The Tomb of Horrors (28 page)

The tomb had claimed its first victim.

Majandra heard Joran’s cry and Kaerion’s subsequent curse as
if from a distance. It was not that she was cold-hearted and indifferent to the
man’s death. In fact, as she continued to stare at the strangely constructed
passage, a part of her mind recalled memories of Joran. Her brief glimpses into
his life—the easy familiarity with which he joked with comrades, his interest in
horses, the way he always requested the liveliest tunes from the hill villages
of Nyrond where he grew up—caused a dull ache in the pit of her stomach.

But the part of her that hungered after ancient lore and
long-forgotten tales, the part that drove her to memorize every line of every
poem and saga she heard, that turned the slightest hint of mystery into a
driving quest for knowledge and every note played upon the strings of her harp
another step in a complex dance of mastery—that part of her stood rapt and
amazed at the handiwork of the long-dead wizard. She drank it all in, every
brushstroke and whorl of color, every symbol and hand-carved rune. It all became
a part of a tableau, a tapestry of history that was woven in the long-ago years,
ancient before the Kingdom of Nyrond was born in blood and fire. There would be
time enough to remember the dead, Majandra knew. There was always time enough
for that.

As Majandra surveyed the area around her, she noticed that
Bredeth, too, had stayed behind and gazed with seeming fascination at their
surroundings. This was yet another mystery. For as long as she had known the
brat of a noble, he had been all fire and arrogance. Yet since his rescue from
the bullywugs, the young man had been withdrawn and tentative—almost
introspective. Majandra wondered exactly what could have happened to the noble
to bring about such a drastic change. She had seen men and women return from war
broken and twisted, but this was something else entirely. If anything, Bredeth
seemed dulled somehow, blunted like a sword used to dig trenches and then cast
aside.

The bard was about to question Bredeth about this when
Vaxor’s god-light illuminated something upon the floor—a pattern laid out upon
the winding mosaic, one that was almost familiar. And then she knew: Runes. They
ran along the path, intricate and spidery, flowing like molten silver. Her
question to Bredeth forgotten, Majandra recalled a spell that Phathas himself
had taught her. In a quiet voice, she sang the notes that would activate the
magic and floated gently toward the ceiling, propelling herself slowly in the
direction of the path by pushing along the painted stone overhead. Dimly, she
was aware of Vaxor, cradling Joran’s broken body. The cleric intoned the final
blessings upon the dead man, speeding his journey into Heironeous’ arms, but
the bard could make no sense of his speech, for the runes that she read burned
in her mind. Without trying, Majandra found herself entering the bardic trance
that preceded the telling of the longest tales. When her voice washed, unbidden,
over the assembly below her, it was with the practiced timbre that had stilled
even the rowdiest crowds.

“Go back to the tormentor or through the arch,

and the second great hall you’ll discover.

Shun green if you can, but night’s good color

is for those of great valor.

If shades of red stand for blood, the wise

will not need sacrifice aught but a loop of

magical metal—you’re well along your march.

“Two pits along the way will be found to lead

to a fortuitous fall, so check the wall.

These keys and those are most important of all,

and beware of trembling hands and what will maul.

If you find the false, you find the true,

and into the columned hall you’ll come,

and there the throne that’s key and keyed.

“The iron men of visage grim do more

than meets the viewer’s eye.

You’ve left and left and found my Tomb,

and now your soul will die.”

It was Gerwyth at last who broke the silence that fell over
the company. “That,” he said in a critical voice, “was truly dreadful, Majandra.
I hope you didn’t make that up yourself. I’ve heard better from a dockside drunk
on a ten-day binge.”

Freed from the strange compulsion that had mastered her, the
bard felt her anger rise. It was, she knew, irrational. Gerwyth had just
attempted to break the growing mood of gloom that was plaguing the expedition,
but something in his words stung her pride, and she found herself snapping a
retort. “Of course I didn’t make it up. It was placed here by Acererak and
written in an ancient language. The words lose a great deal in translation—and
in the interpretation by dense minds.”

“Peace, Majandra,” Phathas, silent since their entry into the
tomb, spoke at last, his voice carrying in the smooth-walled chamber. The mage
combed a dirt-stained hand through his unruly beard, lips pursed in thought. “It
appears that Acererak left a map of sorts for those who would plunder his tomb.”

“But why would anyone do that, Phathas?” Kaerion asked. “Why
would a wizard who knew that thieves would seek to disturb his resting place
offer them assistance? It doesn’t make sense.”

It was Vaxor, much to Majandra’s surprise, who answered the
question. The cleric gently closed Joran’s eyes and stood, regarding the
assembled group with a grave expression. “It was said of Acererak that he
enjoyed games, for none was as clever as he in all the world. Through riddles
and such cruel games as he could devise, he demonstrated his mastery over those
who sought to challenge him. At the last—” he indicated Majandra with an
apologetic shrug—“the bards say that death was his greatest opponent, and no one
is sure who emerged victorious from that final game.”

Gerwyth’s throaty chuckle sliced through the silence once
again. Though still pleasant to hear, Majandra found herself unaccountably
irritated by the rangers seeming mirth. “What in all the Nine Hells do you find
so funny?” she asked in a voice intended to sting.

The elf merely continued to chuckle, seemingly undisturbed by
her discomfort. That thought caused her temper to flare even more, and she was
about to send a blistering retort his way when Gerwyth held up his hands in
entreaty. “Please, my Lady,” he said as formally as he could between the
laughter still present in his voice, “do not wound me further. I was merely
thinking that if what Vaxor has said is true, then Acererak built this tomb
hoping that foolhardy men and women would come to defile his resting place in
search of hidden wealth. If this is a game, then we have played right into his
hands.”

