The Tomb of Horrors (12 page)

The man simply smiled, casting his pockmarked face into a
ghoulish grin, and waited for him to recover. Kaerion took that time to reassess
his opponent. Although the assassins poison still flowed in his veins, slowing
down reflexes, and fatigue from several different wounds drained what remaining
strength he had, he didn’t think he’d be able to match the speed of his opponent
even if he’d been fully rested. The man moved like lightning.

But there were more ways to beat an opponent, Kaerion thought
as he launched himself at the smiling figure. He was bleeding from his wounds,
but it was draining away the poison, and Kaerion was slowly gaining back some
control of his body. His sword whistled as its keen edge cut sidewise in an
attempt to lay open the man’s stomach. The smile fell from his opponent’s face
as he was forced to roll out of the way of the attack.

Kaerion followed through as quickly as he could, not wanting
to give the unarmed man a chance to regain his footing. A second cut with his
sword should have laid open the man’s bowels, but his opponent’s agility saved
him again. Instead of a deathblow, the sword had made a shallow cut on his hip.

Pressing the attack, Kaerion noted with satisfaction that his
opponent was giving ground. Soon, he’d have the man backed into an alleyway.
With little room to maneuver, the pockmarked man would not be able to dodge the
deadly strokes of his blade.

A few more moments, Kaerion thought as his sword wove a net
of steel, driving back his opponent.

There!

Kaerion raised his sword, intent on cutting a deadly swathe
of steel across the man’s body—

And struck nothing but air.

The monk had run up the side of the nearby wall and used his
momentum to launch a flurry of kicks at Kaerion. Each one shot pain through
Kaerion’s already battered body. Another kick caught him straight in the chest,
and he found himself knocked backward out of the alleyway.

Kaerion rolled gracelessly to his feet, but already he could
feel the presence of his opponent, waiting to rain death down upon him. Kaerion
knew he was at the last of his strength.

The twang of a bowstring cut through the night, followed by
the hiss of arrows. His opponent cast a baleful eye toward the source of that
sound, and Kaerion watched in disbelief as his opponent’s hands moved quicker
than his eye could follow, knocking aside the incoming missile. Two more
followed soon after, and Kaerion knew that Gerwyth had arrived on the scene.
Unbelievably, the pockmarked man deflected two more missiles. The fourth,
however, caught him in the shoulder, and he let out a grunt of pain.

In the distance, Kaerion could hear the sounds of the city
watch heading toward the embattled inn. His opponent must have heard it too, for
he ducked back into the alleyway, safe from the deadly arrows.

“This is far from over,” the man growled at him in a rough
voice. He brought both hands together and began a low-throated chant. The air
rippled beside him, shadows within shadows. He cast another hard look at the
fallen fighter and then stepped into the moving shadows, disappearing as if he’d
stepped through an unseen door.

Kaerion groaned and struggled to his feet. By the time he
made it into the alleyway, it was clear that his opponent was gone.

* * *

When the upper storey of the Platinum Shield exploded in a
burst of flames, Durgoth knew that his henchmen had encountered some
difficulties. Just how great these difficulties were didn’t become clear until
he saw both Sydra and Eltanel fleeing the inn. Rage and frustration at their
incompetence ruled him for just a moment. He wanted to strike down their fleeing
forms then and there.

Mercifully, the moment passed. Durgoth knew he could deal
with their failure later. What concerned him now was the sheer strength of those
who unknowingly sought the same thing as he: the Tomb of Acererak. His
distraction had been dealt with very effectively. The presence of that other god
still shook him deeply, and he marveled at the faith and power of anyone who
could wield such holy might. This was no motley collection of treasure-hungry
adventurers arrayed against him. Surprised and unprepared, they had still beaten
back a carefully planned attack.

Perhaps, Durgoth thought, there may be a way to use such
strength. Possibilities began to spin in his mind—plans and plots as cunning and
twisted as the man who created them.

The sound of combat caught his attention, and he looked out
from his vantage point in the darkened alley, smiling as he caught sight of
Jhagren locked in battle with some sword-wielding brute. At least, Durgoth
thought with some satisfaction, he could still count on the monk to succeed at
his tasks. Though Jhagren’s opponent looked imposing, blood ran from several
deep wounds, and it was clear that he was no match for the monk.

Durgoth watched a few moments more. He found himself slightly
disappointed when the whistles and alarms of approaching sentinels drew closer.
The presence of the elven archer had just made the battle interesting.

“Ah, well,” he whispered to the chill night air. “We shall
all meet again. Very soon.”

He faded into the darkness of the alleyway.

“The Scarlet Brotherhood…
here
?” Bredeth’s voice,
grating at its normal volume, was pitched just short of a shout.

Majandra winced at the harsh tone, but managed to keep her
face impassive. It was clear that the night’s events had rattled the young
noble, and she had no wish to antagonize him further. Dark bruises stood out
vividly on the man’s cream-tinted complexion, and several cuts crisscrossed both
arms.

Despite herself, the half-elf was impressed that the young
warrior had acquitted himself well during the battle. Perhaps, she thought, he
won’t be a complete liability on the journey.

“How could those damnable assassins have found out about our
plans?” the young noble asked in a slightly softer voice. “And why would they
take such an interest in us?”

“The Brotherhood has its eyes and ears in every major city,”
Phathas replied from his chair in the corner of the room, “and we have made
little secret about our intentions. In that, we may have been a bit foolish. As
for their interest, well, I believe that a united and healthy Nyrond would be a
severe impediment to whatever dark schemes they are hatching.”

Majandra listened to the old mage’s words, trying to look
attentive, but concern for her mentor kept clouding her thoughts. Despite the
healing prayers of Vaxor, dark circles ringed the deep hollows of the wizards
eyes, and his face seemed shrunken, almost ghoul-like in the firelight—weathered
flesh stretched taut across the skull, like the cracked skin of an ancient drum.

