The Tomb of Horrors

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

Kaerion fell back, weaponless except for the familiar weight of Galadorn, which he could not draw. The monk moved forward, a cruel smile upon his face. “Let’s see how good you are without your little weapons,” he challenged.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Kaerion saw Phathas raise his staff, ready to come to his aid. The mage stumbled forward, however, a look of surprise and pain upon his face, before he fell to the ground with a sword lodged in his back. Kaerion cried out as he saw Bredeth, a look of horror drawn across his noble features, bend down and pick up the sword that he had just plunged into the back of his own companion. Bloodied sword now raised in the air, the nobleman screamed once and brought his other hand to his head.

  “Get out of my mind!” he shouted fiercely.

  Kaerion couldn’t see any more as he thrust his shield up to block two kicks that would have surely connected with his head. Concentrating, mostly unsuccessfully, on avoiding the blows that rained down upon him, it wasn’t until he heard another scream, this time coming from Majandra, that he spared a glance from his opponent.

  And stopped dead in his tracks.

  The bard stood transfixed by a black beam, a look of agony upon her face. Within moments, her body began to dissolve. Kaerion shouted once and then sprang into action, hoping to get past his red-robed opponent. A palm strike to his neck blasted all feeling from his body. Kaerion’s limbs would no longer obey him. He was forced to watch in horror as the black beam consumed Majandra.

  In moments, there was nothing left of her at all.

  “No!” Kaerion screamed, a wave of despair washing over him. It had happened again. He had failed, and people who he cared about had died. The rest of his friends were dying even now, and he couldn’t do anything about it.

  Some protector, a voice in his head whispered. Anger, fear, and grief threatened to overwhelm him, but the voice offered release. You know where there is safety, it said in a honeyed tone. You know where you can find peace.

  Images flashed through his head: A dark hole, covered in shadow—the slime-covered wall of a dungeon. Darkness called out to him, wanted to wrap him in its arms. He could feel the pain easing as it drew near. He wanted to go to it—to lose himself in its endless embrace.

  Yes, the voice said. Here there is freedom from your burdens. You can forget your pain.

  Another image appeared suddenly, this one of a red-haired woman whose nose had the tiniest dusting of freckles. She smiled.

  And Kaerion knew with sudden clarity that there were things he didn’t want to forget. Ever. Majandra had taught him how to live again. In the shelter of her arms, he had relearned the power of forgiveness and trust. And he saw now that pain and grief could be gifts, their presence a reminder of exactly how precious are the things that we have lost.

  No. He didn’t want to forget his pain at all.

  Shaking his head, Kaerion ignored the voice. It’s dulcet tones transforming into shrieks of fury at his actions. He tried to pull back from the hole and the darkness that flowed out of it like burnt molasses, but he couldn’t The comforting embrace became bands of iron that closed about his arms and chest.

  He felt as if he were falling from a great height. Above him, he could see the image of Majandra, growing more and more distant. Helpless, still reeling from his loss, Kaerion uttered words he hadn’t spoken in over ten years.

  “Heironeous!” he shouted into the darkness. “Help me!”

  His world exploded into light.

  Vision, nightmare, or reality—Kaerion couldn’t decide. He sat on a high-backed chair, its carefully carved frame forming a canopy over his head, and stared in wonder at the familiar interior of the temple. On both sides of him stood the comforting mass of statues, weapons raised high, while a long aisle stretched out before him, leading out toward what he knew to be the richly appointed narthex.

  He was alone—or at least it appeared that there was no one else in the temple. The deep recesses of the chamber held pools of shadow, though these didn’t give off a sense of evil. Kaerion breathed deeply, feeling as if a great knot had been released within his chest. In fact, Kaerion realized with a start that he no longer felt the oppressive weight of Acererak’s presence.

  But there was more to this feeling than merely an absence of evil. Separated for so long from his constant connection with Heironeous, it took him a few moments to recognize the power of his god. It was like that moment in Rel Mord when Vaxor banished the demon, except the presence was less concentrated and more pervasive. It was everywhere, flowing through each stone and marble block of the temple. The very air hummed with the strength of it, and Kaerion wondered how he could have missed such a Presence when he first arrived here—wherever “here” was.

