The Tomb of Horrors (18 page)

The elf’s voice was high and light, like most of his kind,
but Durgoth could hear the menacing tones beneath it. They would probably have
very little chance of talking their way out of this one.

“The forest has been uneasy for several weeks,” the elf
continued, “and we have searched since then for the cause of its unrest.” He
motioned with his other hand and two figures robed in white moved silently from
the thick underbrush that hung closely on either side of the trade road. They
flowed out of the underbrush as though emerging from water. Druids, most likely,
Durgoth thought as he caught sight of the silver-white hair that fell unbound
from their heads. Each carried a wooden staff tipped with a circle of holly leaf
and berries. Silver scythes hung from their belt.

“The spirit of the forest recoils from every tread of your
wagons,” one of the druids said. His voice, though soft as the spring wind that
had followed their caravan through the Rieuwood, carried clearly to Durgoth.

“Whatever unnatural force you carry through our homeland,”
the second druid said, “you will not be permitted to travel any farther. The
spirit of this place and the will of Ehlonna bid you to begone.”

Durgoth crept closer, keeping himself out of sight of the
elves. Silently, he prayed that the cultist he had placed in charge of the
caravan would hold together just a few more moments—at least until he knew that
Eltanel and Sydra were ready for an attack.

The leader of the patrol stepped forward once more. “You are
instructed to turn your wagons and follow the trade road back the way you came.
We will escort you to the borders of the Rieuwood. If you make no trouble and
harm no living thing on this journey, we will allow you to live. Break this law,
and we will kill you and drag your corpses out of the forest so that your taint
will not trouble our homes. Is this understood?”

The caravan master stammered for a few moments, clearly too
scared to answer the elf leader. Durgoth cursed, but stopped as he caught sight
of Adrys. The young monk walked slowly and silently toward the front of the
caravan, catching the cleric’s eye and nodding slightly. Durgoth gave a nod
back, understanding that the guild members were in place. Moving forward swiftly
now, he approached the gathered elves, his rain-soaked cloak trailing behind
him.

“Perhaps we can come to some other agreement,” Durgoth said
in a strong voice.

The leader of the elves turned at the sound of the clerics
voice, obviously stunned by this new arrival, but he recovered soon enough as
the second druid hissed something in his ear. Swifter than Durgoth thought
possible, the elf drew the length of his gleaming steel sword from its scabbard.

“Archers in the trees!” Durgoth shouted as he drew his
obsidian mace, trusting that Sydra would neutralize this threat.

He wasn’t disappointed. A fiery ball of energy flew out over
the head of the patrol as Durgoth closed with the elf leader. A moment later, a
vicious burst of flames exploded in the treetops where the archers lay hidden.
Durgoth could hear their screams as he parried a viper-quick thrust from his
opponent. Both sword and mace hummed with power as they clashed.

Though the muddy ground around him churned and oozed with
each step, it became clear to Durgoth that his opponent suffered no disadvantage
from the terrain, moving with perfect balance and near blinding speed. Durgoth
barely managed to raise up his mace in time to deflect a killing stroke. He
cried out as the blade bit deeply into his shoulder, and in desperation, he
called upon Tharizdun as he grabbed the elf’s sword arm. The stench of burning
flesh assailed his nostrils as the cleric withdrew his hand. The elf stumbled
backward, clutching his arm and screaming in agony.

Durgoth took that moment to withdraw a few feet, turning his
attention to the rest of the battle. The shadowy form of Jhagren leapt forward
to engage the wounded elf. He was pleased to see that Adrys was harrying two
elves with a flurry of kicks and punches; both of those beleaguered fighters
seemed surprised at the ferocity of this human child, and neither was able to
mount a serious attack.

“Durgoth, beware the druids!” Sydra shouted.

He turned his attention to the two druids. One of them had
drawn his scythe and was laying about with the sharpened edge, cutting the
throats and chests of several cultists. The second, however, chanted something
in a sharp voice and struck the ground with his staff. For a moment nothing
happened, and then the limbs, branches, and trunks of the surrounding foliage
writhed and grew before his eyes. If he didn’t do something soon, most of his
forces would be trapped within a verdant prison. Quickly, Durgoth recalled the
ancient gestures to his spell and summoned the dark power of his Master once
again. As he clapped his hands together, a small bubble of energy sprang forth
before him, growing swiftly to encompass the caravan and the combatants.
Wherever the druids writhing foliage touched the bubble, the plants blackened
and died.

Durgoth wiped the sweat and rain from his brow and cast about
the battle. Though Adrys had felled one of his opponents, a new one had stepped
up, and it was clear that the young monk would soon be overmatched. His master
fared little better. Jhagren struck furiously at the elf leader, but even
wounded, the elf managed to avoid the blows. Meanwhile, Durgoth noticed that the
remaining elven warriors were quickly cutting down his cultists.

Durgoth called on the golem, knowing that the construct’s
power would turn the tide of battle. He felt clearly its answering
acknowledgement a few moments before its dark-cloaked mass came running up to
the front lines, crashing into the knot of elves that fought with his followers.
The warriors stumbled back beneath the ferocity of the golems attack, and one
fell to the ground, head split open by the tremendous force behind the monsters
closed fist.

The cleric nodded, satisfied, and made his way toward the
druids, smiling grimly at what he found there. Sydra had kept both priests
off-balance by sending wave after wave of glowing missiles at them. This had
allowed Eltanel to position himself for a clear shot with his crossbow. His
first bolt struck one of the druids squarely in the back of the neck. Durgoth
heard the elf’s spine snap under the force of the blow as the druid fell to the
ground. As the second priest turned to gape at his fallen companion, Durgoth
moved forward and brought his mace down upon the druid’s head. Blood and gray
liquid spattered everywhere as the elf’s skull splintered.

