[Greyhawk 07] - The Tomb of Horrors

by Keith Francis Strohm - (ebook by Undead)

  * * *

  “Why did you help me?” Kaerion asked. His deep voice still slurred, though Majandra couldn’t tell if that was from the ale he’d consumed or the cracked and swelling lip that still bled.

  She thought of her answer as they weaved their way through the narrow, angled streets of the Rich Quarter. After their exit from the Men O’Steel tavern, the bard had quickly started to guide them back to the suite at the Platinum Shield. They had made most of the trip in silence, their quiet journey broken by the whistling of Kaerion’s nose as he drew breath through his nostrils. It was only after they had entered this section of the city that the man had spoken.

  “What good is being noble-born if you can’t use it to your advantage once in a while?” she said finally as they made their way through the servant’s entrance to the Platinum Shield.

  A few of the serving lads and kitchen maids looked askance at their condition, but Majandra paid them no heed. A few silver coins would keep their tongues relatively quiet.

  She started to bring Kaerion up the side stairs to her room, but stopped when she heard Bredeth’s arrogant whine close by. She cursed and guided the listing fighter back down the stairs and through a side passage. It wouldn’t do for any of her companions to see Kaerion like this—especially Bredeth. That highborn dolt would make an issue of it, and she didn’t want to risk the possibility of Kaerion walking away from their offer. They needed him.

  Or perhaps you need him, a small voice whispered in her mind. She ignored the implications of that and tried once again to sneak him upstairs. This time, Norebo, god of luck, smiled upon her. Majandra breathed a sigh of relief as she led Kaerion to her bed and closed the door to her suite.

  Gently, she helped Kaerion out of his tunic, wincing at the sight of fresh bruises and old scars that marred the sweeping cut of his massive chest and broad back. By the time she tucked silk sheets around his girth, he was half asleep, staring vacantly at the ceiling.

  “Didn’t answer… question,” he mumbled as she made to leave. “Why… help… me?”

  When the answer came, it surprised even her. “Because you have a tale to tell, and I’m a sucker for a tale. Especially,” she said, half to herself, “when it comes wrapped in a gorgeous frame like yours.”

  But Kaerion hadn’t heard. Sleep had finally claimed him.

  The days passed with a quiet hum of intensity as Phathas and his companions met with a seemingly endless array of merchants, provisioners, caravan masters, and even a few of the old wizards colleagues from the Royal University. The group checked and rechecked their calculations, measuring the distance against their available stores and trying to plan for most emergencies. Nights were spent poring over old maps and the notes from Phathas’ research, verifying the probable location of the ancient tomb and the safest possible route toward it.

  Kaerion watched the preparations from a distance, trying hard not to remember spending his time similarly in the years when he commanded battalions of armed men. For that’s what the activities of the last few days felt like—preparations for a war. He just couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that they had already lost.

  Why then, he asked himself several times, am I staying?

  Ever since he had woken up the morning after his ill-fated altercation at the Men O’Steel, he knew that he would accompany Gerwyth and the rest of the group on their journey. Perhaps it was the perverse desire to confound and antagonize the hot-headed Bredeth, who had spent a good portion of that morning arguing with Majandra, Gerwyth, and Vaxor once he had learned about Kaerion’s activities of the previous evening. Or perhaps it was the fact that, despite his protestations to the contrary, a part of him still believed in the power of friendship and honor. Perhaps it was even the desire to remain close to the fiery-haired bard, the only person besides Gerwyth who, in the last decade, had ever shown him a measure of true kindness. In the din and tumult surrounding the last few days, it was difficult for him to identify his motivations. He only knew that he had woken up that morning with a blazing hangover and a commitment to the upcoming journey. Only one of those two things had eventually faded away.

  Now, he watched and waited, not quite sulking, but definitely anxious to keep his distance from the Nyrondese party—especially Vaxor. A few times, he had caught the priest of Heironeous casting a stern gaze his way, and though he was able to meet the clerics eyes, he found himself shrinking inside, trying to hide his shame from that penetrating countenance. If the cleric had discovered anything, he did not, thankfully, confront him.