  “Ahh, I was wondering when you’d get around to noticing me,” a light voice said from somewhere behind him.

  Kaerion whipped around, startled by the intrusion, only to find himself looming over a young boy. Piercing blue eyes gazed into his. Kaerion’s knees trembled as he recognized the familiar face. Standing before him with a cherubic smile upon his face was the object of his nightmares these past ten years—the boy he had betrayed in the dungeons of Dorakaa.

  “W-who are you?” he asked, surprised to hear his voice sound so firm. Nothing was making any sense.

  The boy’s smile faded, replaced by an expression of purest innocence. “Why, you called upon me,” he replied, closing the distance between them.

  Kaerion shook his head in disbelief. This wasn’t possible. “You… you can’t be him.”

  “And who are you to tell me who I can and cannot be?” the boy said harshly.

  Kaerion could feel the hint of power beneath the child’s treble, like the sense of a storm’s raging power moments before it unleashes its fury. He would have cast down his eyes in shame, but the boy—god, really, Kaerion thought with wonder—stood right before him, not releasing his gaze.

  “Where am I?” Kaerion asked, not wishing the moment of silence to stretch on further.

  “You are where you need to be,” the boy said with maddening vagueness.

  “But my friends,” Kaerion replied, unwilling to abandon them even now, “they need my help.”

  The boy-god smiled “Loyalty is a noble trait,” he said. “Fear not, for if you return to your companions, not a single moment of time will have passed.”

  Kaerion nodded, a little unnerved by the boy’s use of the word if. “Then what do you want of me? Why am I here?”

  The boy said nothing, still gazing at him with those bright piercing eyes. “Why did you not call on me sooner?” the god asked, all trace of levity gone from his face. Kaerion could hear sadness and a slight tinge of reproach in the child’s voice.

  This time, Kaerion did hang his head in shame. “I betrayed you—the child—in Dorakaa,” he explained. “I let fear for my life take precedence over the protection of the weak and innocent.” Familiar emotions churned within Kaerion’s heart. This time, he did not retreat from them. “I failed you,” he said finally. “I was not worthy to call upon your name.”

  “And you are now?” the boy asked in a chilling tone.

  Kaerion had no response. Cautiously, he raised his head to meet the god’s gaze once more. To his surprise, the boy was smiling. “I want you to watch something, Kaerion—if you have the strength.” With a wave of his tiny hand, the air before Kaerion’s face shimmered, gradually resolving into an image.

  It was the very heart of his nightmare. A young boy lay tied to an altar, while demonic figures cavorted around him. With a muffled curse, Kaerion realized that he could see himself in the image, emaciated and dirty, kneeling a few feet from the altar. He fought down a wave of nausea as he watched his kneeling figure decline the demons’ offer to exchange his life for the boy’s. Tears were streaming down his face by the time the demons were finished with their sacrifice.

  But Kaerion did not look away. He relived every second of that event, recalled every sight, sound, and emotion, both through the god’s power an
d the strength of his own memory. Still, he found the courage to experience it all again.

  He watched as the demons dragged his sobbing body from the room, but the image continued. He stared in horror as the boy’s bloodied carcass writhed and undulated on the altar. Shredded muscle and puckered flesh joined. The boy’s body elongated. Broken bones knitted together. Kaerion’s horror grew as the boy’s hands twisted into claws, and scales grew upon his flesh like thick moss upon a swamp rock. Wings sprouted from the creature’s back, and it raised itself off the altar with a single thrust of its new appendages.

  Kaerion looked at Heironeous’ avatar in disbelief. “What—?” He couldn’t continue.

  The avatar nodded once at Kaerion’s confusion. “Yes, you see it now. There never was any innocent boy in Dorakaa. You were tricked. Even in Iuz’s seat of power I protected you. His servants couldn’t kill you unless you gave yourself to them freely.”

  “But even if it was an illusion, I thought it was real,” Kaerion protested. “I still believed that either the boy or I would die. I chose to live.”

  “No,” the avatar persisted. “You sensed something was wrong, and even though you were half mad, you wouldn’t let Iuz triumph. Remember?”

