The Tomb of Horrors (25 page)

“Boy,” he said at last, contempt for the bastard’s misplaced
arrogance dripping from every word, “when I am through with this world, the Nine
Hells will seem like Beory’s own paradise in comparison.”

The warrior grinned. “Bold words,” he said, “for someone who
needs talking frogs to do his dirty work for him.”

“Fool!” Durgoth shouted, immediately regretting his loss of
temper. Then, in more measured tones he said, “You dare mock me, the bearer of
Tharizdun’s will? For that, I will feed you to the Dark One myself… after you
have served your purpose.”

“This for your pathetic godling,” the captive said, and then
he hawked bloodied spittle into the dark cleric’s face.

Durgoth spun away in outrage, hastily wiping the spit from
his brow. Such insolence! Anger building, he turned back toward the warrior with
raised fist and was gratified to see the captured noble wince in expectation of
the blow. A smile slowly spread across the dark priest’s features, and he held
his attack.

“There will come a time,” he said to the glaring prisoner,
“when you will remember my clenched fist, and your agony will be so great that
you would trade your very soul to feel its weight upon your face rather than
suffer for one more moment. When that happens, I want you to remember that it
was your blasphemy that brought you there.”

“Let me spend some time with the boy, Durgoth,” broke in a
husky voice from behind him. “I’m sure I can loosen his… tongue and make him
more amenable to cooperation.”

Durgoth turned and acknowledged Sydra’s offer with a nod. The
sorceress lounged indolently against a fallen marsh tree, her hair bound off of
her tanned shoulders with a silver cord that reflected the rays of the rising
sun.

“You shall have your opportunity in a few moments, my dear,”
the cleric said.

“I don’t see why we have to waste time on that,” Eltanel cut
in. “It’s clear these nobles will come after their companion. Why not set a trap
and kill them?”

Durgoth remained quiet a moment, carefully studying the two
guild members. What had begun as simple competitiveness after their defeat in
Rel Mord had grown into open antipathy. The discord pleased the cleric. While
the two spent their energies against each other, they had less time to plot
against him.

“You forget, my shadowy
friend
,” he said, his
inflection leaving no doubt that he considered Eltanel anything but, “I require
these fools alive until they bypass the tomb’s deadly traps. Then we shall
dispose of them.”

Eltanel, obviously angered by his public error, spoke again.
“They have proven difficult to kill on several occasions… blessed one,” he
added hastily. “Surely an open assault would fail.”

Durgoth offered another in a seemingly endless array of
silent curses to Reynard and his damned guild. Once the key was liberated from
Acererak’s tomb, the priest’s erstwhile allies would find themselves paying for
every snide comment and insolent remark—Eltanel in particular.

“Though your lack of faith is unfortunate,” Durgoth
responded, “you are partially correct in that an open assault would be very
dangerous. That is why we will have hidden weapons.”

The cleric looked around the gathered assembly until he
caught the eye of Jhagren Syn. Motioning the monk toward him, the dark priest
continued, “Our young friend here will be the unseen knife poised to strike at
the backs of our enemies.”

“I will not betray my friends, you beggaring scum-spawn!” the
captive warrior shouted. “I’ll die before I let you use me against them.”

Durgoth turned slightly toward the wounded warrior. “What you
want or don’t want is irrelevant,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Sydra, it is time.” He gestured toward the prisoner, who heightened his own
struggles against the two bullywugs holding him fast.

“With pleasure,” the sorceress purred, as she knelt in front
of the noble and placed elegant hands upon his head.

“What if he fails?” questioned Eltanel, the thief’s distaste
for what was about to happen poorly concealed beneath his aggressive
questioning.

Durgoth noted the guildsman’s weakness and vowed to remember
it for future use. “Such questions, my dear Eltanel!” he responded with silken
tones. “If he fads, there is another.”

With that, the cleric turned to face Jhagren Syn. The monk
had gathered his apprentice and both stood calmly to his left. “Will the boy
serve?” he asked.

“Yes, blessed one,” Jhagren responded evenly. “He will
serve.”

Durgoth smiled down at the boy, who looked up at him with
inscrutable blue eyes. “You know that he will need to look as if he’s been
captured,” he said. “Are you prepared?”

