The Tomb of Horrors (34 page)

Once again Durgoth had cause to be grateful for finding the
Minthexian Codex.
Even now, the codex called out to him, promising power and
dark wisdom in its ancient pages. With a start, he realized that it had been
several days since he had looked upon its flowing script and hoary symbols. He
was surprised at how deeply his mind yearned to wrestle with its secrets once
again.

When he looked around, Durgoth was surprised to find himself
standing before his own pack, the box that held the codex out in front of him.
Dazedly, he called out to Sydra, who sat nearby, concentrating her powers upon a
certain nobleman.

“Where are they now?” he asked.

It took a few moments for the sorceress to respond, and when
she did, her voice was thick, almost husky, as if she were waking from a deep
sleep. “They are in a chapel of some sort. Someone just set off a trap,
unleashing a lightning bolt that killed several of their guards. The nobles are
conferring as to what they should do next.”

Durgoth smiled at the news. “Excellent. And how is our very
own noble?”

The cleric saw a brief frown cross the sorceress’ face. “He
resists my presence, blessed one,” Sydra replied. “He is strong, but he cannot
break free.”

“That is good,” Durgoth said as he settled in to peruse the
vellum pages before him. “I hope that you can maintain control. I have important
work for Bredeth.” He looked up from the text. “Important work indeed.”

* * *

The pungent tang of electrified air filled the room.

From her position to the left of the altar, Majandra regarded
the smoking corpses with tears in her eyes. The lightning bolt had left nothing
but charred flesh in its wake. She gave in to the wave of dizziness that swept
over her and dropped to her knees with a gut-wrenching sob.

Death. Everything in this gods forsaken tomb stank of death.
Every twisted mural and every corrupted holy symbol in this demented chapel
reinforced her perception. She felt death worrying at the bright core of her
spirit, like a feasting jackal. It was inside of her now, and with every breath
she felt as if she were exhaling a bit more of her own life. If she were
anywhere else in the Flanaess, she might have prayed. But not here. Not at the
site of Acererak’s twisted power. She was afraid of what dark being might hear
her plea.

Instead, she let tears flow down her dirt-streaked face, a
silent tribute to the two guards who had given their lives in this tomb. Never
mind that they were both dragging bags full of gold and silver coins—thousands
of them if their quick count was in any way accurate—before the lightning bolt
had arced down the center aisle of the chapel, striking them both. The guards
would find little use for the riches now.

As Gerwyth and Kaerion ran toward her from either corner of
the room, she wondered if any of them would have use for the tomb’s treasure.
Majandra knew in her heart that all of the gold in the world wouldn’t make up
for the lives lost in this trap-riddled dungeon. Even if they made it out of the
tomb with every last bit of treasure, she doubted if the sacrifice would ever be
worth it.

Majandra felt strong arms lift her up as a soft voice spoke
into her ear. “Peace, little sister,” the soothing words said, though they came
to her as if from a distance. Elvish words, her mind registered at last, and
then she recognized Gerwyth’s scent, made slightly muskier by the elf’s
sweat-laden exertions in the tomb. The odor was pleasant and, more importantly,
familiar. She felt her body relaxing, the aching knot of grief in her chest
easing. She trembled a few times before gaining control of herself.

The bard saw Kaerion’s worried gaze and tried to smile her
reassurance. Surely, she would have given in to despair long before this had it
not been for the fighter’s solid presence. Vaxor’s death had been a cruel blow,
one that had cut unexpectedly deep for both of them. Yet somehow, though they
had said only a few words in private since that tragic moment, she felt
Kaerion’s strength beside her, and knew that their grief was bearable because it
was shared.

“We must try and push on, Majandra,” Kaerion said to her
after a moment. “This chapel is especially evil, even for Acererak’s tomb. I’d
rather not spend any more time in here.”

She nodded and drew in a deep breath, trying to keep it from
turning in to a sob. Gently, she placed her hands upon the rangers shoulder and
tapped. Gracefully, Gerwyth withdrew his arms from around her.

“Thank you both,” she said, and then stepped down from the
altar area. As soon as she moved, she noticed that the once opalescent blue
stone of the altar had turned a fiery blue-red.