  “No,” Kaerion said. “No! It was my fault. Mine!”

  “Remember,” the avatar said, and this time it was not a question. The god’s word exploded in Kaerion’s mind, and Kaerion did remember. It was a thing almost completely forgotten, a recollection buried deep within the hole that was Dorakaa. He had sensed something wrong, but his guilt at his own weakness had hidden this from him.

  “If I didn’t fail you, then why have I not sensed you these past years?” Kaerion did not know whether to shout or cry. He was a tangle of emotions, both new and old.

  “My son,” the avatar said in a child’s kind voice, “you thought that you escaped Dorakaa, but you have carried that dungeon within you these many years, refusing to be free of it. I could not reach you until you called out to me for help.”

  “But the curse,” Kaerion said, indicating his sheathed holy sword. “Why did you torment me with Galadorn’s presence?”

  The avatar smiled once more. “You know the strength and power of that sword. Galadorn chooses its own wielder, and not even I will command it otherwise.” At Kaerion’s blank expression, the avatar continued, “I never cursed you with its presence. Had I truly condemned you, I would have tried to persuade it to choose someone else. Fortunately—” the boy’s voice began to deepen, word by word—“the sword simply refused to leave your side.”

  Kaerion would not have believed it if Galadorn hadn’t pulsed with energy at that moment. All of this was too much to comprehend. He needed time to think things through.

  “Time is what we do not have,” the avatar said, responding to his thoughts. Kaerion turned at the deep, resonating bass of the god’s voice. Gone was the wide-eyed, innocent boy. He had been replaced by a muscular warrior in pure, golden plate armor. The man’s face was handsome, and nobility and strength flowed from every pore.

  “Will you serve me?” the Arch Paladin said, holding a gleaming silver sword over Kaerion’s head. Without thinking, Kaerion dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his face. In a voice far sturdier than he would have thought possible, he accepted the yoke of Heironeous once again.

  “Then rise, Kaerion, known as the Whitehart, best and brightest of my champions,” the avatar’s voice thundered throughout the temple and, Kaerion suspected, beyond the planes, “and carry my justice to the world!”

  Kaerion stood, surrounded by a nimbus of pure white light. The nimbus intensified, expanding to fill the temple.

  And beyond.

  * * *

  The light faded. In its place Kaerion saw a calloused palm, fingers hooked like claws, heading straight for his throat. He backed away furiously, tripping over a mound of gold coins. The avatar had been correct. No time had passed at all—which meant that he was still too late to save Majandra. The ache in his heart throbbed at that realization, yet he felt something else burning within his chest—the power of Heironeous.

  With a cry born of grief and triumph, Kaerion unsheathed the blade that had lain quiescent for a decade. Galadorn burst into life with an explosion of white heat. The runes running along its blue-steel length flared with coruscating energy. Raising the sword high, Kaerion called on the protection of Heironeous. The blade sang with power.

  At last, we are reunited! it shouted within Kaerion’s mind, sending forth a burst of energy that knocked the monk from his feet. Already, Kaerion could feel the blade’s holy might pushing back Acererak’s dark presence.

  I ask your forgiveness, Galadorn, for denying you so long, Kaerion said to the sword.

  There is nothing to forgive, came the reply. It took a few moments for Kaerion to realize that the sword’s voice in his mind seemed . . . different somehow. He had little time to think about such oddities, however, for he felt the righteous anger of his god rising within him. Acererak’s skull had turned from the battle and now regarded the paladin with a deadly gaze. Black energy shot out from the demi-lich’s eye—only to be swept away by a single cut from his holy sword.

  The skull’s presence throbbed like a cancerous blight to his god-enhanced senses. Everything inside Kaerion screamed for the abomination’s destruction. Breathing deeply, he charged the demi-lich.

  “Heironeous lend me strength!” he shouted as he drew nearer.

  Slowly at first, and then with increasing speed, he felt the Arch Paladin’s power filling him—white and hot and potent. Every fiber of Kaerion’s being drank in the holy energy, until his bones vibrated with the strength of it.

