The Tomb of Horrors

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

  In the ensuing silence, the cleric cast a single glance at Kaerion before he coughed up a gout of blood and fell to the floor.

  “No!” Kaerion shouted as he stumbled toward the fallen cleric.

  Vaxor lay on his back in the center of a widening pool of blood. Amazingly, he was still clinging to life, his breath coming swift and shallow, rattling ominously in his blood-gorged chest. Oblivious to the gore, Kaerion knelt, cradling Vaxor’s head in his hands. The cleric stared sightlessly at the ceiling.

  “F-forgive me,” the priest said roughly, a thin bubble of blood and saliva forming at the corner of his cracked lips.

  “Forgive you?” Kaerion said incredulously. “You saved my life, Vaxor. What have you done that I must forgive?” Behind him, Kaerion heard the others gather. He could feel their sorrow, like a knife-edge of grief it left his own heart exposed. Bitter tears stung his eyes.

  The cleric coughed weakly, bringing up more blood. “I failed,” he said simply, his voice growing weaker. “In Rel Mord… at the inn. The god… spoke… to me.”

  “Heironeous spoke to you,” Kaerion repeated, dread beginning to rise in him.

  Vaxor nodded his head and swallowed a few times before continuing. “The god… spoke to me. Told me… who… what you were.”

  Kaerion held his breath, watching as the cleric’s features twisted in pain. The wounded man’s body gave a violent shudder.

  “I… was supposed to… forgive you,” he continued. “To bring you… back to… to the fold. But I could… n-not. My—unnhh—pride wouldn’t let me. I failed.”

  “Nonsense,” Kaerion replied. “You shouldn’t talk of such things. It’s just the pain. A few healing potions will take care of everything.” The words came out fast—an attempt to deny the revelation contained in the cleric’s confession. Vaxor was obviously delirious. The cleric needed help now, and perhaps he’d forget the words he’d just spoken.

  “Someone reach into my pouch,” Kaerion shouted at the assembly of guards behind him. “I have some healing potions.”

  With surprising strength, Vaxor reached out a blind hand and grabbed hold of Kaerion’s arm. “No, my son. It’s too… late for that. Save them… for when… they’ll do some… good.”

  “You’re talking nonsense, Vaxor. You’ll be up and walking through this tomb with the rest of us in no time at all.” Kaerion turned his head to face the others. “Someone grab the healing potions!” he shouted, tears rolling down his face. “Please!” This last came out as more of a heaving sob than anything else—though truthfully Kaerion did not know whether it was the cleric’s words or his impending death that broke the dam of emotion he had been carefully constructing ever since he fled the dungeons of Dorakaa.

  “Enough…” Vaxor’s voice cut through Kaerion’s grief with an echo of its former power. “I have… battled death… long enough to not… shrink from it… when it comes for me. However… I ask… two things from the Arch Paladin’s greatest… living servant… before I…surrender.”

  “Anything, Vaxor. Ask anything and I shall grant it to you if it lies within my power.” The words spilled from Kaerion’s mouth without thought.

  Another shudder racked Vaxor’s body, this one greater than the previous one. The cleric took a moment to recover before continuing. “Grant me… your forgiveness,” he asked, his voice little more than a gasp.

  “Freely given, Vaxor,” the Kaerion said, still cradling the dying man’s head.

  A thin smile creased the cleric’s face. “Then let me… place my hand upon… Galadorn… once b-before the… the darkness…claims me. I would… feel its light before I die.”

  Without a word, Kaerion unbelted the leather scabbard that held the holy sword. With infinite care, he extended the sheathed weapon, pommel first toward the cleric. Vaxor reached out blindly for a few moments before clasping the hilt with trembling hands. Incredibly, Kaerion watched as the central diamond set within the pommel glowed with a soft, white incandescence. It let out a single pulse, and then another as a third tremor struck the cleric’s frame. Gradually, the ghostly gleam of the diamond faded into nothingness. With a final breath, Vaxor released his grip upon the blade and died.

  The screaming wouldn’t stop.