  As time passed, Kaerion’s head began to ache and he found his muscles trembling, as much from the onslaught of nightmares and sleepless nights as from an absence of ale. Kaerion gritted his teeth and bore the pain. There would be time for indulgences soon enough. He just hoped he had the strength to survive until then.

  * * *

  A few nights before the group was supposed to leave the city, Gerwyth tapped Kaerion lightly upon the shoulder and pointed to a secluded corner of the suite. Phathas and Vaxor were engaged in a long discussion regarding the implications of a verse on some ancient scroll, and both Majandra and Bredeth were doing some final negotiations with one of the merchants who was providing the draft animals for their expedition. Alone and, truth be told, anxious for some company, Kaerion shrugged and followed Gerwyth. For once, the elf’s face did not bear a mocking smile. His demeanor was uncharacteristically serious.

  Kaerion stared at his friend. The silence and hurt of the last few days stretched out between them like a yawning chasm. There had been several attempts at normal conversation between the two of them the day after their arrival in Rel Mord, but each one had ended with shouting and the same bitter feelings of hurt, anger, and betrayal. It took more than a few moments for the silence to break.

  When it did, it was the elf who spoke first. “I hate seeing you like this, Kaer.”

  His friend’s words were spoken softly, carefully, and try as he might to deny it, Kaerion could hear the concern in the ranger’s voice.

  “You should have told me who we were supposed to meet, Gerwyth,” he replied. “You should have told me everything.”

  The elf nodded and waited a bit before speaking. “You’re right, of course. I should have. It was wrong of me to hold back on you like that.”

  Kaerion sat stunned for just a moment. In all the years that he had traveled with Gerwyth, this was the first time the free-spirited elf had ever apologized for anything.

  “It’s just that I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you all about this job, and I knew I would really need you on this one.”

  “There’s a reason why I wouldn’t have come, Ger,” Kaerion replied, heat building in his voice. “All of this,” he indicated the lavish room and the two nobles who dickered on oblivious of the two guides, “reminds me of the life I left behind, the life that my own mistakes destroyed. It’s like Galadorn….”

  He paused for a moment after he spoke the holy sword’s name—even now, after everything he’d forsworn, he couldn’t speak about the blade without experiencing a frisson of awe and reverence.

  “That sword reminds me of everything that I’ve lost. It’s a damned curse. The last and final punishment meted out by the god I betrayed. Only now, I have to spend months pretending to be nothing more than a hired sword while traveling with a pack of nobles and their Heironean cleric.” Kaerion pitched his voice even softer before continuing. “Do you know what Vaxor will do if he uncovers my sin?”

  Gerwyth nodded and placed a hand upon Kaerion’s shoulder, giving it a companionable squeeze. “I do understand, Kaer. Truly I do. We have traveled many leagues together, my friend, and I have watched you suffer from the mistakes you’ve made. You have rebuilt a part of yourself from the ashes of your defeat, and that takes great strength and courage, whatever you may think. But a half-life is no life at all. I’ve seen the way you drink, hoping that it will fill the part of you that is still missing, the part that died over ten years ago.
The time has come for you to stop running and face that darkness inside.”

  Kaerion shrugged the elf’s hands off of his shoulder. “That is my decision to make, Ger, not yours. When I’m ready for such a journey, I’ll take it.”

  “Perhaps,” Gerwyth replied, “if you were an elf, such a sentiment would hold true. But the life-flame of your kind burns fast, and I would not see you carry such pain to the grave. You are a true friend, Kaerion, and I will bend every ounce of my power to help you.”

  “Like you’re doing with Phathas?” Kaerion said Bitterness burned like a hot coal on his tongue.

  Gerwyth raised an eyebrow at his response. “Phathas is an old friend. And yes, I would do anything I could to help him—even brave your wrath.” A trace of that familiar mocking smile crept upon the elf’s face.

  Despite himself, Kaerion found his anger abating somewhat. “You could have told me about Phathas,” he said with just a trace of pettiness.

