The Tomb of Horrors (13 page)

The cleric accepted the offering with a cold smile. This
Eltanel was a cunning one. In a manner of moments, the thief had managed to
distance himself from tonight’s defeat, subtly place the blame on his companion,
and allow himself to look like the only one who had succeeded in any way. He
would bear watching.

“My thanks, Eltanel, for your efforts. Perhaps I spoke too
hastily. It appears that Reynard was partially correct in his assessment.”
Durgoth watched as the sorceress’ golden eyes flashed angrily at the other
thief. There, he thought with satisfaction, with one phrase he had widened the
gulf between the two thieves and insured that Sydra would kill herself to prove
better than Eltanel.

Satisfied, Durgoth turned his attention back to the rest of
his followers. “It is true that our enemies have great strength,” he said,
pitching his voice so that it carried to the farthest corners of the room. “But
the wise man may use the power of his enemies to his own advantage. This is what
we will do. With the information we have gained this evening—” at this he cast a
benevolent glance at Eltanel—“we will have a better idea of the location to
which our foes will travel.”

“But what about the prophecy?” a voice shouted from the
center of the assembled cultists, eliciting a supporting murmur from the group.

“The prophecy has led us here,” Durgoth snapped. He noted the
identity of the speaker and absently reminded himself to have the man’s tongue
cut out for his insolence. “I have faith in the will of Tharizdun, and it is his
will that has guided us here.”

He glanced out at the assembly with satisfaction. Invoking
the name of the Imprisoned One had brought them to silence. He could see the
gleam of faith in their eyes. They would follow his lead unquestioningly.

“Our enemies seek the tomb of Acererak, as do we. There will
no doubt be great danger on the journey, and we shall let our foes spend their
strength overcoming these perils. They shall lead us to the tomb, and when they
stand exhausted at the gates of the wizards resting place, we shall sacrifice
them to appease the dark god’s hunger. Once our enemies have been vanquished we
will be able to collect the key and release Tharizdun from his eternal prison.”

This last he delivered triumphantly, hands raised above his
head in the traditional blessing. The group responded instantly, chanting the
Eight Dark Names of Tharizdun. Durgoth lowered his hands slowly before him, and
the assembled cultists fell to their knees in homage to the dark god.

The cleric watched as Sydra and Eltanel left the room, no
doubt to report their findings to the Guildmaster. It was important for Reynard
to know exactly with whom he had made a deal. It would make it that much sweeter
when Durgoth bent his power to destroying the city—including the scum who lived
in its shadows—in the name of Tharizdun.

Durgoth smiled in anticipation and closed his eyes as the
prayers of his followers swelled over him in waves.

Everything was proceeding perfectly.

“Darkness shall be your Diocese,

Night, Your Ministry …”

—The Book of Nine Shadows

Gray clouds hung like a shroud over the sweeping grasslands
of Nyrond, casting a chill shadow on the line of wagons and horses that crept
along the rough road. Wet snow and freezing rain fell hard from the sky, driven
by the bitter lash of the wind. Even the thick-skinned oxen, normally dull and
placid as they pulled their wagons, bent their heads beneath the wintry blasts
and let out deep-throated grumbles of protest.

Kaerion pulled the thick expanse of his winter cloak tightly
about him, seeking in vain for some protection against the needles of ice that
struck painfully against exposed skin. Cold beads of moisture ran down from his
matted hair, gathering at the frozen tip of nose and beard. These he swept away
with an angry mutter and a swift motion of his gloved hand, but he couldn’t
prevent the occasional drop from running down his neck and underneath the bulk
of his chainmail. He shuddered once again and was forced to grab hold of the
reins as his horse, a powerfully built roan stallion, shifted nervously beneath
him, obviously sensing its rider’s discomfort.

Not an auspicious beginning to their journey, Kaerion thought
miserably, and ran a hand across the bulk of his saddlebag, absently checking
the complement of filled wineskins he’d brought along. The group had awoken well
before dawn and made their way from the University to the caravans staging area
in the trade district. They spent most of their time during the pre-dawn gloom
double-checking their supplies and making last-minute deals with the caravan
merchant’s agents, who were only too eager to sell any in-demand item or service
for twice its price.

They left Rel Mord as soon as the gates were thrown wide
against the unrelieved gloom of a forbidding winter sky—though the weather had
been kind enough to wait until mid-morning before showering them with its gifts.
Now, the expedition plodded forward, six wagons full of food, clothing, spare
wood and nails for repairs, pick axes, shovels and other excavating equipment,
empty chests for carrying Acererak’s treasure, and all the sundry provisions and
supplies required for such an undertaking.

Roughly a dozen drovers and an equal amount of caravan guards
had joined them on their journey, sharing crude humor and a rough camaraderie as
they went about their business. Kaerion noted the guards with interest. Though
most of them seemed like typical down-on-their-luck hired swords, their captain,
a steely-eyed woman of indeterminate age, moved with the confidence and grace of
a trained warrior. He watched as the woman, who called herself Landra, barked
orders that sent the various guards stumbling into formation around the caravan.
It was clear to Kaerion after a few moments that her tongue was as sharp as her
wit, and he made a note to find out more about her.

Of the nobles who embarked upon this journey, Kaerion was
pleasantly surprised to discover that only Phathas remained in the relative
comfort of a wagon. Still recovering from his wounds from the battle at the
Platinum Shield, the old mage had originally insisted in joining the rest of the
group on horseback, and it wasn’t until Vaxor had threatened the mage with
bodily harm that he had finally relented.

