[Greyhawk 07] - The Tomb of Horrors

by Keith Francis Strohm - (ebook by Undead)

  But Durgoth had ceased listening. Another expedition, he thought, and sat back in his chair. Another group making their way toward the ancient tomb. He knew this was not a coincidence. There were no coincidences where Tharizdun was concerned. Surely this was a sign. Even bound by the accursed will of the other gods, his master was reaching out to him, letting him know that he was on the right path.

  “Blessed be your Dark Will,” he whispered, already plotting his next move.

  Reynard cleared his throat gently. “So Durgoth,” he asked, “do we have a deal?”

  Let the thief have his useless treasure, if that would secure his aid. Once Durgoth had the key, he would free his master, and his magnificence would swallow the whole world. No amount of gold would be able to stop it from happening.

  The cleric offered his hand to Reynard and smiled. “I accept your terms,” he said.

  “Excellent,” Reynard replied, and rapped sharply upon the table.

  Two other figures emerged from the darkness, a man and a woman. Durgoth’s breath nearly caught in his throat as they approached the desk. The woman wore the flickering light like a garment of gold. It rippled across tanned skin stretched smooth across a full-figured body and reflected off of eyes the color of pure honey. Tight-fitting leather hose clung to long, muscular legs and ended in high-topped boots. Her corset laid her midriff bare and dung to the rounded swell of breasts. Two silver bracers lay strapped to her forearms, and she carried a black yew staff, inlaid with silver. Durgoth could see the polished glint of a small crossbow at her belt.

  Her companion seemed made of shadow. Skin almost as black as obsidian absorbed the light, and a close-cropped black beard accented the man’s pronounced jaw line. Long hair lay bound at the nape of the neck with a dark cord, and Durgoth was sure he saw the telltale glint of a fanged garrote along its edges. A form-fitting leather garment, sporting an amazing number of small pockets, covered his muscular frame. He carried a short sword on his left side and a number of body scabbards held daggers.

  The woman tossed Reynard something as she entered and stood with her companion several paces away from the desk. With a shock, Durgoth saw the master thief holding a severed hand and was only slightly surprised to see a familiar ring. The hand belonged to the thief who had guided them here.

  “This is Sydra and Eltanel,” Reynard said, indicating the two figures. “Sydra is a practitioner of magic whose sorcerous powers will complement your own. Eltanel is the best lockpick and trap-springer in the Guild. They will both be valuable additions to your expedition.” Reynard rose to his feet. “They will be able to give you the details on that other expedition. I will leave you to make your plans, but remember—” he threw the grisly hand onto the desk, knocking over the jade figures—“I don’t take betrayal very well either.”

  Two nights before the expedition was set to leave, Majandra found herself navigating the torchlit streets of Rel Mord with Bredeth. The blue-gray shadows of dusk had finally deepened into true darkness, and a heavy winter mist swirled across the ground like some undulating serpent. The city’s winding streets were mostly empty of traffic, as many citizens had retired to taprooms or the familiar comfort of home and hearth. A few, however, braved the chill air and the shadows, walking openly beneath the safety of torches and oil lamps, intent on their own business. Others slid in between the shifting shadows of old buildings and alleyways.

  Majandra kept a constant watch for the footpads and cutpurses that made the night their home. Not for the first time she cursed the heavy sacks and packages both she and her companion practically had to drag through the street.

  “What in the name of the Nine Hells are we going to do with all this clothing?” she complained. “We’re going to be spending months in a swamp for the gods’ sakes, not wintering with the Ice Barbarians.”

  Bredeth, already several paces ahead of the half-elf, stopped and turned. “You know that Phathas tries to plan for any eventuality,” he said. “It does appear, however, that our dear mage may be planning a bit too hard, eh?” With that, the young noble shouldered his burden and staggered back on his course.

