The Tomb of Horrors (27 page)

Moments later, the bard watched as Phathas walked slowly up
to the small passage the guards had cleared in the collapsed tunnel. Quietly,
the sweat-soaked men and women assembled behind the mage as he raised thin arms
above his head. Silence filled the camp as the old man’s dexterous hands wove
complex patterns in the air. Again, the half-elf watched her former master with
pride and not a little awe. Even bent by age and the weight of his long life,
Phathas’ consummate skill was apparent in every gesture and motion. Here was a
wizard who had dedicated his life to the pursuit of knowledge and the mastery of
arcane forces—forces that gathered even now at his fingertips.

Majandra watched as the spell neared its completion. The hair
at the base of her neck prickled with the strength of the latent power Phathas
had summoned With a final flourish and several short commands in the elusive and
subtle language of magic, the wizard extended one fist sharply before him.

Nothing happened.

And then the world exploded in a cloud of dust and rock as
large volumes of dirt and stone were obliterated. Another round of cheers rose
up from the guards when the gentle wind blew the haze of detritus away,
revealing the smooth worked stone of a passageway leading deeper into the hill.
Cheers soon turned to cries of dismay, however, as a blast of fetid air erupted
from the passageway, causing everyone in the assembly to fall to their knees
retching. Even from her relatively safe vantage point among the supply rafts,
Majandra gagged as the stench of corruption wafted toward her. If there was ever
any doubt that something dark and evil inhabited the ancient tomb, it was put to
rest by the foul odor emanating from the newly unearthed tunnel.

This time it was Vaxor who rose to his feet before the
entrance. Covering his face with one arm, he raised his holy symbol before him
and called upon the Arch Paladin for aid. A bluish-white glow suffused the
silver symbol, flaring sharply as another gust of wind brought a rush of foul
air up from the passageway. For a moment, Majandra thought the cleric would fall
back before the blast, but instead he moved a step forward and called upon his
god again. A peal of thunder erupted as Vaxor completed his prayer, and a gentle
rain began to fall.

Majandra cried out in surprise as a familiar smell washed
over the company. For where every drop of rain struck, there sprang the lush
scent of roses. The rest of the expedition was equally stunned. Each member
raised their arms in wonder at the sweet relief of the god’s rain, and several
burst into laughter. And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the misting
rain stopped. And yet, the smell of roses lingered still, overpowering the rank
air from the tomb.

The half-elf walked quickly over to where the priest was
assisting Phathas to his feet. “That was wonderfully done, Vaxor,” she said with
more feeling than she intended.

The cleric offered her a courtly bow. “Though Heironeous is
the Lord of War, there is beauty in his service, my lady,” he said with only a
hint of reproach reaching her ears.

Phathas, quiet during this exchange, placed a shaking hand
upon Vaxor’s shoulder. “Well done, my friend,” he said. “Well done.” And then to
Landra, who had approached quietly—“Assemble your guards and have them gather
the supplies we’ll need for the rest of our journey. We will soon enter
Acererak’s tomb.”

Majandra turned and walked back to the supply rafts, planning
to assist the guards in their task. She very nearly stumbled when a familiar
voice cut across the camp.

“How very much like humans,” Gerwyth shouted to no one in
particular, “leaving before the guests arrive!”

The half-elf cast a hopeful look in the direction of the
voice and felt her heart lurch as she saw only the ranger helping the battered
Bredeth down the path toward the encampment. Just as a sob welled in her throat,
she caught sight of Kaerion, and, to her surprise, another figure—a young man,
walking behind the elf. Somewhere inside the excited jumble that made up her
thoughts, Majandra knew that she should be curious about the new arrival, but
her feet had already begun to propel her toward a certain black-maned fighter,
and all questions evaporated as she threw her arms around him.

* * *

Kaerion fastened the last catch of his armor before girding
on his shield. The comfortable weight of the mail settled around him, and for
the first time in several weeks, he felt truly protected. Though the early
morning sun had already begun its relentless, burning assault against the land,
he could feel the chill air emanating from the tunnel before him. At least he’d
be able to wear the heavy chain without covering himself in sweat after the
first three steps.