That thought sent the anger draining from her like water from
a burst dam. With a sinking feeling, she realized that the ranger’s words were
true. The tomb wasn’t simply a repository of ancient knowledge ready to be
lifted from its hoary grasp. She had been wrong to think so. Rather, the bard
and her fellow companions were playing pieces in a vast game whose board had
been built by a long-dead wizard. And they had already lost one of their own in
pursuit of victory. She looked around at her companions and saw, by the haunted
look in their eyes, the same thoughts flash into each of their minds.

Phathas cleared his throat. “There is wisdom in your words,
Gerwyth,” the mage said softly, “however bitter the humor that lurks behind
them. Yet I believe that courage and cunning and, yes, a fair bit of luck, will
see us through. If this is a game, we have been given a glimpse of the rules.”
He pointed at the spidery runes inlaid on the mosaic. “So let us gather
ourselves for the challenge and proceed. Perhaps we will find, at the end, that
our strength and nobility of purpose will be the equal of Acererak’s fiendish
traps.”

It was a good speech, Majandra thought—inspiring,
impassioned, and with just the right inflections and oratorical nuances.
Quickly, the party reformed, and she heard Kaerion’s voice booming out
instructions.

“Landra, have your men break out the poles,” he said with
that familiar note of authority. “We will follow along the mosaic path, but we
must move carefully, lest we fall victim to more pits.”

In a few moments, the company began to follow the winding red
path across the length of the chamber. Three times, the guards triggered pit
traps with their ten-foot poles, each one opening up to a thirty-foot drop and
ending in spiked doom. At last, they drew near the end of the passage. Looming
straight before them, set into the smooth stone wall, Majandra could see the
leering face of a devil. Whoever had sculpted such a disturbing portrait must
have had personal experience with these foul creatures, for every detail of the
creature’s face was rendered in horrifying complexity. Two great horns curled
out from the top of the beast’s scaled forehead, and its gaping mouth was
opened, as if it were roaring its hellish curses upon the world. From this
distance, Majandra could see that the sculpture took up almost an entire
ten-foot section of wall, and the mouth itself opened to a diameter of almost
three feet.

As the party approached the stone face, Majandra saw,
somewhere off to her left, an archway covered entirely with a dense mist. In the
dim light, the half-elf could see several shadowy forms weaving through the
misty veil. She shivered as she drew closer to the bizarre sculpture and
wondered if the others had noticed how cold it had become this close to the
face. Several guards flanked Phathas, who had walked up in front of the gaping
mouth. The mage drew forth a wand of bleached bone and passed it slowly before
the face. The stone pulsed red in the wand’s wake.

Phathas nodded once. “There is magic here,” he said simply.

“Well,” Gerwyth said, motioning toward the face and the arch
with graceful hands. “It appears we have a choice. The hole inside the mouth
could lead to another passageway inside the tomb, or we could walk through the
mist and beyond that arch.”

Majandra pulled at her lower lip, watching as the guards
conferred among themselves. Bredeth, she noted with interest, had moved closer
to the archway and was staring intently at the stonework. “If you believe the
words of Acererak,” she said after a few moments, “we should probably take the
arch.”

Kaerion threw her a questioning look, his brow knitted in
obvious confusion, and the half-elf was reminded once again that not everyone
had spent a lifetime perfecting the ability to memorize vast amounts of
information.

“‘Go back to the tormentor or through the arch, and the
second great hall you’ll discover,’” she quoted.

“As you said, Majandra, the question is whether or not we can
trust Acererak’s words,” Vaxor said from his place next to the old mage.
“Perhaps the words laid out by the canny wizard are a trap, and we’ll follow
them to our doom.”

“Then maybe we should divide into two groups, each covering
one of these passages,” said Bredeth, as he drew nearer to the swirling mist
inside the archway. “That way we could cover more of the tomb within the same
time.”

There was a startled exclamation from the collected guards at
this suggestion, and even Majandra found herself reacting instinctively to such
a comment. Gerwyth, however, had moved quickly toward the young man, and the
bard could see that he laid a companionable hand upon the noble’s shoulder.

“I have traveled many paths in my long life, friend Bredeth,”
the ranger said firmly, “and the one thing that I have learned in that time, is
that when it comes to exploring underground, never, ever split the party. Down
that way lies death and madness—or worse.”

Majandra watched in amazement as the noble, so quick to react
to any hint of criticism, shrugged. “It was only a suggestion,” he said mildly.

In the end, it was Adrys who decided their course of action
for them. While watching the exchange between Bredeth and the elf, Majandra saw
the merchant’s son move swiftly toward one of the guards. Grabbing the long pole
from the woman’s grasp, he lifted it easily and thrust one end into the center
of the gaping devil mouth. He held it there for a few moments, before quickly
withdrawing it.

A gasp of astonishment rippled through the company, for the
section of the pole that had entered the black circular hole had simply
disappeared. Moving to examine the pole herself, Majandra found that the break
was completely clean. It was as if the missing section had never existed at all.
Such was the twisted fate for anyone who had thought to explore the area beyond
the hole. The bard breathed deeply, trying to control her rapidly beating heart
in the face of the death they had so narrowly avoided. All of them. Had Adrys
not used the pole to check the safety of the circular passage, they might all
have been killed. Gone without a single trace. And Nyrond, the noble kingdom of
her birth, might never be saved from the rot that was eating it from within.