  Majandra stared after him, puzzled. For the past week, the two of them had spent a great deal of time purchasing provisions, haggling with caravan masters, and running errands for both Phathas and Vaxor. But in the last two days, she’d seen a decisive shift in the normally sour nobles attitude. Gone were the tantrums and highborn disdain for physical labor, the refusal to carry anything without the aid of a servant, and all of the protestations of a pampered heir. Tonight, he’d labored hard, making several trips to the merchants without complaint, and he had even offered to go to the Royal University to pick up several scrolls that Phathas feared he might need on the road. Quite unlike the acid-tongued snob she usually dealt with. And the bard was almost certain that the noble’s last statement had been an attempt at levity. Unbelievable, Majandra thought, as she hurried to catch up to his rapidly retreating form.

  The two traveled for quite some time in silence, and the bard listened with fascination at the nocturnal voice of the city. The deep-throated bark of a dog, the yowl of an upset alley cat, the cries of merriment and anger rising from inns and public houses, even the faintly threatening tread of feet in the shadows—all of it combined to form a rich symphony of sound that surrounded her, its powerful chords touching her with a profound sense of mystery and promise, hope and despair. She sighed and wondered idly if she’d ever be able to capture the essence of this city in her own music. That would be a work worthy of a master bard.

  A few more turns and the two arrived in the wealthier section of the city. Majandra noted, without surprise, that everything seemed muted here, dulled. There were fewer people on the streets, fewer taprooms. Looking into the windows and elaborate stained glass portals of the surrounding houses one saw mostly darkness. The half-elf knew that beneath this placid exterior there existed a vibrant and dangerous world—a world of lavishly appointed drawing rooms, sumptuous parlors, and decadent boudoirs where noble and merchant alike gossiped, schemed, and seduced each other in a complex game of politics and survival. Outside, however, everything was quiet and still.

  Majandra cast a glance at her companion and was surprised to see his normally pursed lips drawn back in a slight smile. He walked smoothly in the shadowed lane, despite the heavy burden slung over one shoulder, and the half-elf had the impression that if it weren’t for the cumbersome gear he carried, Bredeth would have been skipping toward the Platinum Shield.

  The noble must have caught her quizzical gaze, for he slowed his pace a bit and stared back. Trapped, Majandra could do no more than smile sheepishly and quickly turn away. Despite their polite interactions this evening, the tension of their earlier fight still lay between them, and like a phase spider, it sprang up at various times. The bard expected a spiteful reprimand or other such recrimination, but was surprised when Bredeth resumed his former pace, smile still intact.

  She was even more surprised when, a few moments later, he broke the silence. “It’s really going to happen, isn’t it?” he asked. “After so many months of planning and research, we’re really going to do it.”

  So that’s it, Majandra thought, hearing the noble’s tenor voice ring with excitement. Bredeth was giddy over the thought of playing hero. Well, let’s see how well he does when we’re mired knee-deep in swamp sludge with a host of biting insects crawling through every chink in armor and clothing.

  “Yes,” she agreed, keeping her tone positive. “And we couldn’t have done it without Phathas and the support of Vaxor’s church.”

  Bredeth nodded, ignoring or completely missing the bard’s gentle reminder.

  “This is our chance Majandra, a chance to do something for my … the people of Nyrond,” he said with only the briefest of hesitations.

  Perhaps she was being too hard on the young noble, she thought as they finally approached the Platinum Shield. It was clear that he cared deeply for the folk who lived their live
s within the borders of the kingdom—even if he was trained to lord himself over those who were of “lesser” station.

  “Perhaps, once we have restored Nyrond,” Majandra said as they veered toward the small servants entrance to the inn, “we can help the nobility learn to trust and believe more in the dignity and talents of those whom they lead.”

  Bredeth snorted as the bard finished. “Now why in all the world would we want to do that?” he asked, almost knocking down the servant who had opened the door as he muscled past. “There’s a reason why we lead them, and a reason why they need to be led.”

  Majandra swore softly and staggered into the servant’s hallway of the Platinum Shield, arms almost numb from carrying her burden across the city. She knew that her companion’s change of heart was too good to be true. “Constant as a noble’s arrogance,” she repeated the old adage.

  Preoccupied by these thoughts, Majandra failed to see the sharp-eyed lad slip into the doorway behind her. Nor did she see the splash of scarlet beneath his worn servant’s livery.

