The Tomb of Horrors (3 page)

He wasn’t prepared, however, for the sudden emergence of six
figures from the gloom. He had a moment to watch Gerwyth deflect two sword
strokes with the hardened curve of his magic bow before his attackers were upon
him. He ducked quickly as the blade of a sword came whistling for his neck, and
he brought his own weapon across in a quick cutting stroke, satisfied when he
felt the blade slash deeply into the stomach of his opponent.

His other attacker wasted no time, however, taking advantage
of the opening presented by his defensive move, and Kaerion grunted hard as a
mailed boot connected with his side. He used the momentum brought on by the kick
to place some distance between him and his opponents.

There were four of them, hard-eyed and steel-jawed all, each
with the look of practiced killers. The heavy-booted one wore chainmail and
carried a wicked-looking curved sword. Of the three, his eyes were the coldest,
like blue ice, and Kaerion knew he’d have to take that one out fast. Two others
wore no armor, but each wielded long daggers in either hand. The fourth lay on
the ground, holding in the bulge of guts that threatened to spill out.

Kaerion opened his stance and shifted his weight toward his
center, taking deep, easy breaths. The last remnants of the previous evening’s
debauchery fled beneath the familiar thrill of battle. Let them come to me, he
thought. They’ll have to fight me on my terms.

The sounds of battle rang out over the rooftop, and he risked
a glance at his friend, noting with satisfaction that the elf had dropped his
bow and now wielded two gleaming short swords with expert precision. One of the
figures, a grizzled human, lay at Gerwyth’s feet, clutching the juncture of his
neck and shoulder. Blood spurted out between the man’s fingers, raining down
upon the cold stone of the rooftop.

A furious snarl brought his full attention back to his own
problems. He raised his sword to parry as the mailed figure ran toward him,
swinging his weapon in a wide arc. Kaerion gave a curse as the two blades
clanged together with great force, nearly shattering his wrist. Gods this man
was strong!

Both dagger-wielding men moved in swiftly as Kaerion grunted
with the effort of freeing his sword from the curve of his opponent’s blade. He
sidestepped the first viper-fast dagger by stepping inside his main opponent’s
guard with his left foot and bringing his right foot behind him while twisting
his hips. The momentum freed his sword, but made his right side vulnerable to
the second man’s daggers. He cried out as the twin blades punctured shoulder and
forearm.

Sensing victory, the mailed warrior redoubled his efforts,
and Kaerion found himself hard pressed to block the vicious cuts of the man’s
powerful attacks—especially while minimizing his exposure to the two other men
who circled him like wolves waiting to pounce on a wounded elk. Sweat poured
down his face now and his breathing grew labored. Grimly, Kaerion tried to
summon his reserves. While years of heavy drinking had not quite erased the
effects of a lifetime of training and battle, he was like a weapon dulled by
abuse and neglect.

He saw his opening when one of the unarmored figures darted
in for a quick attack. Kaerion brought his sword up, feinting a strike against
the leader. Sidestepping the dagger, he reached out with his right hand and
grabbed the collar of the man, throwing him into his mailed opponent. While the
two stumbled against each other, Kaerion aimed a blow at the man’s weapon,
grimacing only slightly as his sword neatly sliced off his opponent’s arm at the
elbow. The mailed figure screamed and fell to the ground. His severed hand
landed with a metallic clang several feet away, still holding the scimitar.

Kaerion took advantage of the distraction and quickly ran one
of the dagger wielding figures through with his blade. The remaining attacker
turned to flee. Kaerion cursed and started to take off after him, but stopped
short as the figure stumbled once and then pitched forward, an arrow protruding
from his throat.

Kaerion turned to see Gerwyth lowering his bow, an exultant
smile on his face. The elf’s cloak and studded leather armor were spattered with
gore, and his blond hair was streaked red with blood. In the lanes below, the
two companions could make out the stirrings of the city watch come to
investigate the early morning disturbance. The remaining assassins would no
doubt have high-tailed it out of the inn, not wishing to be exposed to the
authorities.

“So, Kaer, what do you think now?” the elf asked as the two
caught their breath.

“I think,” Kaerion replied, wiping blood from his blade,
“that you are an insufferable fool who is right more times than is good for
him.”

“Does this mean you’ll come with me to Rel Mord?”

Kaerion nodded in the first rosy light of day. The shouts of
the watch grew louder and more frantic as they neared the Griffon’s Wing.

“What choice do I have?” he replied.

Fire spat an unkindly illumination in the large stone room.
Gray tile, already slick with blood, caught the hellish light, its hue
transforming to a grisly crimson. Bits of bone and discarded flesh were strewn
about the central blaze, sizzling beneath the intense heat. The awful stink of
butchered meat lay heavy about the hall.

Durgoth ignored the gruesome sight in the same way he ignored
the moans and pitiful cries of the faithful who lay wounded and bleeding at his
feet. Instead, he concentrated on the hulking figure standing naked before him.
Nearly eight feet tall and brutally constructed, the creature was all muscle,
sinew, and vein—a mass of bulging flesh and bone held immobile in the rigor of
death.

The cleric sighed once in satisfaction, inspecting the vessel
in front of him. Days of painstaking preparation had brought them to this
moment. Endless hours of study and toil transformed the monastery’s ancient
refectory into a focal point of the Dark One’s power, until the sacrifice began.
Everyone had contributed—a bit of flesh here, a limb there, and in the case of
the most faithful, their entire bodies—all given freely to build the creature
before him. Only the seer had resisted, struggling weakly until Durgoth removed
his head and fused it, mouth still open in mid-scream, upon the cold shoulders
of the vessel.