Tonight’s attack had drained them all, but it seemed as if
the battle had taken something permanent from the old mage. Vaxor had dealt with
the sentinels and the hysterical rambling of the Platinum Shields proprietor.
Even after leading the weary group to the spell-sealed chambers of the Royal
University, Phathas seemed strangely silent, bent beneath burdens only he could
identify. Now, as they sat within the relative comfort and safety of the
university walls, the bard watched in dismay as those burdens continued to
consume the flesh of her beloved teacher.

“Something just isn’t right,” interjected Gerwyth, as he drew
himself out of the shadow-spun corner of the chamber. His lilting accent caught
Majandra’s attention, turning her mind away from dark thoughts. She was
surprised to find that despite the evening’s exertions, the elf appeared
unruffled. Though he had discarded his usual cloak and wore his studded leather
armor openly, the elf would not have drawn comment had he been attending a
banquet, such was the effect of his still-immaculate waves of golden hair and
unearthly beauty. His eyes reflected back the golden light of the fire, shining
like emeralds in the small room, and if not for the grim set of jaw, one would
have never known the ranger had fought a pitched battle just hours ago.

“Despite the fact that the attack was well planned,” he
continued after a nod from Phathas, “it did not feel like the Brotherhood’s
handiwork. It was too… straightforward, if you ask me.”

“I agree,” Vaxor’s deep voice resonated in the chamber. He
turned to the silent figure of Kaerion, staring idly into the fire. “Are you
sure that you encountered a member of the Scarlet Brotherhood? Perhaps it was
someone else—a different group trying to shift blame onto the Brotherhood?”

The fire crackled and hissed within the stone hearth for
several long moments before the burly fighter answered. Majandra listened with
great interest. Unlike the rest of their group, Kaerion had refused Vaxor’s
offer of healing, instead popping the wax seal on a clear flask and drawing a
few swallows. After that, he’d bound his remaining wounds and stalked oft.
Beyond recounting the events that had transpired, he’d hardly said two words
since entering the University grounds.

“No,” Kaerion said in an even tone, “I’m sure it was the
Brotherhood. I’ve got the bruises to prove it.”

This last was said with a rueful smile, one of the few
Majandra had seen the fighter allow himself. The effect was devastating—even
with the deep scratches that cut across his chin—and the half-elf found herself
dreaming up a hundred different ways she could bring such a smile to his lips.

“Well then, if the Scarlet Brotherhood is behind the attack,
what should we do?” asked Bredeth.

The young noble paced restlessly about the confines of the
chamber, anxiety present in every move. The group looked at Phathas, but it was
Vaxor who responded.

“What we do next is get some rest. We’ve been up almost all
day and night, and we have plenty to do in the coming hours. Because of
tonight’s events, it’s clear that the city is no longer safe. We must push up
our scheduled departure. Bredeth, you and Majandra should contact the caravan
masters after you’ve had a chance to sleep. Tell them to be prepared to leave by
tomorrow morning. Phathas, Gerwyth, Kaerion, and I will make sure that all of
our provisions are stocked and ready to load on the wagons. Agreed?”

Majandra found herself nodding tiredly along with the rest of
the group. Lack of sleep and fatigue had begun to take their toll. She smiled
wryly at the probable reaction of the caravan masters, who would no doubt shriek
and complain until more gold was thrown their way, but that experience would
have to wait until she’d closed her eyes for just a few hours.

Stifling a yawn, she shuffled past Phathas, giving his
shoulder a gentle squeeze, and was rewarded with a tired smile. Despite the old
man’s kindness, she found herself wondering, not for the first time, if he had
the strength to complete the journey.

How much will this expedition cost us?

* * *

“Unforgivable!” Durgoth shouted into the dimly lit room,
noting with smug satisfaction the faces that flinched before the sound of his
voice included those of the two thieves’ guild members. In truth, he wasn’t all
that angry—anymore. Anger had long-since given way to pragmatic cunning, yet he
still raked the assembled cultists and their newfound allies with the fiery edge
of his gaze. Fear was a useful tool, and one he wielded like a master.

“But lord,” Sydra replied in an uneven voice, “our targets
possessed considerable strength. Rarely have I encountered such power as when I
battled the old mage. He was exceptionally skilled—even for a master wizard.”

He listened to the sorceress’ pathetic excuses with an
impassive mien. The fact that she addressed him with a noble honorific amused
him greatly, but she needed to understand what the rest of his followers already
knew: He wouldn’t tolerate failure.

“I was under the impression,” Durgoth said, his voice lashing
out like a whip, “that the Guildmaster offered me his very best. Apparently, he
was mistaken.”

“Not so, blessed one,” a voice spoke from the shadows.

It took Durgoth a few moments to locate Eltanel’s
black-cloaked form. The thief moved confidently forward, pushing past several
cultists who stared wide-eyed at the man who so brazenly challenged their
master.

Durgoth couldn’t help but smile at their reaction. The thief
continued forward, wounded pride evidenced in every motion, and for a moment the
cleric wondered whether the man would be foolish enough to strike at him. He was
about to signal the golem that stood ever vigilant at his back, but the
dark-skinned thief stopped several paces away and stood with hands clasped
behind his back, stance easy and open.

“What happened tonight was unfortunate,” Eltanel said, taking
a moment to glare at his companion, who returned his scowl measure for measure,
“but it was not a complete loss.” He brought one hand forward, holding several
thin scroll tubes. “I managed to acquire these before our friends gained the
upper hand.” The thief shot another look at Sydra before handing the scrolls to
Durgoth.