“Gerwyth—”

“I see it,” was the ranger’s whispered reply. “Just keep
moving away.”

The bard backed away slowly, grateful that the elf was taking
his own advice. Once clear of the fiery stone, Majandra let out her breath and
cast a quick look around the chamber. The chapel itself was over sixty feet long
and sixty feet wide, sculpted carefully from the surrounding stone of the tomb.
Like other areas of the tomb, the walls of this chapel were covered in mosaics
depicting scenes of everyday life. To her dismay, however, the people depicted
in these scenes were horribly corrupted. Rotting flesh, skeletal faces,
worm-ridden skin—each scene was more ghastly than the last.

Worse still, the whole area was set up like the temples she
was familiar with in Rel Mord. Wooden pews filled the east and west portions of
this room, while the whole layout drew the observer’s eye to the imposing stone
altar in the center of the south wall. Beyond the angry colored stone, the bard
could see a tiered dais. Resting on top of the dais was a simple wooden
chair—the ceremonial seat of the presiding cleric. Two large brass candelabra
stood to either side of the dais, and Majandra could almost see the smoky flame
coming from the five unlit white candles that sprouted from the candelabra like
skeletal hands. She shuddered at this image, for every detail of the room spoke
not only of evil, but also of goodness corrupted. Even the holy symbols on the
walls, many representing the good gods and goddesses of the land, were not exact
images. Each had some slight imperfection, and many were twisted to demonstrate
the reverse of its intended meaning.

Worried, she scanned the room for signs of Phathas. She
caught sight of the old mage leaning his bent back against the wood of the pew
closest to the tunnel from which they had entered the tomb. She also saw the
three remaining guards carefully searching the skeletal figure that lay upon the
floor to the west of the altar, its outstretched hand pointing toward the mist
covered expanse of another archway. Landra, the guards’ captain, conferred
quietly with Kaerion, who had settled himself carefully near the edge of one of
the pews.

“Well,” one of the guards said, “it looks like our next step
is clear. This archway is our only way out.”

“It would seem that way,” Phathas said, turning from his
examination of the wooden pews, “but I would be very careful following through
on such an assumption.”

The old mage’s voice quavered across the chapel’s distance.
Majandra thought that he sounded tired—more tired than she had ever heard him. A
wave of sadness washed over her. She knew that as deeply as she grieved for
those who had died, their loss would have cut the mage deeper—especially the
loss of Vaxor. The two men had been close friends for decades, and now it looked
as if the weight of those deaths bore down upon the mage with an implacable
force. Majandra could see just how much the wizened mage leaned upon his staff
as he made his way toward the center of the chapel.

“I agree,” the bard found herself saying. “The skeleton
pointing toward that archway seems too obvious a clue. I say we split up and
give the room another search. But be careful not to touch anything.”

Choosing the area behind the wicked altar, Majandra lost
herself in the close examination of the stone wall. She had begun to lose track
of time when a shout went up from the opposite area of the chapel. Turning, she
saw one of the guards pointing to a small section of the wall, several feet in
front of a large, stoppered urn. She made her way toward the guard but waited
for the others to arrive before giving the indicated area a close examination.

Before her, about four feet off the ground, Majandra could
see a small slot in the stone. Above the slot, the letter O was etched faintly
into the gray wall. While the others congratulated the sharp-eyed guard,
Majandra tugged at her lower lip, deep in thought. Something about this slot
triggered her bardic memory, and she chased that elusive trigger through the
twists and turns of her “inner library.” Around her, she could hear the group
debating their next course of action. Voices rose and faded, points of view were
exchanged, but she heard it all from a great distance.

At last, she honed in on the memory—and nearly shouted in her
excitement. “I’ve got it,” she said with such conviction that it stopped all
conversation.

“Got what, little sister?” Gerwyth asked in a wry tone.

“I have the answer,” she responded. When she saw the blank
faces staring at her, she intoned, “‘If shades of red stand for blood the wise;
will not need sacrifice ought but a loop of magical metal—you’re well along your
way!’”

