The Tomb of Horrors (40 page)

A movement off to his right stopped his next question. There,
rising up from a pool of blood, was Phathas. The mage’s breath came heavy and
labored, but he struggled to his feet. “Kill the cleric,” he wheezed, and
pointed at a balding figure who held a black object in one hand. “Let the others
handle the thief.”

“What of the golem?” Kaerion asked.

“Leave… to me,” was all the mage said. Kaerion was taken
aback at the fierceness of his tone. “Do it!”

Shaking his head, he moved away from the deadly construct and
searched the room for signs of the thief.

“Remember me, my friend,” the mage said softly, moments
before he lunged at the golem. Before the monsters muscled arms could enclose
him in its deadly embrace, he took his staff and broke it in half. Eldritch
energy exploded from the item with concussive force. The power from the staff’s
destruction beat against Galadorn’s wards, but the sword’s protective magic
held.

Kaerion ran toward the evil cleric, but before he could reach
him, a red robed figure blocked his path. “This ends here,” Kaerion growled at
the monk, who merely nodded in response. The paladin lashed out with a diagonal
slice of his holy sword—and barely saved the blade from flying from his hand as
his opponent delivered a spinning kick that struck the weapon. His effort to
hold the blade securely left an opening for the monk to strike, and strike he
did. Two vicious open hand blows struck Kaerion in the face, one nearly smashing
the cartilage in his throat. Reeling, Kaerion could not raise his battered
shield in time to block the monk’s snapping kick—which knocked him to his knees.

He strikes like the wind,
Kaerion said to the presence
lurking within his blade.
If I don’t wound him soon, this battle will be
over.

The response from Galadorn was instantaneous. The sword
glowed brighter for just a moment, and Kaerion felt his blood quicken as holy
power increased his own mortal reflexes beyond their natural speed. He rose to
his feet just as the monk launched a blinding flurry of blows—and Kaerion
managed to avoid every one of them. The fourth time he blocked the monk’s
knife-edged hand attack, he had the satisfaction of watching his opponent’s eyes
widen in surprise.

Not wishing to delay the battle any longer, Kaerion launched
his own offensive, his holy sword weaving a trail of purest energy as he struck
out at the monk. His first strike missed as the red-robed man danced nimbly out
of the way, but his second stroke caught his opponent across the ribs. Galadorn
flared in response as the monk’s blood spilled on to the floor.

Sensing victory, Kaerion closed the distance and thrust
forward with his blade. The monk stumbled in his attempt to avoid the attack
and, summoning the power of Heironeous once again, Kaerion brought his sword
down and to the side for a swift, killing blow. Energy flared along the blade’s
length in response to the white-hot power that flowed through him. The monk
leapt to avoid the strike, but he could not evade Kaerion’s attack. Righteous
anger and grief strengthened the paladin’s sword arm.

“For Majandra!” he shouted as his blade pierced the monk’s
chest. Blinding light erupted from the weapon, as Kaerion felt the powerful
release of god-energy. When the light dissipated, he could only see bits of his
opponent’s body scattered across the room.

* * *

Durgoth watched in horror as the paladin’s blade
disintegrated Jhagren’s body. In any other situation, he would have felt a wave
of satisfaction at the monk’s demise.

But not now.

With the demi-lich’s skull destroyed and his own construct
defeated by the mage’s cursed heroics, the cleric knew that the careful plans he
had spent years building were falling down around him. He knew that his mistake
had been in trusting in the skills of others. Even now, he could see Eltanel
slinking into the shadows, and he had no doubt that the damned thief was in the
process of skulking back to Rel Mord.

And Sydra, whose sorcerous powers were quite formidable, now
found herself battling for her life against the very pup she had so recently
controlled. The young nobleman was bloodied and bruised, but he attacked the
sorceress with near-mindless intensity. A powerful bolt of lightning arced
toward the man from Sydra’s outstretched hand. To Durgoth’s surprise, the fool
didn’t even try to avoid it. The blast caught him full in the chest, but he
simply stumbled forward and thrust his sword through Sydra’s throat, only to
collapse himself a moment later.

Durgoth cursed this turn of events. He could feel the paladin
advancing, the force of Heironeous’ power drawing closer to strike at him like
a storm of bees. With a wave of his hand, Durgoth sent a column of flame roaring
down from the ceding to strike at the damnable fighter.

“Burn, you damned lackey of a cowardly god!” he shouted.

But the paladin didn’t burn.

Instead, the holy fighter raised his god-powered sword and
advanced. The flames passed harmlessly over him. Durgoth could almost hear the
triumphant song of the holy sword as it deflected his spell.

He knew there was no hope of escape. Instead of filling him
with fear, the realization crystallized the cleric’s resolve. He may have failed
to release his Master, but there was still something he could do.

Raising the
Minthexian Codex
above his head, Durgoth
began the words to the ancient book’s most powerful spell, a ritual that would
completely annihilate a large area around the tomb. He would die, but he would
take these cursed nobles with him. Power built within him like a raging river.
He bent his will toward it, controlling and directing the roiling force of
Nothingness as the paladin drew closer.

Durgoth was about to utter the words to release the spell and
destroy his enemies when he felt a sudden shift within the Nothingness. The
codex, his source of power these many years, flared once with purplish
incandescence—and then disappeared. Unbelievably, he felt the raging energy he
had recently summoned slough off like a riverbed whose water was diverted. No
longer a conduit of a vengeful god, Durgoth was simply an empty channel, bereft
of any power. As the paladin advanced, blade burning with holy fury, Durgoth
Shem knew he had paid the price for his failure.

