The Tomb of Horrors (26 page)

Kaerion studied Bredeth closely, sure that he was delirious.
But the young man kept repeating himself. It wasn’t until Bredeth, one hand
finally free from the rope, pointed a mud-covered hand off to his left that
Kaerion saw the small figure lying inert on the muddy ground. He cursed once and
placed the knife gently into Bredeth’s swollen hand before moving toward the
figure.

Gently, he rolled the figure over and was surprised to see
the battered face of a young lad, surely not more than fifteen years old. Unlike
Bredeth, the boy was not tied to a tree, but Kaerion could clearly see that his
arm hung at a gruesome angle. Carefully, Kaerion sat the boy up and dribbled a
small stream of water into his mouth.

The young prisoner swallowed reflexively and blinked grime
encrusted eyes open. For a moment, Kaerion found himself back inside the
gruesome walls of an ancient shrine, looking down upon the piercing blue eyes of
a trusting child. Terror gripped him—and guilt, but, as if from somewhere far
away, he heard the thrum of arrows being loosed from a bow and the defiant ring
of a familiar elven war cry. The sounds grew louder and he found himself
crawling free from the clutches of the vision. As one who emerges from the utter
blackness of a dungeon out into the bright light of day, Kaerion blinked
quickly. The young lad still stared at him blankly, and Kaerion realized he was
still invisible.

“Rest easy, son,” Kaerion whispered. “I’m a friend. We’ll be
out of here soon. Just keep quiet.”

The boy blinked but said nothing. With an almost
imperceptible grunt, Kaerion gathered the boy in his arms, lifted him off the
ground, and turned toward the original target of this rescue. Bredeth, though
wounded and mistreated, had managed to grasp the knife in his free hand and
carve through the remaining bonds that tied him. Rubbing his wrists to restore
circulation, the young noble smiled at the wounded boy seemingly floating toward
him. All around them, the bullywug camp filled with the sounds of chaos.

“We must hurry now,” Kaerion said. “Gerwyth cannot distract
them for too much longer.”

He stepped into the darkness of the surrounding bush,
confidant that Bredeth would follow.

* * *

Kaerion ran.

Beneath the lidless eyes of the gazing moons, the Vast Swamp
was aglow with witchlight. Shadows limned with silver, a mingling of darkness
and light so deep that every border blurred. Grass or wind or even stagnant
pool—it made no difference to Kaerion. He ran upon them all—or the dream of
them. Bathed in the crystalline light of the moons, everything bled into one
single reality.

He ran.

Somewhere ahead, he knew Gerwyth watched over the wounded
figure of Bredeth, who despite the hesitance of his own battered body, pushed
on, refusing to be carried. The noble had courage, that much was clear.

Kaerion drew in a deep breath as his own body ached for
relief. Beside him, the young boy, apparently freed from the stupor of his own
wounds, matched his pace. Throughout the last several hours, the lad had kept
up, and Kaerion was surprised to find him exceptionally fleet of foot.

They had discovered, during the infrequent and
all-too-brief-rest stops, a little bit more about the former captive. Through
heaving breaths he identified himself as Adrys, a merchants son from Sunndi. His
fathers caravan had been attacked by the bullywugs near the swamps edge and he’d
been carried off. He had no idea whether or not his family was still alive.

Kaerion stumbled once over the gnarled root of a tree and
would have fallen had Adrys not thrown his good arm in front of the fighter for
support. Not stopping, he gave the lad a brief smile of appreciation before
returning his concentration to combat the fatigue and pain of their forced pace.
Three times they had almost been discovered by patrols of bullywugs who now
scoured the swamp in search of them. Only Gerwyth’s consummate skill allowed the
fugitives to escape detection. Even now, the Vast Swamp echoed with the hissing
calls and screeches of the enraged bullywugs. Kaerion knew they were only one
step ahead of their pursuers, and it would take every ounce of strength and
endurance to see them safely to their companions.