Now, all that remained was the final prayer, the ancient rite
that would infuse the mass of flesh before him with the dark power of Tharizdun.
Durgoth breathed deeply and recalled the hallowed text. At first, his mouth
refused to form the words; the ancient phrases withheld their dark meanings from
him. Sweat beaded down his face and his hands trembled, for he knew that his
Master would brook no failure here. Without an outlet, the accumulated power
would rise up and destroy him, like a swollen river bursting its dam.

Years of study and self-discipline took over just as
Durgoth’s will was about to break. An easy calm stole over him. He opened his
mouth again, and this time the words spilled out, sibilant as asps. There was a
moment of stillness as his voice echoed in the vast hall. The cleric feared that
he had made a mistake in reciting the ritual—until he felt a presence in his
mind as horrifying as it was intangible. He resisted a shudder as Tharizdun’s
power flowed through him, a vast wave of darkness that threatened to sweep away
everything in its path. The cleric cried out beneath the force of the god’s
will, struggling to keep the spark of his life flickering beneath the divine
assault. Finally, the vessel of flesh before him twitched twice and Durgoth felt
the pressure ease off of his mind. Secure in the knowledge that he would
survive, he gathered what little resources he had remaining and plunged toward
the final blessings, ending the dark prayer with a shriek.

Silence descended upon the ancient hall. Even the most
grievously wounded held their sobbing tongues. The cleric rose wearily to his
feet, not remembering the moment he had fallen to his knees, and stared at the
misshapen creature. It twitched twice more in the silent room before giving a
great shudder. When at last it turned its gruesome face to survey the hall,
Durgoth could see that its eyeless sockets held a darkness more absolute than
night.

“Golem,” he nearly shouted, “whom do you serve?”

Far more quickly than he had thought possible, the creature
turned to face him and opened its mouth. At first, he could see it struggle for
speech, its swollen black tongue squirming in its mouth like a blood-gorged
leech. It gained some control, however, and after a few moments managed a
thickly voweled response. “Y-you, blessed one. By the will of my Master, I serve
you.”

The hall erupted into spontaneous murmurs, as the
once-miserable cultists writhed in holy fervor. Durgoth accepted their adoration
and gave back twice more to great Tharizdun. Gently, almost as if he were
congratulating his own child, the cleric placed his hand upon the construct’s
shoulder.

“Good,” he replied to his latest triumph. “That is very good
indeed.”

His power spent, Durgoth turned from the golem and regarded
his flock. Men and women, grievously injured by their own hands, were sprawled
in clumps before him, muscle and bone exposed to the air where they had sawed
off limbs and flesh as a gruesome offering to their god. One of them reached out
a bloodied stump and tried to touch the clerics robe. Durgoth curled his lips
reflexively and kicked out at the offending cultist—angered by the woman’s
audacity. His person was inviolate, a precept he drilled into his followers’
heads from the moment they arrived at the monastery.

He watched the mewling cultists for a few moments more. Their
ecstatic cries reminded him of the pitiful moans of jhapeth addicts, men and
women who had long-since given away their humanity, losing themselves in the
seductive comfort of that narcotic root. Like the jhapeth-lost, these cultists
represented the castoffs and dregs of the Flanaess, fugitives that he had
welcomed in Tharizdun’s name.

And now they would be the instruments of the Dark One’s
freedom.

He called Jhagren over with an absent wave of his hand,
quietly satisfied at the monk’s quick response. Behind him, Durgoth could feel
the presence of the golem looming in the shadows. If his pock-faced advisor felt
any discomfort at the constructs presence, the red-robed man didn’t show it. He
simply bowed once as he approached and regarded Durgoth with his usual even
expression. The cleric smiled, but waited a few moments before speaking. For all
the mystery that surrounded this man, he knew that it was tied closely with the
Scarlet Brotherhood. Perhaps Jhagren felt that he could steal the codex and
deliver it to the Order in Hesuel Ilshar, or perhaps he was simply a spy. Either
way, Durgoth enjoyed testing the man’s patience.

“What do you say, Jhagren? It appears that our lord has truly
blessed us.”

Jhagren nodded impassively. “Indeed, we have been blessed
Durgoth.”

“Now, my friend,” Durgoth said, in that slightly superior
tone that he knew must make the monk yearn to send his hand striking at the soft
cartilage of his throat, “it is time to prepare for our journey. Tharizdun has
granted us a great boon this day, but we will still need support for our
expedition.”

“Yes, blessed one,” Jhagren replied. “The tomb we seek lies
many weeks to the south, beyond the kingdom of Sunndi. I have already contacted
some associates of mine. We shall meet them in the Nyrondese city of Rel Mord,
and from there we will strike out for the Vast Swamp.”

“Good,” Durgoth said. “Will we have difficulty remaining
inconspicuous in the city?” He motioned, indicating the golem behind him.

“No, blessed one. The companions who will accompany us on our
journey know several, shall we say ‘less-traveled’, ways into Rel Mord. And,
like any large city, there is no dearth of innkeepers who are willing to look
the other way as long as they have enough gold coins to distract them.”

The cleric nodded, confident that the always-efficient monk
had everything in order. “Excellent,” he replied. “Then I leave you to find what
able-bodied help you can to load our boats for travel. We leave in two days’
time.”

He gestured once, knowing that the golem would follow him out
as he left the room. Durgoth had done some research on his own. The tomb they
sought was none other than Acererak’s, an ancient wizard who, it was said, had
sought to conquer even death. Legends surrounded Acererak’s tomb, rumors and old
tales of magic and treasure beyond the imagination. And danger. Those heroes who
set out after Acererak’s legacy never returned.

Durgoth smiled.

There would be plenty of opportunities to make sure Jhagren
met with an accident. And then the world would be his.