“Don’t you see?” she continued. “It’s in the poem. That
circle is in the shape of a ring—a ‘loop’ of metal. All we need to do is place a
magical ring on to that circle and something will happen.”

“Yeah,” one of the guards asked, “but do you know exactly
what will happen?”

“Well, not exactly,” Majandra admitted. “But the poem has
guided us correctly so far. I say we risk it.”

The group conferred for a few moments before unanimously
opting to follow her hunch. Grateful for their trust, she rummaged through her
pouches, but found nothing. She turned to the assembled group. “I gave the ring
we found in the room with the three chests to Adrys,” she said. A knot formed in
her throat as she said these words. Kaerion had tried to warn her, but she had
ignored him, and now Vaxor was dead—quite possibly because of her unwillingness
to listen.

Thankfully, Kaerion laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder. “No
one’s blaming you,” he said softly. “We just need a ring so that we can get out
of here.”

“And I have just the thing,” Gerwyth said, breaking the
tension. They turned to find the elf holding a small silver band in the palm of
his hand.

“I don’t know what it’s called, but it helps keep me
comfortable in temperature extremes,” the elf said. “I think it will do nicely.”

“Thank you,” Majandra replied, unsure why Kaerion glared
open-mouthed at his friend.

“Why, you goblin-eared excuse for an elf!” Kaerion shouted.
“After all these years…
that’s
how you’ve done it. I thought your
unflinching endurance in the face of the direst of elements was an elven trait
and the sign of a courageous spirit, and all this time you were magically
protected. Why I should—”

“Don’t bother finishing that thought,” Gerwyth interrupted
with a devilish smile upon his face. “You might overtax that lump of clay you
call a brain. Besides,” he finished with an injured look, “every elf worthy of
the name has a few secrets.”

“Enough, both of you,” Phathas scolded—though the bard could
see a smile splitting the mage’s weathered face. “Let Majandra concentrate.”

Letting her own lightened mood shine through, she bent toward
the slot and gingerly placed the metal ring against the etched O. She heard a
click and then, seconds later, a deep rumble filled the room. Two of the guards
jumped back, eyes searching for signs of danger. But the rest of the group
simply waited.

Majandra’s patience was rewarded as a large section of the
eastern wall sank slowly into the ground, revealing a dark passage.

“After you,” she said with a pleased smirk upon her face.

She followed Kaerion into the darkness.

* * *

Kaerion yawned as he adjusted his chainmail shirt. Four hours
of sleep before his turn at watch was too little, considering the events of the
past day. It was difficult to believe that so many people had died inside this
horror-filled tomb in a single day. He could see each of their faces, remember
the laughter and companionship they had shared during their journey to the
swamp. All of that had ended abruptly at the tip of a spear, the edge of a pit,
or the claw of some fearsome beast.

None of the faces haunted him as much as Vaxor’s—a quiet and
peaceful expression at odds with the brutal way the cleric had died. Kaerion had
slept fitfully on the hard ground of the tomb soon after Phathas called the
first true rest during their exploration. He had watched idly as the other
guards set up the perimeter of their makeshift camp, but the rigors of the day
had soon overcome him. Muscles sore and joints aching, he had curled up against
a wall and was asleep before his head had fully rested on his bedroll.

Cool darkness enveloped him. Like a potent balm, the cradled
nothingness of sleep eased his burdens. There was no grief, no pain—simply the
vast darkness of sleep. Then the first image exploded in his brain. Images of a
gray stone claw rending vulnerable flesh plagued his dreams. He heard Vaxor
scream as the gargoyle’s claws shredded the tender flesh of his abdomen; the
cleric’s skin parted like vellum beneath the cutting knife of a scribe, entrails
and gore spilling out onto the floor. Kaerion had woken with such violence that
the two guards standing watch rushed over to see what had occurred.

He would have remained awake, but Majandra had made her
resting place beside his. Even now, hours later, he could feel the soft touch of
her fingers as they ran gently along his cheek while she hummed a quiet tune. It
had only taken a few minutes beneath her ministrations before he had returned to
sleep. But the images returned—and he had tossed and turned beneath their
horrifying clarity. Thus, he had gratefully taken his place at watch when one of
the guards shook him awake.