The Tomb of Horrors (5 page)

At this, the bard’s hand absently pushed aside flowing
strands of red hair to finger the ever-so-slight point of her ear.

“Some may find you exotic,” Bredeth continued. “Others…”
He tilted his head to the side and shrugged. “Well, let’s just say that not
every noble family regards marital infidelity as a romantic gesture.”

The bard sat stunned, unable to even phrase the crudest of
retorts. She had always known that the events surrounding her birth were fodder
for the sitting rooms of bored nobles who had nothing better to do than gossip
away the hours of the day, and she had dealt with the whispered imprecations and
sidelong glances that accompanied her adolescent years. Until this time,
however, no one had ever confronted her directly with the shame of her mixed
heritage.

Anger rose up inside of her. This may have started as a game,
a way to pass the time as she waited for the two of whom Phathas spoke, but it
had become quite real. She refused to be judged by this petulant spoiled brat,
and she was about to tell him so when another voice broke into the conversation.

“Peace,” it commanded. “Both of you. Phathas is at rest and
will need all of his strength for the coming journey.”

As one, Bredeth and Majandra turned to face the source of the
voice. Vaxor stood in one of the suite’s many doorways, his mouth, surrounded by
a silvering black beard, drew down into a frown, his deep-ridged brow furrowed.
Even beneath his flowing robes, Majandra could see the man’s solid build bulked
even further by a layer of chainmail. His left hand was wrapped around a silver
medallion in the shape of a lightning bolt, the symbol of Heironeous.

The bard pushed down her anger for the moment. There would be
ample opportunity to spar with Bredeth on their journey. The young noble,
however, obviously felt no such restraint. “An insult has been dealt my family,”
he continued, this time turning toward the priest for support, “and I demand
that it be redressed—”

“Enough, Bredeth,” Vaxor’s deep voice interrupted the man’s
tirade. “We have more important matters to deal with besides a slight to your
honor.” He fixed both of them with a stern gaze, and it became clear to Majandra
why this man had risen so high within the church of the Arch-Paladin. She could
feel the power of his presence like a palpable force.

“Our guests will arrive soon,” the priest continued, “and we
should be prepared for them.”

Bredeth snorted, either unaware of the intensity in Vaxor’s
gaze or just too stupid to heed it; Majandra couldn’t decide which.

“I don’t even know who our ‘guests’ are,” the noble said,
“but since they have not arrived yet, I am beginning to doubt whether or not
they could actually guide themselves into a harlot’s skirts.” Majandra began to
protest again, but the young man held up his hand, cutting her off. “Then where
are they?” he asked.

“I can’t be sure,” broke in a fourth voice, its bright timbre
carrying clearly across the room, “but I think that we are right behind you.”

Majandra hid a smile at the look on Bredeth’s face.

* * *

The interior of the Platinum Shield was every bit as elegant
as its exterior suggested. Rounded teak and cherry oak tables stood upon a floor
of polished wood, while masterful carvings decorated the inn’s paneled walls.
The design of the common area, with its sweeping lines and softened corners gave
the impression of depth yet still retained an intimate atmosphere. A set of
stairs, complete with a runner made of thick red carpet, led up to the sleeping
rooms above, and another door led downstairs to the Shield’s famous wine cellar.

The taproom itself was empty except for the small group
assembled around a wide table close to the marble-mantled fireplace. Majandra
ran a lazy finger across the exquisite horn cup that held her pint of ale,
gazing at the giant of a man that sat across from her. After a few tense moments
of silence in the suite above, Vaxor had taken charge, rousing Phathas from his
rest and assembling the group in the common room of the inn. Introductions were
hastily made and the six of them now sat talking in subdued tones.

The burly human had a kind face, with deep-set eyes and a
strong nose. Thick black hair ran in waves just short of the man’s broad
shoulders; the leonine mane accented a sharply defined jaw. But it wasn’t
Kaerion’s stunning looks that drew the bard’s attention. Rather, it was the
haunted gaze that leapt from his eyes when he thought no one was looking, the
way he obviously carried an aching wound so deep that it had settled into his
bones. She found her hand almost tingling with the desire to caress his brow,
offering what comfort she could. There was a bitter tale here, and nothing
compelled Majandra so much as the promise of a tale—the more tragic the better.

His companion was another matter entirely. The gorgeous elven
ranger had introduced himself with the grace and charm befitting a royal
courtier, his silver tongue lapsing into the most beautifully accented Elvish
that she had ever heard, in order to pay her a particularly “adventurous”
complement. She had smiled and accepted his words gracefully enough, and she had
found herself responding despite everything she knew about such rakish folk. And
this line of thinking wasn’t helping her concentrate on the matter at hand at
all.

She watched as Vaxor stood, helping Phathas to his feet. The
ancient mage wore his power like a cloak. Majandra could almost see the eddies
of arcane energy swirling about him. Eyes that were gray as the clouds of a
summer storm looked out from a face of harsh angles. Like many wizards, he wore
a beard, silvered by time but thick and curling in the heated room. Unlike many
of his noble colleagues at the University, who groomed their beards almost
obsessively with silvered combs, often weaving the hair into thick braids,
Phathas’ beard resembled a wild bird’s nest of tangles and knots.

Majandra’s attention returned to what the wizard was saying.

“For many years,” continued Phathas, “Nyrond was a kingdom
divided against itself. Disgusted by his father’s leadership during the Greyhawk
Wars, which had left much of the kingdom in debt to foreign powers, Black Prince
Sewarndt poisoned the king and, with a cadre of his most trusted advisors,
attempted to seize the throne. He would have succeeded if it hadn’t been for the
valiant efforts of the Heironean clergy,” he nodded once toward Vaxor, “and the
decisive leadership of King Lynwerd, who was then Crown Prince of Nyrond.”