Though there was little danger of being attacked so close to
the capitol of Nyrond, their recent battle had added a cautious element to the
expedition. They did not want to leave anything to chance. Thus it was decided
that Gerwyth would scout ahead of the caravan, alert for any danger, while
Kaerion and a small complement of guards would lag behind, ready to discourage
any pursuit. Vaxor, Bredeth, and Majandra wove themselves into the patrols of
the remaining guards, roving on either side of the caravan train. Once they left
the shadow of Rel Mord, it would be several weeks before they found themselves
near the walls of a major settlement or city, and this area could hold dangers
beyond that of simple brigands.

A sharp gust of wind blew across the grasslands. Kaerion
gasped as its swirling fingers rustled through his cloak, sending shivers
throughout his body. He cursed and reached for the edges of his wet cloak once
again. He didn’t know if he’d be able to survive the coming weeks and months.
Between the bitter assault of the weather and the suspicious silence that had
grown between he and Vaxor, Kaerion didn’t know how long he’d be able to last.

He’d studiously avoided the Heironean cleric ever since the
night of the battle, and it was fairly clear that the priest was doing the same.
Kaerion thought the cleric might have discovered his secret, and the very
possibility had kept him from sleeping ever since. He had shared his suspicions
with Gerwyth, but the elf had quickly dismissed them. If what Kaerion had
reported to his friend about the Heironean church was true, the elf had
suggested, then Vaxor would have been honor bound not to offer any aid, comfort,
or sustenance to Kaerion. Vaxor would not have allowed Kaerion to remain a
member of the expedition. The elf’s argument was a good one, but Kaerion
couldn’t shake the belief that Vaxor’s silence implied condemnation. The strain
of such belief, combined with nearly two days without sleep, had begun to wear
upon Kaerion. Already his head ached with the need for strong wine—and it would
only get worse. At least, he thought, his insomnia had kept the nightmares at
bay.

By midafternoon, the falling rain and snow had eased up, and
the grassland winds were, for the moment, held in abeyance. Kaerion sighed and
cast a look behind him. Rel Mord still loomed in the distance, a brooding giant.
He was surprised to note, however, that despite the brutal weather, the caravan
had traveled a fair distance. Looking forward, he saw the undulating tide of
grasslands stretch out before him. About a mile ahead, he saw the black line of
caravan wagons. From this distance they looked like the great behemoths of the
Aerdi Sea, their long bodies cresting across a sea of grass. Patches of white
snow dotted the landscape, and Kaerion recalled the whitecaps on the
storm-tossed waters of his youth.

He reined his stallion to a halt and stood up in the
stirrups, stretching tired legs. Around him, several guards had dismounted and
were walking their mounts. Despite the calm in the weather, he couldn’t quite
shake the chill that had gripped him since leaving Rel Mord. His hands shook as
he continued to watch the slow progress of the caravan in the distance, though
he wasn’t sure if his twitching muscles were due to the weather or his sudden
thirst.

Deftly, the fighter dismounted and undid the knot in his
saddlebag. He drew forth a skin filled with sweet Nyrondean wine and quickly
took a draught. The weather-chilled wine filled his mouth with its crisp texture
and he swallowed greedily.

“A bit early to start celebrating, wouldn’t you say?”

Kaerion nearly choked at the sound of the sharp-toned voice.
Spluttering, he drew his forearm across his mouth and turned to face the source
of that voice. Majandra stood smiling beside the elegant bulk of her horse, a
piebald mare with a graceful mane. The half-elf wore a thick green cloak clasped
at the neck with a gold-wrought pin in the shape of a harp. A wool-spun doublet
further protected her from the elements. Her riding leathers were worn but well
made, and she moved easily across the slippery turf in high-topped leather
boots.

Majandra shook her head at Kaerion’s discomfiture, and the
fighter noticed that for once, the bard’s fiery red hair lay bound in tightly
woven braids that lay about her head like a circlet of bronze.

“This is no celebration, Majandra,” he said, indicating the
uncorked skin. “It’s a balm for this damned weather. Alchemists and wizards
aren’t the only ones who brew magic.”

The half-elf laughed and reached for the wineskin. “Then
perhaps you wouldn’t mind sharing a little bit of this potion. My fingers are so
cold I think they’d shatter on the strings of my harp.”

Kaerion handed over the wine, watching in fascination as the
bard took several long swallows and then wiped her mouth, quite improperly, on
the sleeve of her doublet.

“What is it Kaerion?” she asked with a smile. “Have you never
seen a woman drink before?”

The fighter shook his head, hoping that the red tint to his
face would be seen as a product of the chill wind and not the embarrassment he
felt. What was it about this woman that made him feel so off balance?

“Of course I have,” he said, perhaps a bit too sharply. “I’ve
just never seen a daughter of one of the noblest houses in Nyrond drink out of
anything that wasn’t made of gold.”

If Majandra took any offense at his statement, she didn’t
show it. Rather, the half-elf cracked a thoroughly enchanting and
all-too-knowing smile. “Well, now,” she said, her eyes flashing with mischief,
“it seems that you have forgotten the fact that you and I have already shared a
drink, after a fashion.”

Kaerion stiffened at the mention of his disastrous first
evening in Rel Mord, but relaxed when the bard rolled her eyes and laughed in
obvious good nature. He was beginning to enjoy this woman’s mercurial wit, even
when its rapier-sharp point was focused on him. Perhaps, he thought, this
journey wouldn’t be too dull.

Majandra handed back the skin of wine, and the two stood in
companionable silence, listening to the sound of the wind as it whistled across
the grassland. In the distance, he could see that the caravan line had stopped
for the final break of the day. After this, the wagons would push on until dusk,
when they would finally make camp for the night.

“I actually came here to thank you for helping us the other
night,” Majandra spoke at last, breaking the silence. “I know you think our
mission is a foolish one, but that didn’t stop you from risking your life to
save Phathas and the rest of us. Without you and Gerwyth, I doubt we could have
overcome our attackers.”