She watched as Vaxor stood, helping Phathas to his feet. The ancient mage wore his power like a cloak. Majandra could almost see the eddies of arcane energy swirling about him. Eyes that were gray as the clouds of a summer storm looked out from a face of harsh angles. Like many wizards, he wore a beard, silvered by time but thick and curling in the heated room. Unlike many of his noble colleagues at the University, who groomed their beards almost obsessively with silvered combs, often weaving the hair into thick braids, Phathas’ beard resembled a wild bird’s nest of tangles and knots.
Majandra’s attention returned to what the wizard was saying.
“For many years,” continued Phathas, “Nyrond was a kingdom divided against itself. Disgusted by his father’s leadership during the Greyhawk Wars, which had left much of the kingdom in debt to foreign powers, Black Prince Sewarndt poisoned the king and, with a cadre of his most trusted advisors, attempted to seize the throne. He would have succeeded if it hadn’t been for the valiant efforts of the Heironean clergy,” he nodded once toward Vaxor, “and the decisive leadership of King Lynwerd, who was then Crown Prince of Nyrond.”
“But the Regicide had broken the spirit of the already beleaguered country. Starvation, drought, and the aftermath of the war had scarred Nyrond deeply; civil war nearly killed it. And I fear that the country still suffers from this illness of spirit.”
Phathas paused for a moment, head bowed. Majandra was struck by how fragile the mage seemed. His voice, always rich and resonant, sounded rough around the edges, and his hands, confident hands that were ever ready to wield ancient spells or teach a fledgling spellcaster her first cantrip, shook ever so slightly.
He’s getting old, she thought in amazement, and wondered why she hadn’t seen it before. With a shock, she recalled that her own studies with the mage were nearly two-score years ago. The bard looked at the smooth skin of her hands. Time marches on for us all, she knew, but elven blood slows the pace.
“The situation is intolerable,” continued Vaxor, filling the ensuing silence with an orator’s practiced ease, “and there are a number of loyal Nyrondese, both noble and common, who would see our country restored to its former greatness. Thanks to Phathas’ tireless research, we have an opportunity to do just that.”
The priest crossed his arms and indicated with a nod of his head that Phathas should continue, but to Majandra’s surprise, it was Bredeth who interjected. “We have discovered the location of an ancient tomb, the resting place of the fabled wizard, Acererak. Inside lies a veritable king’s ransom of gold and magic, treasure enough to pay off our debts to these foreign kingdoms with some left to fill the country’s coffers once again. Nyrond will rise again from its ashes—” the noble nearly shouted, slapping his hand hard against the table—“and she will once more stand among the greatest kingdoms of the world.”
Stunned as she was by the ferocity in the man’s tone, Majandra nearly fell from her chair at the sharp bark of laughter that erupted from the man called Kaerion.
“That’s your plan?” asked the broad-shouldered fighter. “You’re going to restore your nation’s glory by pillaging an old wizard’s final resting place? Why not take to the roads and steal what you need from itinerant travelers? It would be far easier.”
Despite the fighters harsh tone, Majandra’s trained ear picked up a trace of anger and bitterness. The hidden emotions beat a subtle counterpoint to the man’s words, and it took the bard a few moments to realize that they were not directed at their plan, but right back at the fighter himself.
“Peace my friends,” Phathas spoke, forestalling Bredeth’s heated retort. The noble sat back down in the chair from which he had sprung and closed his mouth sharply—though his golden eyes smoldered.
The old mage directed his gaze at Kaerion. “Rest assured that Acererak was no benevolent conjurer or kindly sage,” he said. “Rather, he was completely and totally devoted to the cause of evil. The treasure buried within his tomb was either stolen, extorted, or gathered from the ranks of slain heroes who died opposing his dark reign.
“All of us,” he gestured to the assembled group, “have thought long and hard about our course of action, and we have committed to seeing it through. Make no mistake; it will not be easy. Legends tell of Acererak’s quest to rob death of its power. It’s probable that he still dwells within his tomb in some form, surrounded by every horror his twisted mind can envision. With skill and a fair bit of luck, we may succeed where others before us have failed.”