Around him, the rest of the expedition was making final
preparations before descending into the dark depths of the tomb. Gently, he drew
his sword from its scabbard and stretched out the muscles in his sword arm by
practicing some basic drills. He felt refreshed after a long night’s rest and
was grateful that Phathas had decided to delay the party’s entry into the tomb
until Bredeth and his rescuers had a chance to rest.

Speaking of which, he had promised the young noble he would
keep an eye on Adrys. Bredeth had been most insistent, to the point of not
letting Vaxor tend his wounds until Kaerion had sworn an oath to watch over the
lad. He would never have guessed that the formerly arrogant noble would have
grown so protective of a commoner, but battles such as they had fought since
leaving Rel Mord were enough to change anyone. Kaerion was grateful that Bredeth
had changed for the better.

Searching the surrounding encampment, he spied Adrys in
conversation with Landra. The guard captain seemed to be in the midst of
lecturing him. He drew nearer just in time to see her hand the lad a short
training sword. “Can you handle one of these?” she asked in that no-nonsense
tone that Kaerion had come to identify with the seasoned veteran.

Adrys shook his head. “No,” he managed eventually. “My da
kept me away from guardsmen as much as possible. He preferred my learning how to
keep his ledgers and accounts rather than any weapons work.”

The guard captains slow clearing of her throat told Kaerion
just exactly what she thought of that notion. He found himself smiling, just a
bit, at Adrys’ obvious discomfort.

“Well lad,” Landra said, finishing her lecture with one final
admonition, “see to it that you poke the sharp end into anything that tries to
bite you, and stay out of everyone’s way.” With that, she clapped the boy hard
about the shoulders and turned, barking several orders at her men.

Adrys held the sword awkwardly in his hand for a few more
moments. Catching sight of Kaerion close by, he shrugged. “She doesn’t like me
very much, does she?” he asked in a despairing tone.

Kaerion’s smile deepened. “She likes you just fine, lad. She
just wants to see you come out of the tomb alive,” he said as kindly as he
could.

In fact, the very subject of Adrys accompanying the party
inside the tomb had sparked a lively and heated debate within the company.
Keeping Adrys out of the tomb meant weakening the expedition’s strength, as they
would be forced to post some of their number as guards to protect him, while
allowing him to accompany them meant that someone would always have to keep an
eye on him. Personally, Kaerion was glad that Phathas had decided to allow the
boy to journey with them inside the tomb. The oath he swore to Bredeth would
have seriously complicated matters. As it was, the lad would be safest traveling
in the protection of the entire party.

Just then, Gerwyth tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “It is
time, Kaer,” the ranger said. “Phathas has ordered everyone to gather at the
mouth of the tunnel. Three guards will lead in, with you and I following. We’re
to keep an eye out for any sign of danger. Phathas, Vaxor, and Majandra will
march behind us, with Bredeth, Landra, and the remaining guards bringing up the
rear.” And then, turning to Adrys, he said, “You, my young friend, have the
honor of walking next to one of the wisest mages I have ever known. Try and stay
out of trouble there.”

The ranger smiled, taking the sting from his words, and then
turned toward the crowd gathering at the mouth of the tunnel. Kaerion shrugged
apologetically as Adrys rolled his eyes at the ranger’s retreating back, then he
placed a gentle hand on the lad’s shoulder and guided him toward his place in
the assembling line.

Vaxor was just finishing his benediction when Kaerion found
his own place in the party’s order. Years of habit forced him to recheck his
gear one final time. Countless lives had been lost, he knew, from carelessness.
His would not be one of them. Armor, shield, pack—everything checked out, as he
knew it would, but he shook his left leg gingerly as the unfamiliar weight of a
second scabbard pulled at his hip. He had, with a great deal of silent cursing,
decided to take Galadorn with him. Knowing the blasted curse he labored under,
it would do him no good to try and leave the sword with the supplies on the
rafts. At least this way he wouldn’t find the bulk of the sword suddenly
tangling his pack when he least needed any distractions.

Kaerion gripped the pommel of his other sword, which rested
lightly in its scabbard, as Phathas signaled the expedition forward. A man at
ease with the gods would have breathed his own personal prayer as the guards in
front of him descended into the tunnel—for they were about to despoil one of the
deadliest tombs in all the Flanaess. Kaerion merely spit once and cast a quick
smile at Gerwyth before heading down into the darkness of the tunnel.