  Despite himself, Durgoth grimaced at the shrill sound. Even with their ability to see what those Nyrondese fools had done, some of his followers still fell victim to the tomb’s diabolical traps. This situation, however, came about through the man’s own stupidity. Sydra had given the cultists explicit instructions on how to open each of the secret doors, information she had gleaned from the nobleman she controlled as completely as she did secretly.

  The man curled in a bloody heap before Durgoth, the wicked barb of a spear imbedded in his stomach. The fool had simply misunderstood Sydra’s direction.

  The screaming stopped for a moment as the wounded cultist noticed his master’s presence. “H-help me,” he pleaded, and Durgoth noticed with distaste that blood flecked the man’s lips and chin.

  “I shall, my child,” the cleric replied in his most soothing tone, conscious of the other cultists watching this exchange. Gently he laid a hand upon the now-whimpering man’s forehead. Closing his eyes, he whispered a dark prayer to Tharizdun. With a final hiss, the cleric sent the power of his god arcing through the cultist. The man screamed one final time and then lay still, the life burned out of his body.

  Durgoth rose and made a simple gesture of blessing on the corpse. Stupidity, he knew, should never be rewarded.

  It was Eltanel, emerging from the shadowy length of the passage ahead, who finally broke the ensuing silence. “The way ahead is clear, blessed one,” he said. “I have marked the passage that the Nyrondese party has taken. I recommend that we rest for a bit, or else we risk coming too close to them.”

  Durgoth nodded at the man’s report, noting with interest the sweat covering the thief’s dark brow and the small wet circle along the man’s right thigh—no doubt blood. Whatever Eltanel had discovered, his passage through the tomb had not been as easy as he tried to pass off.

  Durgoth offered the thief a knowing smile and was about to turn away when Jhagren spoke. “What of Adrys?” the monk asked, not quite hiding his concern. “Did you see any sign of him?”

  Durgoth blinked in surprise. In all of their time together, this was the first time he had seen a chink in the monk’s armor of emotional detachment. So, he noted, the man does care for his apprentice. This was useful information—information that could serve as a weapon in the future.

  “No, Jhagren,” the thief replied at last. “I did not see any sign of Adrys.”

  “Come, my friend,” Durgoth said, offering the monk a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Adrys is a clever lad—and trained very well. He will find his way back to us, and when he returns, I shall reward him greatly for his service.”

  Truth be told, Durgoth had been enraged by the pup’s presumptuous actions. The boy had specific instructions yet chose to ignore them. It was only when it became clear that his involvement had caused the death of that cursed Heironean priest that Durgoth had calmed down. The loss of Vaxor weakened the Nyrondese expedition considerably. Adrys may have handed them the key to an easy victory. In light of that fact, it was easy to view the boy in a more charitable light. If only he could pry Adrys out from under the tutelage of that damned monk. He’d make an excellent servant of Tharizdun.

  Obviously not reassured by the cleric’s words of encouragement, Jhagren turned without a word and stormed off in silence. It took a great deal of self-control not to blast the impudent monk as he skulked about. It was only the fact that they were so close to their goal that stayed the dark priests hand. When the Dark One was finally free, Jhagren and all his cursed brethren would be crushed beneath his heel.

  “Blessed one?” a tentative voice asked interrupting his thoughts.

  Durgoth spun to face the owner of the offending voice, irritation scribed in every muscle of his body. “What is it, now?” he
asked.

  “Pardon the intrusion,” replied a scar-faced cultist, “but the others were wondering what we should do with the body.” He indicated his recently deceased companion who still lay upon the floor, a pool of blood surrounding his body like a scarlet halo.

  Durgoth thought a moment before responding. He had no use for the blasted corpse and would just as soon leave it to rot. However, he had no desire to spend any length of time near the soon-to-be-decaying mass of flesh and, if Eltanel was correct, they’d have to spend a good deal of time here before moving on. In another instant, the cleric made his decision.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said to the cultist, who bowed obsequiously before retreating back to the safety of his brethren. Durgoth sent a silent command and was rewarded a few moments later by the hulking presence of his golem. As the construct regarded him with its cold, eyeless sockets, the cleric pointed to the dead body on the stone floor and said simply, “Dispose of this.”