  “That was another lifetime, Kaer,” Gerwyth responded. “And truth be told, I didn’t think you’d be that interested. Besides, if I regaled you with all of the details of my life, you’d be half-dead before I finished.” His smile grew even wider.

  “Yeah,” Kaerion replied, a grin forming on his own face, “no doubt from boredom.”

  The elf’s almond-shaped eyes widened in a poor imitation of innocent shock, and he let out a sharp laugh before offering Kaerion his sword arm. “So,” he asked, “shall we still travel together as shield-mates?”

  Kaerion regarded his companion’s outstretched arm. He was still a bit angry with Gerwyth, but only because the elf’s actions forced him to deal with things he had wished remained hidden. It was the way of friends to speak and act truthfully toward one another. He thought that in a strange way, by hiding the truth from him, Gerwyth might have been revealing an even deeper truth—a revelation that would not have been possible when the world existed in black and white.

  Finally, Kaerion grasped the elf’s forearm. “Always, my friend,” he said. “Always.”

  “Then come,” the elf said. “Let us lend our own considerable scholarship to the debate raging in this very room.” He slapped Kaerion once on the shoulder and then rose, heading toward Vaxor and Phathas, who were now engaged in a heated exchange over the scroll’s meaning.

  May the gods have mercy upon all of us, Kaerion thought as he joined the trio.

  Outside, the winter wind whipped hard against the painted glass of the suite.

  * * *

  Death lurked in the shadows of the room.

  Durgoth couldn’t quite see the cloaked figures skulking in the dark beyond the pulsing light of the silver-wrought lamp, but he could sense their presence—crossbows poised, watching, waiting for a sudden movement or a silent signal. He knew that Jhagren detected their presence as well, for the monk sat completely and utterly still in his wide-backed chair, gazing calmly at the flickering shadows. The cleric had spent enough time with Jhagren to understand that this calm demeanor belied an almost unearthly focused mind and a body trained to uncoil like a serpent in an explosive attack at the first sign of violence.

  Let them try. Durgoth was tired of dealing with this rabble. He had already warded himself with a quietly whispered spell. All it would take would be a swift command to his golem, hulking silently behind him, and blood would flow. Unfortunately, that would not get them any closer to their goal. The cleric expressed his disappointment with a sigh and leaned back in his chair.

  They had arrived here nearly an hour ago. A quick conversation with their hostage had revealed that the simpering fool was far more interested in living than he was in protecting his guilds secrets, and so they navigated their way through the maze of sewers toward one of the guild’s main hideouts, using their captive as a key to bypass all manner of traps and checkpoints. News of their impending arrival must have preceded them, for when they reached their destination, they were ushered into a side passage by a hard-eyed woman with close-cropped hair. After making sure their prisoner was unharmed, their guide brought them to this room and instructed them to wait.

  The room itself was sumptuously appointed, all out of place with the dank tunnels of the surrounding sewers. Thick red carpet covered the floor, and a mahogany desk sat in the center of the chamber. Another high-backed chair, a match to the ones that both Jhagren and Durgoth sat upon, stood behind the desk. The pungent scent of cloves filled the room, driving out the acrid stench of sewage.

  Besides the graceful curves of the polished lantern that lay upon the desk, Durgoth could make out several jade figurines—nymphs, dancing and cavorting in typical abandon. A jeweled dagger lay next to the figurines, a palpable reminder of the violence that brooded behind the room’s elegant exterior.

  Just as Durgoth’s temper began to fray once more, a figure strode quietly out of the shadows and took a seat behind the desk. Gray eyes regarded the cleric coolly from a lupine face, its animal resemblance reinforced by close-cropped silver hair and a salt-and-pepper goatee. Deep lines radiated out from the sides of the man’s eyelids almost to the temples, as if he observed everything with intense scrutiny. His lips drew back in a half-smile, revealing a set of perfectly white teeth—though Durgoth noted that the man’s apparent good humor never reached his eyes.