Durgoth turned to find the golem lifting two elves by the
throat. The construct cast a dark gaze at the cleric before crushing the
windpipes of his opponents and casting their bloodied corpses at the remaining
two elves, who were still locked in combat with Adrys.

“Help Jhagren!” Durgoth shouted to the golem as he ran past
to aid the young monk. The golem moved quickly to Jhagren’s side, and Durgoth
caught a glimpse of the elf striking desperately at the hulking mass of flesh.

Still a few yards away from Adrys, Durgoth watched as the
novice dropped to the ground and lashed out with a booted foot at his nearest
attacker, tripping the elf. The lad’s second opponent swung his sword downward,
hoping to spit the monk as he tried to get back up. Adrys clearly saw the attack
and brought his left leg up in a snapping kick that knocked the sword from his
attacker’s hand. Durgoth closed in and finished off the elf who had fallen under
the novice’s original attack.

Confident that the monk could defeat his last unarmed
opponent, Durgoth turned back to the elf leader. Bruised and bleeding from
several gaping wounds, the valiant elf nevertheless continued to fend off both
the golem and Jhagren. The cleric was even surprised to see several gashes in
the golem’s flesh, where the warrior’s magical sword had managed to penetrate
the golem’s defenses.

While that battle continued, Durgoth motioned for Eltanel to
take a contingent of cultists and make sure that the archers or any other
remnant of the elven patrol did not survive. The thief nodded grimly and took
off with several bloodied cultists to carry out his will.

A strangled cry made Durgoth turn back to the elf leader.
Jhagren had finally managed to break the elf’s sword arm, and his continuing
attacks pushed the warrior into the waiting arms of the golem. The patrol leader
struggled valiantly to free himself, but the creatures strength was too much.
The elf made a few more feeble attempts before the golem’s inexorable grip
crushed the life out of him. His corpse slid noiselessly to the ground.

Durgoth stood in the center of the road, blood streaming from
the cut in his shoulder. He felt lightheaded and more than a little battered.
For a few moments, he could hear the short gurgled cries of the wounded as
Eltanel and his group administered killing blows, and then a deep silence fell
over the forest. The cleric looked around worriedly. It felt as if the silence
bore down upon him, as if the forest impaled him with its ancient gaze.

And then, suddenly, he laughed. Softly at first, and then
finally in explosive bursts of gut-heaving mirth that echoed wildly across the
trade road. He caught several of his followers glancing at him with worried
looks on their faces, and for some reason, he found this even funnier. The
laughter held on to him for several more moments, until Jhagren moved toward him
and stood silently, obviously waiting for his next command. Durgoth wiped tears
from his eyes and began to exert control over himself.

“Jhagren,” he spoke between gasps of breath, “gather all of
the corpses and pile them into the second wagon. Make sure to hide, gather, or
erase all signs of this battle. And be quick about it.”

The monk nodded and ran off. Durgoth wiped a final tear from
his eye and sent a prayer of thanksgiving to Tharizdun. They had to move quickly
now. Once the elves discovered this treachery, they would send out patrols in
force. But once free of this blasted place, there would be nothing that could
stop him from retrieving the key.

He turned back toward his wagon and made his way through the
carnage. The eyes of the dead stared at him accusingly.

He ignored them.

Steel burned with silver fire in the harsh sun as Kaerion
raised his blade to meet the descending attack. He cursed as the shock of the
blow jarred fever-weakened tendons and muscle. He stepped forward and slightly
to the side of his opponent, allowing the attacker’s sword to force his own
toward the ground. At the last moment, he withdrew his blade and spun away,
hoping to catch his breath.

Sweat that had only very little to do with the blazing sun
overhead streamed down his face, stinging eyes and leaving a sharp salty taste
on lips pursed in frustration. He had discarded his normal mail shirt in favor
of a lighter armor made from leather, but Kaerion still felt as if he were
parading around in a set of full plate. Knees and shoulders protested, and
breath came grudgingly, in ragged gasps. It felt as if a giant had him in a
deadly bear hug.

Damned convalescence, he thought, all the while keeping a
careful eye on his opponent. During the days since they had left the sheltered
confines of the Rieuwood Forest, his strength had returned, slowly at first and
then with more speed. Walks with Gerwyth, begun so gingerly at first, had turned
into long, bone jarring rides, as the ravages of nearly two months of bed rest
gave way before the restorative properties of warm spring winds and the rugged
beauty of the Sunndi countryside. As the caravan continued on its journey,
finally wending down into the humid arms of the Pawluck River Valley and its
lush basin of trees and thick green undergrowth, Kaerion had begun his weapons
practice in earnest, first privately and then with anyone who cared to test his
returning skills. And here it was, just a few days before the expedition would
reach the border of the Vast Swamp, and he still wasn’t at his best.

Kaerion grunted and shifted the grip on his sword. His wrists
throbbed with an ache he hadn’t felt since his first days of sword training as a
squire. He only hoped that his returning strength would be sufficient to protect
his companions.

“Pay attention!” Gerwyth shouted, obviously mimicking the
tones of an arms master rebuking a nettlesome novice.

A chorus of laughter and catcalls erupted from the knot of
guardsmen who had come, with surprising regularity, to these daily training
sessions—some to test their mettle against the recovering fighter, but most to
watch two masters of the sword polish and hone their own breathtaking skills.

The weary fighter cast the guards a fierce glare, but they
continued to jeer, some even offering him advice on his grip or his stance. He
scowled again and shook his head. The early formality between the caravan guards
and the rest of the expedition had dissolved beneath the tread of many miles and
the assault of the elements, replaced now by an easy camaraderie. There were
times, however, where he yearned for the quiet distance of those early days.