  Without a sound, the golem laid a single meaty hand upon the corpse and lifted it up, walking back the way the group had come, following their original path into the tomb. Despite his initial worries that the creature would slow the group down once inside Acererak’s trap-filled lair, the golem had proven exceptionally useful—both in resisting the deadly force of spears, sliding walls, darts, and other nefarious devices meant to kill intruders, and in cowing the rest of the cultists in continuing on when fear would have caused them to retreat.

  Once again Durgoth had cause to be grateful for finding the Minthexian Codex. Even now, the codex called out to him, promising power and dark wisdom in its ancient pages. With a start, he realized that it had been several days since he had looked upon its flowing script and hoary symbols. He was surprised at how deeply his mind yearned to wrestle with its secrets once again.

  When he looked around, Durgoth was surprised to find himself standing before his own pack, the box that held the codex out in front of him. Dazedly, he called out to Sydra, who sat nearby, concentrating her powers upon a certain nobleman.

  “Where are they now?” he asked.

  It took a few moments for the sorceress to respond, and when she did, her voice was thick, almost husky, as if she were waking from a deep sleep. “They are in a chapel of some sort. Someone just set off a trap, unleashing a lightning bolt that killed several of their guards. The nobles are conferring as to what they should do next.”

  Durgoth smiled at the news. “Excellent. And how is our very own noble?”

  The cleric saw a brief frown cross the sorceress’ face. “He resists my presence, blessed one,” Sydra replied. “He is strong, but he cannot break free.”

  “That is good,” Durgoth said as he settled in to peruse the vellum pages before him. “I hope that you can maintain control. I have important work for Bredeth.” He looked up from the text. “Important work indeed.”

  * * *

  The pungent tang of electrified air filled the room.

  From her position to the left of the altar, Majandra regarded the smoking corpses with tears in her eyes. The lightning bolt had left nothing but charred flesh in its wake. She gave in to the wave of dizziness that swept over her and dropped to her knees with a gut-wrenching sob.

  Death. Everything in this gods forsaken tomb stank of death. Every twisted mural and every corrupted holy symbol in this demented chapel reinforced her perception. She felt death worrying at the bright core of her spirit, like a feasting jackal. It was inside of her now, and with every breath she felt as if she were exhaling a bit more of her own life. If she were anywhere else in the Flanaess, she might have prayed. But not here. Not at the site of Acererak’s twisted power. She was afraid of what dark being might hear her plea.

  Instead, she let tears flow down her dirt-streaked face, a silent tribute to the two guards who had given their lives in this tomb. Never mind that they were both dragging bags full of gold and silver coins—thousands of them if their quick count was in any way accurate—before the lightning bolt had arced down the center aisle of the chapel, striking them both. The guards would find little use for the riches now.

  As Gerwyth and Kaerion ran toward her from either corner of the room, she wondered if any of them would have use for the tomb’s treasure. Majandra knew in her heart that all of the gold in the world wouldn’t make up for the lives lost in this trap-riddled dungeon. Even if they made it out of the tomb with every last bit of treasure, she doubted if the sacrifice would ever be worth it.

  Majandra felt strong arms lift her up as a soft voice spoke into her ear. “Peace, little sister,” the soothing words said, though they came to her as if from a distance. Elvish words, her mind registered at last, and then she recognized Gerwyth’s scent, made slightly muskier by the elf’s sweat-laden exertions in the tomb. The odor was pleasant and, more importantly, familiar. She felt her body relaxing, the aching knot of grief in her chest easing. She trembled a few times before gaining control of herself.

  The bard saw Kaerion’s worried gaze and tried to smile her reassurance. Surely, she would have given in to despair long before this had it not been for the fighter’s solid presence. Vaxor’s death had been a cruel blow, one that had cut unexpectedly deep for both of them. Yet somehow, though they had said only a few words in private since that tragic moment, she felt Kaerion’s strength beside her, and knew that their grief was bearable because it was shared.