  * * *

  Durgoth Shem stood in the darkened alleyway and studied the elegant building before him. A cruel smile played across his face. Days of bribing merchants, threatening servants, and following what leads they could uncover had finally brought them to their quarry.

  Although Luna, the great moon, cast a half-lidded eye down upon the city this evening, thick clouds obscured its silvered gaze, hiding Celene, the lesser moon altogether, and deepening the shadows. It was, he thought, the perfect night for a hunt. Their prey would have no idea what hit them. He’d sent Adrys ahead earlier, disguised as a servant. The foolish nobles had been so wrapped up in their puerile chatter that they hadn’t noticed the lad slinking in behind them. The apprentice had returned an hour later with all of the information they needed.

  There were six of them, holed up in a large suite on the top floor. Four doors led off the main chamber into separate bedrooms, but it was the mage’s room that concerned Durgoth the most—for that was the most likely location of the group’s scrolls and maps. With that information in hand, he would have an easier time locating the tomb.

  A pity, he thought for a moment as he rubbed hands together against the chill night air, that they didn’t have time to wipe them all out. But the wealthy quarter of a city was no place for a pitched battle. They would have precious little time before the sentinels arrived. No, the plan was simple: Durgoth would cause a large enough diversion to draw the nobles from their rooms, while Sydra and Eltanel would, with a small complement of thieves from the guild, secure the upper suite and retrieve the scrolls. After some discussion, it was decided that the swift-footed monk would remain outside the inn to “discourage” any pursuit.

  As if reading his mind, Jhagren stepped from the shadows of the inn and signaled. Although he knew the monk couldn’t see him, Durgoth nodded his understanding. Everyone was in place. It was time for the diversion.

  The cleric cleared his mind, taking three deep breaths. While less difficult than the magic that created his golem, this summoning spell took a great deal of concentration. Softly, the cleric intoned the words until he felt the mystic portal open. Reality shifted around him as planar forces collided and intermixed. Durgoth focused his will and called upon the creature he needed, and his summons rang through the planes. At last he felt an answer. It came, guided by his master’s power, and he sent it to the place fixed firmly in his mind. He shuddered once as he felt the planar portal shut. An icy wind blew hard between the buildings of Rel Mord as Durgoth completed the words to the spell. Despite this, sweat beaded thickly upon the cleric’s brow. He wiped at it absently and watched through the Platinum Shield’s windows as a reddish glow pulsated within the common room.

  Durgoth smiled.

  It was only a matter of time.

  * * *

  Kaerion woke suddenly to the sound of screaming. Years of campaigning across the continent and the natural instincts of a warrior brought him rolling to his feet, sword in hand. He scanned the room for signs of immediate danger.

  Though the fire in the hearth had burned to embers, he could see Gerwyth shouldering his leather quiver and strapping on short swords. In the muted red glow of the coals, the elf looked bathed in blood.

  The screams continued, followed by the sound of breaking glass from the common area below. Free from immediate danger, Kaerion allowed himself to relax just a fraction.

  “What do you think it is—thieves, assassins?” he asked Gerwyth in a cautious whisper.

  The elf shook his head. “No. I’m not sure what it is,” he replied, “but I have a very bad feeling about it.” Finished with the last adjustments to his bow, he slapped Kaerion on the back. “Are you coming, Kaer, or should I ask our guests to wait until you’ve had a bath?”

  Kaerion grunted as Gerwyth turned and ran out of the room. Quickly, Kaerion grabbed his shield and strapped it to his forearm. There wasn’t enough time to don his entire suit of armor, but the curved steel of an embossed shield—all that was left of his once-famous field dress—had served him well these past years.

  Blearily, he stumbled through the door and into the main suite, shaking his head to clear the last cobwebs of sleep from his mind. Not for the first time, he envied Gerwyth’s ability to snap out of his nightly reverie at a moment’s notice. It was a trait that had saved their lives many times, and he found himself wishing for that ability right now. Not willing to waste another moment, he drew a few quick breaths and launched himself down the stairs to the common area.

