveled many paths in my long life, friend Bredeth,” the ranger said firmly, “and the one thing that I have learned in that time, is that when it comes to exploring underground, never, ever split the party. Down that way lies death and madness—or worse.”

  Majandra watched in amazement as the noble, so quick to react to any hint of criticism, shrugged. “It was only a suggestion,” he said mildly.

  In the end, it was Adrys who decided their course of action for them. While watching the exchange between Bredeth and the elf, Majandra saw the merchant’s son move swiftly toward one of the guards. Grabbing the long pole from the woman’s grasp, he lifted it easily and thrust one end into the center of the gaping devil mouth. He held it there for a few moments, before quickly withdrawing it.

  A gasp of astonishment rippled through the company, for the section of the pole that had entered the black circular hole had simply disappeared. Moving to examine the pole herself, Majandra found that the break was completely clean. It was as if the missing section had never existed at all. Such was the twisted fate for anyone who had thought to explore the area beyond the hole. The bard breathed deeply, trying to control her rapidly beating heart in the face of the death they had so narrowly avoided. All of them. Had Adry
s not used the pole to check the safety of the circular passage, they might all have been killed. Gone without a single trace. And Nyrond, the noble kingdom of her birth, might never be saved from the rot that was eating it from within.

  She looked at the boy once again. Several of the guards were clapping him companionably on the shoulders, acknowledging the actions that had just saved their lives. Even Kaerion knelt before the lad and thanked him. Instead of showing the embarrassment that Majandra would expect from a boy his age, Adrys merely accepted the congratulations with a brief nod of his head and a wan smile. There was more to this merchant’s son than met the eye, she thought, and vowed to keep a closer eye on their newest member.

  Decided clearly on their course of action, Majandra and her companions gathered before the mist-filled archway. Absently, she noted that both Gerwyth and Kaerion had their weapons drawn and had asked Landra to position guards at the party’s back. With everything that had happened to them since they entered the tomb, the bard realized she had forgotten about the potential danger from any creatures that had made the lost corridors of stone their home during the many years since Acererak’s minions had constructed his resting place. She was glad that her companions had the presence of mind to keep watch. Perhaps Phathas was right. Maybe their commitment and their strength would prevail over the ancient evil lurking within these halls.

  Once again, the wizened mage stood in front of the group. This time, however, he raised both hands, fingers slightly curled, in front of his eyes and spoke the words of power. When he was finished, the base stones on the left and right of the arch pulsed with a yellow and orange light, while the keystone within the archway flickered with a blue incandescence.

  Majandra watched as the mage stood before the archway in silence, studying the mystic construction with eyes that had always seen far and deeply. “There is strong magic woven into the very heart of this stone,” he said. “I believe that the arch itself functions as a teleportation device. The stones that are glowing are part of a key that will change the coordinates of the target area.”