  “We must try and push on, Majandra,” Kaerion said to her after a moment. “This chapel is especially evil, even for Acererak’s tomb. I’d rather not spend any more time in here.”

  She nodded and drew in a deep breath, trying to keep it from turning in to a sob. Gently, she placed her hands upon the rangers shoulder and tapped. Gracefully, Gerwyth withdrew his arms from around her.

  “Thank you both,” she said, and then stepped down from the altar area. As soon as she moved, she noticed that the once opalescent blue stone of the altar had turned a fiery blue-red.

  “Gerwyth—”

  “I see it,” was the ranger’s whispered reply. “Just keep moving away.”

  The bard backed away slowly, grateful that the elf was taking his own advice. Once clear of the fiery stone, Majandra let out her breath and cast a quick look around the chamber. The chapel itself was over sixty feet long and sixty feet wide, sculpted carefully from the surrounding stone of the tomb. Like other areas of the tomb, the walls of this chapel were covered in mosaics depicting scenes of everyday life. To her dismay, however, the people depicted in these scenes were horribly corrupted. Rotting flesh, skeletal faces, worm-ridden skin—each scene was more ghastly than the last.

  Worse still, the whole area was set up like the temples she was familiar with in Rel Mord. Wooden pews filled the east and west portions of this room, while the whole layout drew the observer’s eye to the imposing stone altar in the center of the south wall. Beyond the angry colored stone, the bard could see a tiered dais. Resting on top of the dais was a simple wooden chair—the ceremonial seat of the presiding cleric. Two large brass candelabra stood to either side of the dais, and Majandra could almost see the smoky flame coming from the five unlit white candles that sprouted from the candelabra like skeletal hands. She shuddered at this image, for every detail of the room spoke not only of evil, but also of goodness corrupted. Even the holy symbols on the walls, many representing the good gods and goddesses of the land, were not exact images. Each had some slight imperfection, and many were twisted to demonstrate the reverse of its intended meaning.

  Worried, she scanned the room for signs of Phathas. She caught sight of the old mage leaning his bent back against the wood of the pew closest to the tunnel from which they had entered the tomb. She also saw the three remaining guards carefully searching the skeletal figure that lay upon the floor to the west of the altar, its outstretched hand pointing toward the mist covered expanse of another archway. Landra, the guards’ captain, conferred quietly with Kaerion, who had settled himself carefully near the edge of one of the
pews.

  “Well,” one of the guards said, “it looks like our next step is clear. This archway is our only way out.”

  “It would seem that way,” Phathas said, turning from his examination of the wooden pews, “but I would be very careful following through on such an assumption.”

  The old mage’s voice quavered across the chapel’s distance. Majandra thought that he sounded tired—more tired than she had ever heard him. A wave of sadness washed over her. She knew that as deeply as she grieved for those who had died, their loss would have cut the mage deeper—especially the loss of Vaxor. The two men had been close friends for decades, and now it looked as if the weight of those deaths bore down upon the mage with an implacable force. Majandra could see just how much the wizened mage leaned upon his staff as he made his way toward the center of the chapel.

  “I agree,” the bard found herself saying. “The skeleton pointing toward that archway seems too obvious a clue. I say we split up and give the room another search. But be careful not to touch anything.”

  Choosing the area behind the wicked altar, Majandra lost herself in the close examination of the stone wall. She had begun to lose track of time when a shout went up from the opposite area of the chapel. Turning, she saw one of the guards pointing to a small section of the wall, several feet in front of a large, stoppered urn. She made her way toward the guard but waited for the others to arrive before giving the indicated area a close examination.

  Before her, about four feet off the ground, Majandra could see a small slot in the stone. Above the slot, the letter O was etched faintly into the gray wall. While the others congratulated the sharp-eyed guard, Majandra tugged at her lower lip, deep in thought. Something about this slot triggered her bardic memory, and she chased that elusive trigger through the twists and turns of her “inner library.” Around her, she could hear the group debating their next course of action. Voices rose and faded, points of view were exchanged, but she heard it all from a great distance.