Tharizdun had abandoned him.

“Who are you?” he shrieked at the man before him.

The paladin hesitated only a moment before replying. “I am
Kaerion Whitehart, servant of Heironeous,” he said. “I condemn you in the name
of the Valorous One. May you spend eternity chained before His Throne.”

The man swung his holy sword.

White-hot light exploded into Durgoth’s vision. He drew back,
trying to avoid the fiery incandescence. It grew brighter, knifing into his
brain, laying bare the dark places of his soul. He screamed once in agony—

And then surrendered to the light.

* * *

Kaerion slumped to the ground.

He felt, in the wake of the god’s anger, a bone-deep
weariness. The last of his tears spilled to the blood-spattered ground as
physical and emotional exhaustion took their toll. The treasure of several
kingdoms lay strewn around him, gold and platinum coins gleaming in the range of
Galadorn’s ever-present light. The sight did little to cheer him. They had won,
succeeded in their quest, but at what cost?

He was conscious of Gerwyth and Landra, the only other
survivors of their expedition, gathering up the bodies of the dead. Memories of
his companions filled his mind. Phathas, Bredeth, Majandra—all of them were
gone. Silently, Kaerion lifted them up in prayer to Heironeous. He felt an
answering pulse from Galadorn and knew that the Arch Paladin watched over them.

A shout from Gerwyth brought Kaerion struggling to his feet.
Bruised muscles protested the action, but he managed to ignore them. “What is
it, Ger?” he asked as he walked to where the elf stood, holding something in his
hand.

He watched as his friend regarded him with a searching look.
Kaerion felt, rather than saw, Gerwyth’s uncertainty, and realized that the
ranger had never known him before he had left Heironeous’ service. He smiled
gently at his friend. “It’s all right Ger,” he said. “We have much to talk about
you and I.”

The elf regarded him for a moment more. “Perhaps more than
you think, Kaer. Look.” Cupped in the palm of his hand was a multi-faceted
diamond, one of the ones that had been set inside Acererak’s skull, Kaerion
realized with a start. The heart of the stone gave off a soft red glow and, for
a brief moment, Kaerion heard the whispered chord of harpstrings.

“Do you think—?” Gerwyth began, but Kaerion quickly cut him
off.

“I’m not sure,” the paladin said, his voice rough with
emotion. He dared not voice the thought he knew his friend was entertaining. A
glowing diamond could mean anything. It could simply be a precious stone imbued
with magic, or perhaps even the last refuge of Acererak’s essence. But Kaerion’s
newly restored senses and his heart told him otherwise. Hope rose with him. If
some part of Majandra was somehow still alive, he would move the heavens and all
of the planes to bring her back to him. Gently, he took the glowing diamond from
the elf and wrapped it in cloth before placing it in one of his pouches.

A groan from the corner of the vault brought both of the
companions running. There, in a pile of coins and other jewelry, lay Bredeth.
The young man’s body was broken, his legs twisted at an unnatural angle. Long
angry burns covered most of his exposed skin, and his face was a mass of
blistered and bubbling flesh. He coughed once and gazed upon Kaerion out of the
wreck of one eye.

“S-sorry, Kaerion. I… tried to resist,” Bredeth gurgled,
“but th-they captured me, and—” a fit of coughing brought a spray of blood to
his lips.

Kaerion knelt down and gently pushed a clump of tangled,
burnt hair away from Bredeth’s mangled face. There was so much sorrow, so much
regret in life, the paladin thought. Images of Vaxor, the clerics body also
horribly violated, superimposed itself upon his vision. And yet, he knew that
the gods were there to help and support the mortals who toiled beneath life’s
hard yoke. The last few months had taught him many things. There was beauty and
joy in living—however fragile. And he would be there, armed with the power of
Heironeous, to protect it.

“No one blames you, Bredeth,” Kaerion replied at last.
“Without you, we would not have been able to defeat the cowards who attacked
us.”

The nobleman drew in a rattling breath. “I… I saw Adrys…and the thief. They… they crept into… the shadows… and fled. Tried
to… to stop them—” Another cough shook the noble’s twisted body. “But…couldn’t.”

Kaerion felt the muscles in his face harden. “Do not worry
yourself on that account, Bredeth,” he said. “There will be a reckoning, and
nothing will protect them from Heironeous’ justice.”

Bredeth gasped as a shudder wracked his frame, and Kaerion
saw him glance wildly out of the corner of his eyes. Death was upon him, and the
man knew it. He groaned and tried to turn his head. “The vault… ?” he
managed to force out his question between wheezing breaths.

“It is secure,” Kaerion said “Your country shall have its
treasure. I will deliver it personally, and because the Arch Paladin has moved
me, I will offer Nyrond my service as well.”

A peaceful smile stole over Bredeth’s features, smoothing the
burns that crisscrossed his face. “That is good,” he wheezed, and then closed
his eyes.

Kaerion felt Gerwyth’s hand upon his shoulder and knew by the
strength of the elf’s grip that he had heard the paladin’s promise to the dying
noble and would honor it alongside him. Courage and sacrifice had broken
Acererak’s dark power. These were ideals the world needed in no small
measure—ideals that Kaerion would embody in the name of Heironeous. Turning to
look at Gerwyth, he could think of no greater companion with which to carry out
this mission.

With a final glance at his friend, Kaerion placed a hand upon
Bredeth’s chest and blessed the man’s spirit as it journeyed to the realm of the
Valorous One. The power of his god filled the once shadowy room with the scent
of roses.

The tomb of horrors had claimed its final victim.

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