“Then where do we fit in Phathas?” asked the golden-maned elf, who, up until this point, had remained completely silent. “Your message said nothing about crawling through some decrepit tomb, only that you needed my woodlore.”
Phathas’ answering smile split his face into a canyon of lines. “Exactly correct, my old friend,” the mage responded with obvious affection. “We’ve crawled through enough dungeons together, haven’t we?”
Majandra dropped her cup at the wizard’s words, spilling the last few drops of her ale. By the looks she saw on her friends’ faces, she wasn’t the only one surprised to hear that Phathas knew the elf, let alone that one of the greatest minds at the Royal University had once strapped on gear and braved the dangers of the adventuring life. Kaerion, too, seemed surprised at the revelation—surprised and, she’d have to say, none too pleased. But before any of them could voice their thoughts, Phathas spoke again.
“Acereraks tomb lies deep in the Vast Swamp, south of Sunndi. We need you and Kaerion to guide us through that treacherous land. The journey will not be easy or, I’m afraid, terribly swift. We have made arrangements with several merchants and will have adequately provisioned wagons and a small team of drovers to help us carry out whatever we can discover in the tomb.”
“Gerwyth, this is crazy,” interjected Kaerion. “The Vast Swamp is crawling with humanoid tribes, not to mention the hazards of the swamplands themselves.”
It was Vaxor, however, who responded. “It is said, friend Kaerion, that Heironeous favors the bold and punishes the timid I believe that the Valorous One favors this mission, and the resources of my Church are at our disposal.”
The bard watched as Kaerion recoiled at the priest’s words. For a moment, she thought he would get up and strike Vaxor, so great was the anger that flared in his countenance. Instead, he scowled at his companion. “Ger,” the man said, “surely you’re not—”
The ranger held up his hand, cutting off his friend’s entreaty. “I owe you much, Phathas,” he said, “and loath are the elves to turn their back on those they call friend. Let me have a look at your plans, and I will speak with Kaerion privately. We will deliver our answer to you in the morning.”
“Very well,” the mage nodded and stood. “Come Vaxor. Let us retire to our suite and fill Gerwyth in. We will all assemble in the morning.”
Majandra watched as the three men left the taproom. The elf threw his friend a single glance, but Kaerion simply scowled and downed his ale in a single gulp. Without a word of farewell, he stood up and headed for the door of the inn.
She stared at the door for a few moments, and then back at Bredeth, who also wore an ill-suited look about his face. She sighed once and made a decision. Sketching a quick and none-too-respectful bow at the dour-looking noble, she followed Kaerion out the door.
Curiosity had won.
The air stank. Damp and fetid, the awful stench filled the sewer tunnels that snaked with labyrinthine complexity beneath Rel Mord. Built of thick, dark stone, the sewers channeled waste and garbage—the unmentionable castoffs of civilized society—from the city above into the deep-flowing waters of the Duntide River. Small ledges in each tunnel allowed passage over the oozing flow of sewage, though even the relatively high ceiling did not make the journey anywhere near comfortable.
Durgoth fought down another gag at the oppressive fumes, cursing silently at the necessity for such a demeaning entrance into the city. A thin layer of slime and moss clung to the slick walls of the pas
sage, and the sound of dripping water echoed everywhere around him. Just for a moment, he heard in the dreadful repeating sound thousands of voices calling out his name in awe and terror. Moss-covered walls became towers and temples, draped with banners proclaiming his majesty and the power of the god he served, and the chill touch of the damp sewer air become the crisp bite of the winter wind whipping hard across the plains and grasslands of Nyrond at his command. This is how one should enter a city such as Rel Mord, the cleric thought, and he vowed to make it so after he had completed his quest.
The moment passed and Durgoth glanced at his companions, noting with a touch of bitterness that among the group that had traveled from the monastery, Jhagren alone appeared serene and unaffected by their dank, oppressive surroundings. Even young Adrys could not match the easy gait and impassive mien of his master, though it was obvious that the apprentice tried valiantly. Only the dull, heavy tread of the golem, walking dutifully behind him, kept the clerics temper from fraying completely. He allowed a rare smile at the thought of his creation. Let the others wonder about the extent of his powers, now. He could command death, and soon, he knew, his Master would give him the power to command life.