  “Welcome,” his host said after a few more moments of silence. The man’s voice was low and resonant, with a smooth, cultured accent. “I am the Guildmaster, though you may call me Reynard. I trust that I have not kept you waiting too long. I had… pressing matters elsewhere.”

  Without lifting his gaze from the cleric, the man drew heavily bejeweled hands from the folds of his purple cloak and absently traced deft fingers across the folds and curves of the jade nymphs. The half-smile never left his lips.

  For one intolerable moment, Durgoth felt as if he were being sized up by a predator. Gray eyes bore into his with an almost hypnotic power. So, Durgoth thought, this is how the rabbit feels before it gives itself to death. He returned the gaze evenly, a slow smile creeping across his own face. Let others be cowed by such a display. He had met and destroyed far more powerful challengers than this ragged gutter-scum who paraded around in the finery of his betters like a child playing with her mother’s silks.

  As if sensing his resolve, the thief turned his gaze away. Durgoth could see that the man truly smiled now, and he felt his own anger rise. “Your guild betrayed me. I don’t deal with betrayal very well, Reynard.”

  “Come now, Durgoth. Oh yes, don’t act so shocked, friend,” the Guildmaster replied at the look of surprise that flicked across the cleric’s face, “I take it upon myself to know the name of everyone who travels through my domain.” He stopped, indicating the room and the sewers beyond with a wave of his hand. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes, I believe we were talking about betrayal. It is I who feel betrayed. Does that surprise you?”

  “Surprise me?” Durgoth asked. What in the Nine Hells was this man raving about? And then it hit him—the attack, the ease in which he and his group bypassed the Guild’s traps and watch wards, the attitude of the seemingly crazy Guildmaster—everything led to one inescapable conclusion.

  “You planned this whole damned thing,” Durgoth said.

  Reynard slapped his hands together sharply. “By Zilchus’ Sacred Vault, he’s figured it out,” the thief said with a smile.

  “Why?” the cleric asked. He was tired of being played for a fool. If Reynard didn’t cease his prattle, Durgoth would show the damned thief what it was like to antagonize a priest of the Imprisoned One.

  “Simple,” the Guildmaster replied. “You have something I want—or rather, you will soon have something I want.” Durgoth shot him a venomed glance until he continued. “I have discovered, through no fault of your own, I assure you, the ultimate destination of your journey.”

  “Go on,” the cleric urged a hint of steel creeping into his voice.

  “Like any good businessman, I want a piece of the action. I offer the servic
es of my guild in exchange for a share of the gold, jewels, and other treasure you liberate from the… ahh… site.”

  Durgoth stared at the thief in disgust. The man’s gray eyes were alight with greed. He could almost hear Reynard counting the gold coins in his head. What were petty coins and useless treasure next to the dark glory of Tharizdun?

  “If that’s what you were interested in, why didn’t you simply offer to meet instead of attacking my followers?” Durgoth asked.

  Reynard gave the cleric a crooked smirk. “I needed to make sure that you were capable enough before I reassigned my best guild members. The loss of a few men is a small price to pay for a share in the riches that await beneath that tomb.”

  “If we are capable enough—and I know that we are,” Durgoth replied with a wicked gleam in his eye, “what’s to stop us from killing you and every one of your skulking guildsmen that are in this room right now?” The idea appealed to him greatly.

  Reynard leaned forward in his chair, fingers steepled together beneath his chin. “Because,” he said softly as he met the cleric’s gaze once again, “I have some information that you would find exceptionally valuable. Information that you would have a difficult time retrieving from a corpse.”

  Don’t be too sure, Durgoth thought viciously. But he remained silent, regarding the grizzled thief with a measuring look. He was intrigued by the man’s offer and, to be honest, his cunning. He might be little more than scum, but he was smart and dangerous—a true predator whose weakness for gold would make him a valuable tool.

  “What information is this?” Durgoth asked, finally breaking the silence.

  “According to a few of my agents in Rel Mord, a group of nobles is planning an expedition through the Vast Swamp—” Reynard paused before continuing—“their ultimate destination: the ancient tomb of Acererak the mage. I can provide you details and locations once we have agreed upon the deal.”