Hours passed, and the moons fell lower in the night sky, and
the shadows deepened. Kaerion felt danger lurking behind every tree or shaded
bush. Doggedly he pushed on, memories of Majandra’s lips on his mind, fueling
muscles already pushed beyond the brink of exhaustion.

When Gerwyth called their next halt, Kaerion was surprised to
see the rosy pink of dawn pushing up on the horizon. His lungs sucked in air
greedily as he stood bent with hands on knees. Beside him, Adrys drank deeply
from their waterskin, and even the normally unflappable elf looked exhausted as
he examined Bredeth, who had collapsed in a heap.

Ahead, the path widened and descended at a fairly steep
angle. Looking through the ragged wall of trees and brush before him, Kaerion
could see that the trail dipped into a large plain of stagnant water. In the
distance, several flat-topped hills rose out from the plain. But before he could
take time to examine them in more detail, a triumphant gurgling hiss broke the
silence of the dawn.

Kaerion cursed as he saw four bullywugs emerge from either
side of the undergrowth ahead of him, blocking their way. Turning to warn his
companions, he was reassured to see that Gerwyth had already identified their
danger. The elf had drawn both of his short swords—though his hands shook with
exhaustion. Kaerion was no better. He drew his own blade and stifled another
curse at the weakness in his limbs. This would be a difficult battle. They’d have
to push past these creatures before others could come and reinforce them.

With an incoherent battle cry, Kaerion launched himself at
the bullywugs, the arc of his sword catching the newly risen sun. Confident that
Gerwyth was no more than a few steps behind, he crashed into the nearest
opponent, aiming a slash at the creatures neck. Exhaustion and lack of water had
taken their toll, however. The bullywug knocked the feeble attack aside with its
own spear and then brought the shaft of the weapon down hard on Kaerion’s skull.
The world swam as he reeled beneath the force of the blow. His opponent
connected a vicious kick to his stomach. Kaerion was knocked backward and rolled
hard down the steep incline of the path. As he fell, he caught glimpses of his
companions fighting their way past the bullywugs and running down the path.

The breath left Kaerion’s chest with a whumph as he landed
face first into the muck. Desperately, he tried to pull himself up and collect
his sword, sure that death would soon follow. What he saw almost caused him to
drop his weapon in surprise.

Along the top of the hilly path, the four bullywugs raised
their own weapons in the air, hissing angrily at the intruders. Another line of
bullywugs emerged behind them, covering the length of the hillside. One by one
each of the creatures turned its bloated head to the dawn sky and emitted a
horrifying cry. The ululation echoed wildly across the plain.

As Kaerion, still gasping for breath, stumbled toward his own
companions, who now stared dumbfounded halfway up the path, he wondered why the
bullywugs hadn’t attacked. Surely there was no way that the four of them,
wounded and exhausted as they were, could prevail in the face of such
overwhelming odds.

Then, as the sun peeked over the horizon, Kaerion caught a
glint of reflection from somewhere behind him. He turned and surveyed the scene.
In the distance, along one of the flat-topped hills, he could make out a strange
formation. Black rocks erupted like daggers from the top of the hill, forming
the shape of a grinning skull.

Suddenly, Kaerion knew why the bullywugs refused to move any
closer, knew why the entire plain before them lay silent and brooding beneath
the newly risen sun. Kaerion shuddered at his discovery. He and his companions
were safe for the moment.

They had found it.

Before them, marked with a gruesome symbol, lay Acererak’s
unholy resting place—the Tomb of Horrors.

“In cruelty there is strength; in power, pleasure.

Compassion is the only true weakness.”

—The Book of Nine Shadows

A ragged shout went up from the assembled guards. Majandra
turned from the supply inventory she was taking—her fifth since they had arrived
at the supposed site of Acererak’s tomb nearly three days ago—and sent a prayer
to any god listening. She looked at the knot of guards scrambling with picks and
shovels. It was clear they had found the collapsed remains of yet another
tunnel. She only hoped this one would actually lead into the tomb.