Their guide, a rough-voiced human with a small, angular face that resembled a ferret, interrupted the clerics ruminations. “About twenty yards up this passage is a narrow side tunnel that leads into a larger chamber. We can take a few moments to rest there before continuing on.”
“I don’t understand,” Durgoth replied. “We are obviously beyond the city gates, and we’ve passed at least four separate ladders that would take us up into Rel Mord proper. Why don’t we push on and use the next ladder?”
Truthfully, he was more than annoyed at the delay. The sooner they settled in the city, the sooner they could make final preparations and begin their journey.
“We may be beyond the gates,” the guide spoke in a calm voice, “but the streets of Rel Mord are patrolled by armed sentinels, and we can’t risk being spotted as we emerge from the sewers. It would endanger not only us, but also the Guild’s relationship with the city watch. As long as we do nothing overt, the watch commanders can take their bribes in good conscience. And even were we to leave the sewers unnoticed, it would be difficult to travel inconspicuously.” He indicated the hulking golem with a deft finger. “Even cloaked as it is, it would be a risky thing to try and pass off the creature as human. No. There are several passages that will take us into the Poor Quarter. From there, I can take you to a Guild house, where you’ll be hidden until you’re ready to leave as a respectable caravan master.”
Durgoth nodded reluctantly at the logic of the thief’s words. “Then lead on, but hurry. I have much more important things to do than skulk around in a gods-blasted sewer.”
When they entered the chamber, Durgoth was surprised at its elegance. A high-vaulted ceiling arched into darkness beyond the light of their group’s torches, and the walls, almost painfully drab in the sewer tunnels, were almost garishly ornate, decorated as they were with grinning bas-relief gargoyles and prettily accented stonework. Several passages ran off this chamber, each one beginning with a wide archway. Above the center of each arch, seemingly flying out of the very stone itself, hung the torso of a beautiful winged human. The right hand of each sculpture bore a stone sword, while the left hand lay open, palm up, as if holding something invisible to the eye.
The cleric looked around for a moment, almost enviously. Their guide had said this chamber was used long ago as a way station for the caretakers and guards that once patrolled the sewers, repairing any damage and clearing the tunnels of any creatures that might have taken up residence there. The quality of the stonework spoke volumes as to the skill and wealth of the founders of Rel Mord, and Durgoth could not help but be impressed.
How far they have fallen, he thought as he watched several of his cultists lay down their packs and wipe the muck from their boots. Out of the corner of his eye, the cleric saw Jhagren talking softly with their guide. When the two were finished, the monk made his way silently toward him.
“How long do we rest?” Durgoth asked.
“A few moments only,” Jhagren replied. “Our guide indicated that we had perhaps another half hour of travel before we were deep enough in the Poor Quarter to emerge from the sewers.”
“Good,” the cleric nodded. “How are the others holding up?”
The journey by river boat and then overland had taken over a month of hard travel, and even he, nourished by his god and the finest provisions he could purchase, felt the strain of such a trek. His concern, however, was not truly for the welfare of his followers. Let Tharizdun give strength to those who deserved it. He only wished not to be slowed down by those who were undeserving.
“They are tired, blessed one,” replied the monk, “but they are eager to accompany you on your quest. They will do what it takes to continue.”
“Indeed they will,” the cleric confirmed with a hint of steel. He would have replied further, but another voice interrupted him.
“Danger,” it hissed with the cold sibilance of the grave. It took a few moments for Durgoth to realize that it was the golem itself that had spoken.
“Where?” the cleric asked, searching for the cause of the alarm.
But it was too late.
The room plunged into total darkness.
“What treachery is this?” Durgoth shouted above the wild cries of his followers.
A moment later another voice answered, “Please, my dear friend, let us not be too hasty in our pronouncements. This is not treachery. This is merely a renegotiation of terms.”