  The grisly sight that greeted him nearly froze his blood. The elegance of the inn’s taproom lay in bloody shambles. Tables and chairs lay splintered and broken on the ground, amid a pile of bodies who looked as if they had been punctured with a thousand sharp needles. Blood pooled on the floor and lay spattered across the walls.

  In the center of the destruction, standing among the shattered detritus of wood and glass, stood one of the most terrifying creatures Kaerion had ever seen. Nearly eight-feet tall, the hulking figure lashed out with a set of razor sharp claws and tore the throat out of a man who charged it with a sword. The victim’s sword clattered to the ground and the creature stalked forward, intent on the remaining patrons of the inn, who were knocking each other over in an attempt to flee.

  In the remaining light of the taproom, Kaerion could see that what he’d first thought armor was actually a thick collection of wicked barbs covering the monster’s whole body—including the length of a meaty tail that whipped back and forth behind the creature’s substantial bulk. The barbs glistened with blood.

  At that moment, Kaerion heard a familiar voice shout something at the creature. He looked again at the panicking crowd and saw both Vaxor and Majandra. The two had placed themselves in front of the crowd.

  “Gerwyth, we have to do something to distract that… thing,” Kaerion shouted. It was clear that the two nobles couldn’t hold out much longer. The bard’s hair was caked with blood that streamed down from a vicious wound on the temple, and the priest’s once-shining chainmail looked severely battered and rent in several sections.

  The elf nodded assent and knelt. “I have just the thing, my friend,” he said, and then in one fluid motion drew two arrows from his quiver, knocked his bow, and released them in swift succession. The wooden missiles flew unerringly across the space and caught the creature between barbs in the juncture of neck and shoulder.

  They had no effect.

  The creature opened its mouth, revealing row upon row of needle sharp teeth, and let out a high-pitched ululation. Kaerion dapped hands to ears and watched in horrified fascination as the monster advanced. The twin arrows fell from the monster, as if worked out by unseen hands.

  Gerwyth let out a curse and grabbed two more arrows. This time he rubbed the curved length of his ash bow and spoke several words in Elvish. The weapon’s silvery runes pulsated with a blue-tinted glow as the ranger took aim and fired. This time, the arrows streaked across the ro
om, leaving a trail of blue fire in their wake.

  The creature let out another wail, this one even worse than before, as the missiles pierced the hollow beneath its right arm. It stopped its advance and whipped itself around to face Kaerion and Gerwyth. The creature’s tail struck out behind it, and only Vaxor’s hastily raised shield protected him from a deathblow to the head.

  Kaerion rushed forward to meet the creature, swinging his own sword in an arc. The steel rang loudly as it struck the monster square in the chest. Sparks flew out from the violent contact, but the creature did not slow. He ducked once as the figure lashed out with its own razor sharp claw, just barely missing him. He took a step back, hoping to find some weak spot on the beast—

  And cried out as the monsters tad struck him hard on his shieldless side. The pain was incredible. It was as if thousands of needles penetrated his skin and were simultaneously making their way through his veins toward his heart. He felt as if his blood had turned to ice and his stomach churned with a familiar sensation—fear.

  Kaerion cried out again as the walls of the inn melted away and he found himself surrounded by walls of solid stone—white stone, carved and worked like the walls of a temple. He knew this place, and the knowledge caused him to choke with panic. This was the scene of his disgrace.

  “No!” he shouted in defiance, and the stone walls disappeared.

  Kaerion lay on the ground, curled up in a ball. Around him, he could see Majandra and Vaxor attacking the barbed beast, keeping it distracted, unable to concentrate on killing its fallen victim. Three more arrows thudded into the monster, one catching it in its baleful red eye, and at last it gave ground.

  Kaerion rolled to his feet. Anger had replaced the fear that had chilled him, and he let out a bellow as he rushed in. The beast struck out with its barbed tad, but he managed to deflect the blow with his shield. The shock of that contact nearly broke his forearm, but he kept pressing forward. Twice he landed blows that would have felled a bugbear, but the monster just shrugged them off. The third time, Kaerion blocked the creature’s razor claw with his own blade and then spun, slicing out with his sword as he turned with his hips.