The Tomb of Horrors (2 page)

The cleric smiled as he watched his followers complete the
rite and scramble to obey Jhagren, who walked among the cultists like a predator
stalking prey. Soon, Durgoth thought, he would avenge years of humiliation. Once
they had retrieved the key, his ultimate plan would come to fruition At last,
Tharizdun would be free.

“Terror is a holy gift…”

—The Book of Nine Shadows

Kaerion thought it might be different this time.

But it never was.

The walls were white, the pure white of marble cut from mines
in the Cairn Hills. Elaborate stonework decorated the walls and recesses of the
temple, relieving the simple, austere lines of its basic design. Statues of
strong-jawed men and women, shields held forward, swords raised, gazed proudly
back at him. Everything here bespoke strength and courage, forthright commitment
in the face of adversity.

From a distance, the soaring lilt of a warm soprano cut
across the silent temple, caressing each note, spinning a gossamer web of sound.
He recognized the hymn, one of his favorites. He had chosen it for his own
Dedication.

In came the procession, a line of gray-robed figures, hoods
drawn, heads bowed, their stately gait carrying them forward as if they were
floating. The boy walked at their head. Clad in a simple white tunic, his serene
face broken by the hint of a smile, he marched toward the simple stone altar in
the center of the chamber with wide-eyed innocence.

Kaerion wanted to step forward, armed with the knowledge of
what was to come, and carry the boy away, but some force held him back. He tried
to shout a warning, but the sound of a rich-voiced alto singing a harmonic line
swallowed his voice as soon as he had opened his mouth. He looked around
desperately for someone to help him, but could not find a single ally.

That’s when the screaming began.

In a single, dizzying moment, the beautifully rendered hymn
shattered into painful dissonance. Kaerion clapped dirt-crusted hands over his
ears, desperate to escape the cacophony. Slowly, the screams faded, yet he could
hear another voice, distant and faint but growing louder. He closed his eyes,
trying to ignore the scent of blood that had begun to pollute the air, and
strained to make out what this new voice was saying. It came to him slowly—

“Kaerion, get your gods-blasted ass out of that bed!”

The nightmare shattered as a boot connected hard with his
side. Kaerion groaned, his already full bladder protesting the abuse, and
swatted feebly at his attacker. His stomach twisted fiercely, nearly disgorging
last nights gristly mutton. Only sheer force of will and a tongue swollen to
twice its normal size spared him that indignity.

Another groan escaped his lips, this time in response to the
throbbing in his head, which had quickly outstripped the pain in his side.
Rubbing scarred hands across eyes nearly crusted shut, he forced himself to gaze
upon the visage of the demon that had ripped him from sleep.

A harsh, angular elven face stared back at him, arched brows
raised even higher—in anger or amusement, it was always difficult to tell. The
elf raised a gloved fist, obviously prepared to strike again, but Kaerion held
up one arm in entreaty, wondering when the gnomes would finish their incessant
hammering inside his skull.

“Peace, Gerwyth,” he mumbled, “or so help me I’ll throw your
bony elven carcass right out the window.”

A ghost of a smile cracked the elf’s imposing facade, drawing
the alien features in starker relief. Delicate cheekbones rose even higher,
accenting the angular lines of his face. Long blond hair, pulled back from a
high forehead by a silver circlet, flowed around the curved expanse of ears,
only to fall into a jumbled cataract around shoulders covered by a dark green
cloak. Beneath the folds of the cloak, metal studs glinted softly in the
candlelight.

“Damn it, Kaerion, this is serious.” All trace of levity fled
from the elf’s face. “We’re in trouble again, and I’ll be hung and quartered if
I’m going to die because you can’t get your ale-sotted wits about you.”

“What now?” Kaerion asked, rising unsteadily to his feet. The
room spun viciously, but he managed to catch himself before he fell by grabbing
on to the stone wall to his left. His hair stank of tabac, and the sour reek of
his sweat filled the small room. It nearly made him vomit, but he mastered his
rebellious stomach once again, instead releasing only a single noisy belch.

“Gods’ blood, Kaer!” the elf shouted. “How long are you going
to go on doing this to yourself?”

Kaerion ignored the question—as he always did. He was far too
sober to think about the circumstances that had brought him to this place. All
he really wanted to do was find a dark corner and drink his throbbing headache
into quiescence.

“You said we’re in trouble,” he replied, with considerably
more aplomb than he felt. “What kind of trouble?” He thought perhaps reasoning
with his old friend might reduce the likelihood that he would continue to shout.

“Do you remember the merchant who needed caravan guards to
help transfer his assets from Hammensend to Woodwych?”

Kaerion nodded. The greedy bastard had hired thugs to steal
valuables from certain families and then tried to sell them back to these
families for twice their value. It was a good thing they hadn’t made it back to
Hammensend, he thought wistfully, or that pile of filth would have had to deal
with him.

“You mean Master Hemon, the thief who—”

“I mean the merchant who
hired
us to protect his interests,” the elf
interrupted. “The one connected to half of the crime lords in this city.” He
paused, obviously looking for some sign that his companion understood where he
was heading.

Kaerion opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off with a
sharp gesture.

“Gods! Did you have to take it upon yourself to
‘redistribute’ those gold nobles?” Gerwyth asked.

Kaerion felt his own temper rise, and the pounding in his
skull intensified. “It wasn’t really his money, anyway,” he said through gritted
teeth.

Five years they’d traveled together across the roads and
byways of the southern Flanaess and Gerwyth still didn’t understand. Even after
everything that had happened to him, after he’d proven his own guilt and
cowardice a dozen times, there were still a few things that mattered.

Like getting stinking drunk, another part of his mind
thought, instead of standing here arguing like an old married couple.