“Yes, my lord,” the monk replied in his gravelly voice.

“Then proceed,” he said as he turned back toward the
questioning thief. Durgoth didn’t flinch as the sound of snapping bone echoed
sharply through the camp.

* * *

Kaerion peered into the deepening gloom of the swamp, alert
for any sign of their quarry. Below him, crouched low to the ground, Gerwyth
examined the mud-soft path they had been following for most of the day. Twice
now they had nearly lost the trail, for the creatures’ webbed feet ran lightly
across the earth, and the foul beasts seemed to know every twist and turn of the
gods-blasted swamp. Kaerion feared the worst as the elven ranger continued his
examination, but he was too experienced to disrupt his friend’s concentration by
voicing his suspicions.

Despite the gravity of their situation, Kaerion found himself
settling into the familiar and companionable silence that had characterized most
of the day’s journey. It had been several months since the two of them had
traveled together with only each other for support and comfort. Though he had
grown to appreciate the friendship and trust of the Nyrondese—especially a
certain fire-haired bard—there was a deeper bond that had grown between he and
Gerwyth across their years of travel and struggle together. It was simple and
almost elemental. Kaerion had not known how much he missed it until now.

Not that their current journey was simply a pleasure jaunt he
reminded himself. The bullywugs had taken Bredeth, and somewhere in the deepness
of the swamp, their companion was held against his will. There had been quite an
argument as the remaining Nyrondese nobles had discussed who should go after
their friend. Kaerion still winced at Majandra’s words. The bard had a tongue as
sharp as any blade when she wished it. In the end, it had only been Phathas’
surprisingly hard-edged insistence that the two guides should go and retrieve
the captured noble that had convinced the bard to remain behind. He smiled
briefly as he remembered the rebellious set of Majandra’s shoulders as she
acquiesced to the old mage’s wishes. In fact, he had half-expected to see the
bard waiting for them at a juncture of their trail several times during the day.

“Ahh, I see that your mind is focused completely on our task
as usual,” Gerwyth said.

Kaerion, startled by his friend’s sudden speech, half drew
his sword before realizing that he had not been paying attention for some time.
The elf had risen from his crouch and now stood close behind him. Confusion
quickly became anger and embarrassment at his own lack of attention.

“What have you found, Ger?” he snapped at the smiling ranger.

Gerwyth wiped the gathering sweat from his brow before
pointing back toward the ground. “The bullywugs we’ve been following met up with
another group in this area not too long ago,” he reported.

“Then we’re close,” Kaerion responded, eagerness tingeing his
voice.

“Well, yes, we’re close,” Gerwyth said, “but there is a
complication. After the two groups met here, they split up. One group headed
south, and the other went north.”

Kaerion’s heart sank. With two separate groups, there was no
way to know exactly where Bredeth was. He feared that time was running out. If
they didn’t find the young noble soon, it would be too late to save him. When he
relayed his thoughts to Gerwyth, the ranger smiled.

“I never said I didn’t know where Bredeth was,” he said.

Kaerion looked sharply at the elf’s face, noting the way the
ranger’s eyes twinkled mischievously, and he soon found himself returning the
smile.

Old times indeed.

“This group,” Gerwyth said after a moment, pointing to the
trail heading north, “was carrying something fairly heavy, which you can see
quite plainly by the deeper indentations of the prints left in the mud.”

“Yes, quite plainly. I agree,” Kaerion responded with more
than a trace of humor in his voice as he looked at the barely visible—and to his
eyes, completely inscrutable—indentations in the muck.

“Furthermore,” Gerwyth continued, obviously choosing to
ignore the fighter’s sarcasm, “our friends have left something behind for us.”
With that, the ranger bent down and plucked a small strip of bloodied cloth from
the thin branches of a bush.

Kaerion easily recognized the material of Bredeth’s cloak.
“How long ago did they pass, Ger?” he asked.

“Less than an hour ago, I’d guess, or I’m a blind son of an
unwashed orc,” the ranger responded.

Kaerion nodded at his friend’s estimate and gazed at the sky.
“Then we must hurry,” he said. “We don’t have too much longer before nightfall.”