  The paladin swung his sword with a cry, barely able to contain the divine fury that swelled within him. There was a moment of resistance—and then Galadorn struck the demi-lich. Heironeous’ power rushed out of him. Fueled and magnified by the holy sword, it detonated against the skull, causing it to explode in a hail of powder and dust. The roiling darkness of Acererak’s spirit fled with an unearthly shriek.

  “No, you fool!” he heard a voice shout from somewhere near the vault’s door.

  There was no time to explore the source of that voice. Glancing at his companions, Kaerion could see that the golem had almost vanquished them. Landra stood before it, bruised and bleeding, barely able to hold up her sword, while Bredeth charged in and out of the creature’s reach, slicing at it like a hunting dog might worry the heels of a giant boar.

  Gerwyth had retreated a few steps and was firing arrows repeatedly at the monster. Several had managed to pierce its flesh, but it was nowhere close to being hurt. Kaerion ran forward, eager to bring Galadorn to bear on the situation, and was surprised to hear a soft whispering sound coming from the elf’s bow. He recognized the familiar lilt of Elvish, but, not being fluent in that language, he could not understand what it was saying. He had heard Gerwyth speaking to the weapon in battle before, but had never dreamed it was sentient.

  Galadorn’s influence must be allowing me to overhear it, he thought.

  The golem reached out a meaty hand to grab at Landra just as Kaerion swung his blade at the monster. The force of his blow cut deeply into the creature’s flesh. Kaerion heard the crack of bones as Galadorn cleaved through its shoulder, nearly severing the golem’s arm from its body. Through it all, he could hear the blade’s triumphant song ringing in his head.

  Another arrow struck the golem, lodging in the constructs throat, but that did not slow down its counterattack. Hastily, Kaerion slid to the creature’s left, raising his shield to block the forearm that threatened to snap the bones in his chest. The paladin grunted under the impact as his shield bent awkwardly around his arm. He was about to throw the useless instrument to the ground when Galadorn shouted, Kaerion, behind you!

  Kaerion turned but was not quick enough to dodge the attack. He screamed in agony as a black-clad figure thrust a blade deep into his back. Kaerion cursed at his own stupidity. He had compl
etely forgotten about the thief that had stolen some of Phathas’ maps during the attack on the inn.

  You are badly wounded, his sword declared—somewhat unnecessarily, for Kaerion could feel that the damage was extensive. The thief’s blade had sliced through his kidney and probably punctured his stomach.

  I will heal you, Kaerion’s holy sword said, and the paladin could indeed feel his wounds knitting together. Strength once more flowed into his arms. Kaerion threw himself back, unwilling to remain flanked a second longer.

  But you’ve never been able to do that before, he said to Galadorn. This is new.

  Indeed, was the blades only reply—and suddenly Kaerion realized what was different about the sword’s voice.

  Vaxor? He asked. Is that you?

  We are here, came the reply. Thank you for your gift.

  A movement off to his right stopped his next question. There, rising up from a pool of blood, was Phathas. The mage’s breath came heavy and labored, but he struggled to his feet. “Kill the cleric,” he wheezed, and pointed at a balding figure who held a black object in one hand. “Let the others handle the thief.”

  “What of the golem?” Kaerion asked.

  “Leave… to me,” was all the mage said. Kaerion was taken aback at the fierceness of his tone. “Do it!”

  Shaking his head, he moved away from the deadly construct and searched the room for signs of the thief.

  “Remember me, my friend,” the mage said softly, moments before he lunged at the golem. Before the monsters muscled arms could enclose him in its deadly embrace, he took his staff and broke it in half. Eldritch energy exploded from the item with concussive force. The power from the staff’s destruction beat against Galadorn’s wards, but the sword’s protective magic held.

  Kaerion ran toward the evil cleric, but before he could reach him, a red robed figure blocked his path. “This ends here,” Kaerion growled at the monk, who merely nodded in response. The paladin lashed out with a diagonal slice of his holy sword—and barely saved the blade from flying from his hand as his opponent delivered a spinning kick that struck the weapon. His effort to hold the blade securely left an opening for the monk to strike, and strike he did. Two vicious open hand blows struck Kaerion in the face, one nearly smashing the cartilage in his throat. Reeling, Kaerion could not raise his battered shield in time to block the monk’s snapping kick—which knocked him to his knees.