“Yes, well,” the elf responded, with all the grace of a
spurned fishwife. “Now he’s taken the money that is his and placed a bounty on
our heads. I was down by the docks when I found out. It seems that there are
quite a few people who won’t mind sharing the reward, and they are apparently
going to try and collect soon. We’ve got to leave Woodwych for a bit. If we
hurry, we can start our journey as soon as the gates open. I have a purse set up
for us in Rel Mord. It’s a big enough city that we can lay low until we meet our
contact.”

“Contact?” Kaerion questioned sarcastically. “Who are we
working for now, the Circle of Eight?” Truth be told, he didn’t feel much like
working for anyone and had told his friend that on occasions too numerous to
count. “I’m not taking on any more work, Gerwyth,” he stated flatly.

The elf’s eyes flashed emerald green. Nearly a decade of
familiarity allowed Kaerion to read his friends moods. When his almond-shaped
eyes took on that color, it meant the ranger was at his most dangerous.

Gerwyth, however, did not challenge his companion. “We can
argue about this later,” he replied. “Right now, we need to get out of here
before it’s too—”

The sharp crack of splintering wood echoed loudly from a
distance.

“Late,” the elf finished.

Kaerion heard the deep-throated grumble of voices followed by
several muffled screams and knew that trouble had indeed found them. He only
hoped that the bastards left the innkeeper and his family unharmed. The
Griffon’s Wing wasn’t the best inn within the walls of Woodwych by any means,
but its owners were decent people, even if their patrons left something to be
desired. If any of their family were hurt tonight, Kaerion thought angrily, he
just might make a personal trip back to Hammensend and gut that fat merchant
himself.

The door to his room shuddered beneath a fearsome blow.

Instinctively, Kaerion reached for his sword and cursed when
he discovered his scabbard was not buckled on. He scanned the room, trying to
remember where he had dropped it. Battle tension ran through his system, chasing
away a good portion of the aftereffects of the previous evening, as it always
did. His head, however, still remained a bit fuzzy, and it took a few moments to
locate the well-worn scabbard beneath a filth-encrusted cloak.

Kaerion drew the sword just as the door rocked beneath
another blow. He could clearly see the door’s thick wood beginning to split, and
he looked to Gerwyth. The elf had just finished stringing his bow and held the
weapon in one hand. Silver runes ran down the curved ash-wood body, bathing the
room in cold fire.

Kaerion gripped the worn hilt of his own weapon tightly.
Years of habit brought his thumb forward to rub the pure white diamond set
deeply into the leather-wrapped pommel. The action always calmed him before a
battle. He stifled a curse as his finger touched only simple steel, and he cast
a bitter glance toward the corner of the small room, where a finely wrought
jeweled scabbard lay against the wall.

Galadorn,
he spoke the sword’s name silently, longingly,
as if calling out to a long-lost lover. Where once he would have heard its
response, deep-voiced and regal, sonorous tones ringing with unearthly purity,
he sensed only the slightest of responses, like the tremulous whispers of that
lover’s farewell, and he nearly staggered under the familiar weight of loss that
descended upon him.

Forged with powerful magic and blessed, legends said, by the
hand of Heironeous himself, the mystic sword would protect its wielder from all
but the most powerful spells, and its holy might would cut through the thickest
of armor. But the power of the sword lay beyond him now, lost the moment his
faith in his god shattered under the vaulted domes of a hellish temple. Try as
he might to separate himself from this poignant reminder of his past, the sword
always remained. He’d tried everything from weighting it down and tossing it
into a river to hiring hedge wizards to cast spells of holding. The result was
always the same. He’d wake up from a drunken stupor with the sword only a
finger’s breadth from his hand—and permanently sheathed in its jeweled scabbard.
Thus, he was forced to wield a simple piece of cold, dead steel.

“We should climb out the window and make for the roof.” The
elf’s voice broke through Kaerion’s mournful thoughts. “It’s too far to jump
down to the lane below.”

“Gerwyth, you know I will not run from this.”

The ranger smiled, tossing his cloak behind one slender
shoulder. “Who said anything about running? The roof will make it far easier for
her
,” he said, indicating the glowing bow, “to pick off whoever is after
us.”

Kaerion shrugged and followed his friend to the window. There
was no time to put on any armor, and the close quarters of the room made it more
likely that he could be cornered and overmastered by a rush of bodies. The roof
was just as good a place as any to send these ruffians back to the dark mother
who bore them.

The door finally gave way under the combined attack of
several figures, and they let out a shout of victory as the last plank
shattered. Before he climbed out the window, Kaerion made out the glint of
chainmail beneath some of the attackers’ cloaks. At least that will slow them
down somewhat, he thought, as he pulled himself up over the jutting lip of the
window.

Above him, he could make out the scuttling form of Gerwyth.
The nimble elf was already rolling quietly on to the rooftop. He caught the
howls of outrage from the thugs in his room as they realized that their quarry
was escaping. A few quick pulls brought Kaerion to the roof, where he took a
moment to catch his breath.

The gray light of false dawn hung over the rooftop, giving
everything a dim, muted feel. Patches of fog rolled past, touching his face with
its cool fingers. He spotted Gerwyth standing to one side, head cocked slightly,
eyes scanning the urban horizon. Kaerion knew his friend had sensed something
amiss and now relied on his hunting instincts—instincts which had made him one
of the best trackers and guides in the southeastern Flanaess—to unearth the
source of his unease.

“We’ve got company,” the elf said after another moment.

The twang of a bowstring and the sharp hiss of an arrow cut
though the pre-dawn silence. Kaerion leapt to one side and noticed with
satisfaction that the ranger had done the same. The arrow shattered as it struck
stone.