After taking a few quick swigs from their waterskins, the two
set out once more along the winding trail. Sweat poured freely down Kaerion’s
face, and his breath came in even, deep rhythms as he followed the long-limbed
ranger, who ran with easy, loping strides across the sawgrass and dark mud of
the swamp floor. Around them, the twilight deepened. Kaerion’s hopes began to
fall with each passing minute. Once full night fell, it would be exceedingly
difficult for them to follow the bullywugs’ trail. They were so close. It would
be painful to have to wait until morning to continue the search.

The first sentry took them by surprise. Movement off to his
right sent a tingle of warning down Kaerion’s spine. He motioned for his
companion to slow down and the two crept toward the watchful creature. With a
quick lift of his chin, Gerwyth sent Kaerion clamoring off to the sentry’s left
side. The creature spun as the fighter’s bulk crashed through the brush, but
before it could sound the alarm, the ranger stood and threw two daggers in quick
succession. The blades imbedded themselves deep in the creature’s throat, and it
fell, choking, to the ground.

Gerwyth retrieved his daggers and caught up with Kaerion. The
two crept forward, alert for any more guards. It was clear that they were close
to the bullywugs’ camp. They would have to dispose of any opposition as quickly
and silently as possible if they were to have any chance of rescuing Bredeth.

Twice more they encountered sentries, and twice more Gerwyth
released steel in a deadly arc, silencing any opposition. Now, from the cover of
thick brush, the two friends looked out upon a small, still lake. Several
bullywugs lay upon the shore, eating sloppily or conversing in an indecipherable
language. Kaerion watched a few moments more before he felt Gerwyth’s hand on
his shoulder.

“There,” the ranger whispered softly, pointing to the
opposite side of the camp. “Bredeth is over there.”

Kaerion gazed in the direction the ranger indicated. In the
gloom, he could just make out Bredeth, his sagging form bound to a thin-trunked
tree. Kaerion reached into his belt pouch and withdrew the small silver vial
that Phathas had given him before they left the Nyrondese camp. Breaking the
vial’s thick wax seal, he smiled at Gerwyth and downed the syrupy liquid within.
There was a brief instant of disorientation and then the world settled back into
focus. A few moments later, the rangers nod confirmed that the potion had taken
effect. Invisible to the naked eye, Kaerion would sneak into the bullywug
encampment and free Bredeth, while the elf used his bow to create a distraction.
With any luck, the companions would meet up the trail and then travel back
toward their friends, who were even now closing in on the location of Acererak’s
tomb.

As silently as possible, Kaerion crept around the camp,
heading with every step closer to the captured noble. As long as any remaining
sentries didn’t stumble onto the corpses of their mates, he should have enough
time to untie Bredeth and spirit him away.

The sound of twigs snapping in the shadows brought Kaerion to
a complete stop. He held his breath as a bullywug stumbled out of the brush. The
creature stopped and peered with bulbous eyes into the growing darkness. The
beast stood several feet away from Kaerion, and the fighter was sure he would be
detected. He started to draw his sword, careful lest the sound give away his
presence, but before he could free his weapon, the bullywug blinked twice and
continued toward the stagnant waters of the lake.

Kaerion let out his breath slowly and took a few moments for
his heart to resume its normal beat before continuing. Several more minutes of
careful travel brought him nearly up to the imprisoned noble. He winced as he
saw the deep cuts and bruises that marred Bredeth’s body. Obviously, his captors
had spent some time interrogating the noble. By the looks of things, the young
man had not easily revealed what the bullywugs were looking for.

“Careful now,” he whispered to Bredeth as he began to saw
through the thick rope that bound him to the tree.

“W-what? Wh-who is it?” Bredeth asked through swollen lips
and deeply bruised cheeks.

“Shhh,” Kaerion warned. “It’s me, Kaerion. Gerwyth and I are
here to rescue you.” His knife, sharp though it was, did not bite easily through
the slime-covered rope. This would take a few minutes of work.

Bredeth made a soft sound, somewhere between a groan and a
sob as Kaerion continued cutting the rope. “Never mind me,” the noble whispered
huskily. “Rescue the boy.”