Though Vaxor’s blessing the previous day had neutralized the
worst of the tomb’s fetid stench, the air blowing up from the deeper recesses of
the tunnel carried with it a hint of its former corruption. Breathing through
his mouth, Kaerion avoided the remaining stink. The chill breath of the tomb
touched something deep within him. He sensed, if such a thing were truly
possible, the promise of malevolence within its dank passage—and something
deeper, something that spoke of darkness and isolation, and a power stronger
even than death.

Kaerion pushed on, ignoring the chill sensation that crawled
up his spine to curl with icy tendrils around the warm stone of his heart. There
was evil here, an echo of a presence so palpably corrupt that Kaerion felt as if
the very earth were screaming in protest. But he was no simple villager who had
gathered his courage among the ale cups and set out with a sword as dull as his
wits. He had faced the very heart of evil itself, and though he had broken
beneath its power, he survived. And while he lived, he would not grant it
another such victory.

Through sheer force of will, he moved forward, breaking the
paralysis that had unwittingly seized his limbs. He could see that the other
guards were similarly affected, and he touched each gently about the shoulder,
whispering words of strength and courage in their ears. However, it wasn’t until
Vaxor spoke the name of Heironeous, and blessed light bathed the tunnel, chasing
away shadow and fear alike, that the rest of the stricken company could move
again. As one, the companions let out a breathy sigh, each praising and thanking
the Valorous One in his or her own way. Glancing quickly at the center of their
line, he was surprised and not a small bit proud to see that Adrys showed no
fear. The lad gazed about his surroundings calmly and even managed a wan smile
as he caught Kaerion’s gaze.

Turning back to the now-advancing guards, he noted the
passage they had been following opened wider as it continued on into true
darkness. Moving forward, Kaerion could see by the light of Vaxor’s spell that
the walls in the passage ahead were markedly different from the rough-hewn stone
that had guided their travel so far—for these walls were smooth and straight.
Reaching out a tentative hand, he ran roughened fingers across their length.
Though he was no expert, it was clear that whoever had built this passage had
flattened the wall with a covering of cement or plaster.

As the party moved deeper into the passage, Kaerion found out
why—and nearly had to catch his breath with the discovery. Every inch of the
walls were covered in elaborate murals and frescoes, and the ceiling, which
soared almost twenty feet high, had been marked by the hand of a long-dead
artist. In the circle of Vaxor’s illumination, Kaerion could see kine grazing
lazily amid a midsummer’s sun, a pack of wolves gazing fiercely from between the
trees in a forest copse, and a plethora of human and animal hybrids cavorting
and fighting among the pastoral scenes. It was Bredeth, however, who called his
attention to the most disturbing scene of all—a reminder of the true nature of
the place in which they found themselves. For on one section of the wall,
recreated with unerring accuracy, Kaerion saw a trail of familiar wagons
plodding across the snow-covered fields of Nyrond.

Despite this ominous discovery, it was the colors that had
caused Kaerion’s initial reaction. Ancient as the tomb might be, these paintings
caught and reflected the party’s light as rich in tone and color as the day they
had been painted. By some working of magic, or more likely, some foul curse, the
artistry in this bizarre passage had been preserved against the ravages of time.

Nor was the floor itself devoid of ornamentation. While the
rest of the party examined the surrounding paintings, Kaerion knelt down and
touched a mosaic of red stone. He was surprised to note that the red tiles of
the mosaic made a small path, large enough for a single person to walk on, that
wound its way farther into the room. Kaerion was about to call attention to this
when he heard a muffled scream.

He whirled, only to see one of the guards, a man called
Joran, tumble into a hole that had suddenly opened beneath his feet.
Desperately, Kaerion ran to the now-revealed pit, calling the nearest guards to
assist him. Lighting a torch of his own, he tried to peer through the darkness.
What he saw caused his heart to sink. Thirty feet below him, at the edge of his
torchlight, Joran’s body lay in a broken heap, glistening spikes driven through
chest and legs. Even from this distance it was clear that the man was dead.
Kaerion let out a curse.