Over the course of the last three days, they had found four
such collapsed tunnels. After hours of backbreaking labor, they had unearthed
each one and sent a contingent of guards into them. Three had proven to be
useless, ending in walls of solid rock. The fourth had led to an ancient metal
door and a trap so cleverly constructed that it had nearly killed three of the
guards when huge sections of the tunnel crashed down upon them. Only the quick
work of the remaining guards and a judicious use of Phathas’ magic had freed
them quickly enough for Vaxor to call upon the healing power of Heironeous and
save the wounded men.

Nor was it only their expedition that had suffered the sting
of the cruel traps protecting the ancient tomb. During the course of their
excavation, the guards had uncovered fragments of armor, bits of bone, even the
cracked and shattered remains of almost whole skeletons—all of it a grim
testament to the devilishly cunning construction of the tomb’s protection. Not
for the first time, Majandra found herself wondering how many enterprising souls
had braved the horrors of the Vast Swamp, only to die here at the doorstep of
Acererak’s tomb.

These were truly dark thoughts, she realized, for one so
close to completing a quest that had occupied much of her time these past three
years. And yet, she found most of her thoughts taking dark turns ever since
Kaerion and Gerwyth had set out in search of Bredeth.

“Worried, child?” asked a voice from somewhere close behind
her.

Majandra jumped with surprise before recognizing Vaxor’s deep
baritone. Turning, she saw that the cleric had walked up while she had been deep
in thought. He now stood there solicitously, his deep-set eyes searching yet
compassionate as they seemed to look through her. Often, when confronted by
full-blooded humans who insisted on classifying her as young—and therefore the
target of patronizing discourses on life—the half-elf fought the urge to point
out that she was, in all likelihood, as old, if not older, than they.

Somehow, the urge never manifested itself when she spoke with
Vaxor. Nor did it do so now. Something in the man’s demeanor would have made any
such statement seem crass and petty. Instead, she swallowed and said, “They have
been gone nearly five days, Vaxor, and even Phathas’ attempts at scrying have
not revealed anything. Of course I’m worried.”

The cleric placed a battle-roughened hand upon her shoulder.
“I understand your concern, but Gerwyth is as skilled a ranger as ever I’ve
seen. He has led us safely through danger countless times. If anything, I’d
worry about those bullywugs. They are probably still trying to find out what
army has swept through their tribal lands.”

In spite of everything, Majandra found herself smiling. What
Vaxor said was most likely true. Yet for all of his comforting words, he had not
mentioned Kaerion, and it was clear to the bard’s trained ear that the omission
was deliberate. Despite all they had gone through these past several months, the
fallen paladin stood as a barrier between Majandra and the cleric, as if Vaxor’s
obvious distaste for Kaerion had now somehow extended to a part of her. She
should have been angry at the priest’s uncompromising righteousness, his
unyielding judgment. Instead, Majandra found herself profoundly saddened. That a
good and noble man such as Vaxor should be so blinded by his own fanaticism was
a cause for sorrow, not fury.

Her smile fading, the bard returned Vaxor’s steady gaze. The
two stood in tense silence until the cursing shouts of several guards broke the
deadlock. It was Landra, however, all cool efficiency and control, who actually
approached the gruff Heironean priest.

“The men say the rock in the collapsed tunnel is too hard for
them to break through with their tools,” the guard captain reported. “They’ll
need some help, preferably of the arcane kind.”

“At once,” was all that Vaxor said, before hurrying off to
find Phathas. As Majandra watched the cleric go, she couldn’t help but see
Landra’s face twist into a grimace.

“Bit of an old lemon, if you ask me,” the weathered fighter
said conspiratorially. “That man could use the largest wineskin this side of the
Glorioles. Do him some good.” And then she, too, turned and walked back toward
her charges. This time, Majandra’s face split into a wide grin, her spirits
truly lifted.