Durgoth’s blood burned with anger. Was that amusement he heard in the ringing tones of that voice? He was nobody’s plaything, to be used and made a fool of. Quietly, he reached for his obsidian mace.
“And what if I choose not to renegotiate?” he asked of the mysterious voice.
When the reply came, it was yet a different voice. “That would be most… unfortunate.”
“Then here is my reply,” said the cleric.
He touched the tip of his mace and shouted into the darkness. The room filled with a dim bluish light. Durgoth could see figures skulking out of the shadows toward their group.
Suddenly, the air was filled with the hiss of flying crossbow bolts. Two cultists fell to the stone floor immediately, bolts imbedded in the center of their chests, while a third clutched his leg in obvious agony. Durgoth shrank back for a moment, expecting the sting of metal, but Jhagren Syn sprang into action. Soundlessly, the monk stepped to Durgoth’s side, his hands moving blindingly fast. Three bolts to the left clattered harmlessly to the floor, while the fourth, which sped right for Durgoth’s throat, split in two beneath the knife edge blow of Jhagren’s calloused hand.
The cleric was stunned for only the briefest of moments before he turned to the golem. “Defend me!” he shouted at the mass of flesh and muscle. Without a word, the creature stepped in front of Durgoth, ready to meet the advancing figures.
He turned to give orders to Jhagren, but the monk was already gone, carrying the fight to their attackers. Durgoth spotted the man rolling to his feet amid three opponents. The monk was a red blur, spinning, kicking and punching. When he was through, two men lay dead on the floor, and the last one clutched at the red ruin of his throat, unaware that he was already dead. Durgoth watched as the monk opened his hand, dropped the shattered cartilage to the floor, and then rushed forward to meet more attackers.
Another deadly hiss brought his attention back to the fight at hand. Five crossbow bolts hit the golem in the chest with a meaty thunk. The creature ignored them and reached out with a thickly-muscled arm to slap away the short sword of a thief. Another swipe of its arm struck the attacker squarely, and Durgoth could hear a sharp snap as the man’s bones broke beneath the blow. The thief crumpled into a pulpy heap on the ground.
That nuisance taken care of, the cleric scanned the room for bowmen. Sure enough, he spotted five figures hastily re
loading their crossbows on a ledge in the northern section of the room. With a vicious smile, he focused his will and began to chant in a deep-throated voice. He twisted his arm up in a swift motion and then finished the words to his prayer. A beam of pure darkness shot from his hands, consuming all light in its path. When the beam struck the bowmen on the ledge, they screamed and began to tremble. Durgoth watched in satisfaction as the darkness consumed their flesh from the inside out, until nothing living was left on that ledge.
The sounds of battle and the cries of the wounded filled the wide chamber. Jhagren and Adrys continued to strike blow after blow against the treacherous thieves, and Durgoth noted the pile of bodies they had left in their wake. The slightest whisper of sound alerted him to the presence of a cloaked figure approaching from behind. He cursed once and spun, trying to avoid the inevitable attack, but it was too late. He cried out as a dagger plunged deeply into his side. Blindly, he struck out with his fist and felt it strike the would-be-assassin with a satisfying crunch. Swiftly, the cleric grabbed his obsidian mace and swung it hard at his attacker, hoping to take advantage of the thief’s surprise at being struck. His opponent, however, was far faster. The thief ducked beneath the whistling mace and drew his own sword. The two opponents circled each other warily, though Durgoth spared an occasional glance at the golem, hoping to maneuver his attacker within reach of the creature’s grasp.
His opponent attacked left. Durgoth allowed himself to be drawn in by this obvious feint, blocking hastily with his mace. When the thief drew a second dagger and struck at his right side, the cleric stepped easily aside and kicked his attacker with a heavy boot. The man doubled over only for a moment, but it was enough time to bring his own mace crashing down on his opponent’s head. The thief’s skull cracked open like an egg. Gray matter and blood spilled out on the floor.
[Greyhawk 07] - The Tomb of Horrors Page 4