“But the Regicide had broken the spirit of the already
beleaguered country. Starvation, drought, and the aftermath of the war had
scarred Nyrond deeply; civil war nearly killed it. And I fear that the country
still suffers from this illness of spirit.”

Phathas paused for a moment, head bowed. Majandra was struck
by how fragile the mage seemed. His voice, always rich and resonant, sounded
rough around the edges, and his hands, confident hands that were ever ready to
wield ancient spells or teach a fledgling spellcaster her first cantrip, shook
ever so slightly.

He’s getting old, she thought in amazement, and wondered why
she hadn’t seen it before. With a shock, she recalled that her own studies with
the mage were nearly two-score years ago. The bard looked at the smooth skin of
her hands. Time marches on for us all, she knew, but elven blood slows the pace.

“The situation is intolerable,” continued Vaxor, filling the
ensuing silence with an orator’s practiced ease, “and there are a number of
loyal Nyrondese, both noble and common, who would see our country restored to
its former greatness. Thanks to Phathas’ tireless research, we have an
opportunity to do just that.”

The priest crossed his arms and indicated with a nod of his
head that Phathas should continue, but to Majandra’s surprise, it was Bredeth
who interjected. “We have discovered the location of an ancient tomb, the
resting place of the fabled wizard, Acererak. Inside lies a veritable king’s
ransom of gold and magic, treasure enough to pay off our debts to these foreign
kingdoms with some left to fill the country’s coffers once again. Nyrond will
rise again from its ashes—” the noble nearly shouted, slapping his hand hard
against the table—“and she will once more stand among the greatest kingdoms of
the world.”

Stunned as she was by the ferocity in the man’s tone,
Majandra nearly fell from her chair at the sharp bark of laughter that erupted
from the man called Kaerion.

“That’s your plan?” asked the broad-shouldered fighter.
“You’re going to restore your nation’s glory by pillaging an old wizard’s final
resting place? Why not take to the roads and steal what you need from itinerant
travelers? It would be far easier.”

Despite the fighters harsh tone, Majandra’s trained ear
picked up a trace of anger and bitterness. The hidden emotions beat a subtle
counterpoint to the man’s words, and it took the bard a few moments to realize
that they were not directed at their plan, but right back at the fighter
himself.

“Peace my friends,” Phathas spoke, forestalling Bredeth’s
heated retort. The noble sat back down in the chair from which he had sprung and
closed his mouth sharply—though his golden eyes smoldered.

The old mage directed his gaze at Kaerion. “Rest assured that
Acererak was no benevolent conjurer or kindly sage,” he said. “Rather, he was
completely and totally devoted to the cause of evil. The treasure buried within
his tomb was either stolen, extorted, or gathered from the ranks of slain heroes
who died opposing his dark reign.

“All of us,” he gestured to the assembled group, “have
thought long and hard about our course of action, and we have committed to
seeing it through. Make no mistake; it will not be easy. Legends tell of
Acererak’s quest to rob death of its power. It’s probable that he still dwells
within his tomb in some form, surrounded by every horror his twisted mind can
envision. With skill and a fair bit of luck, we may succeed where others before
us have failed.”

“Then where do we fit in Phathas?” asked the golden-maned
elf, who, up until this point, had remained completely silent. “Your message
said nothing about crawling through some decrepit tomb, only that you needed my
woodlore.”

Phathas’ answering smile split his face into a canyon of
lines. “Exactly correct, my old friend,” the mage responded with obvious
affection. “We’ve crawled through enough dungeons together, haven’t we?”

Majandra dropped her cup at the wizard’s words, spilling the
last few drops of her ale. By the looks she saw on her friends’ faces, she
wasn’t the only one surprised to hear that Phathas knew the elf, let alone that
one of the greatest minds at the Royal University had once strapped on gear and
braved the dangers of the adventuring life. Kaerion, too, seemed surprised at
the revelation—surprised and, she’d have to say, none too pleased. But before
any of them could voice their thoughts, Phathas spoke again.

“Acereraks tomb lies deep in the Vast Swamp, south of Sunndi.
We need you and Kaerion to guide us through that treacherous land. The journey
will not be easy or, I’m afraid, terribly swift. We have made arrangements with
several merchants and will have adequately provisioned wagons and a small team
of drovers to help us carry out whatever we can discover in the tomb.”

“Gerwyth, this is crazy,” interjected Kaerion. “The Vast
Swamp is crawling with humanoid tribes, not to mention the hazards of the
swamplands themselves.”

It was Vaxor, however, who responded. “It is said, friend
Kaerion, that Heironeous favors the bold and punishes the timid I believe that
the Valorous One favors this mission, and the resources of my Church are at our
disposal.”

The bard watched as Kaerion recoiled at the priest’s words.
For a moment, she thought he would get up and strike Vaxor, so great was the
anger that flared in his countenance. Instead, he scowled at his companion.
“Ger,” the man said, “surely you’re not—”

The ranger held up his hand, cutting off his friend’s
entreaty. “I owe you much, Phathas,” he said, “and loath are the elves to turn
their back on those they call friend. Let me have a look at your plans, and I
will speak with Kaerion privately. We will deliver our answer to you in the
morning.”

“Very well,” the mage nodded and stood. “Come Vaxor. Let us
retire to our suite and fill Gerwyth in. We will all assemble in the morning.”

Majandra watched as the three men left the taproom. The elf
threw his friend a single glance, but Kaerion simply scowled and downed his ale
in a single gulp. Without a word of farewell, he stood up and headed for the
door of the inn.

She stared at the door for a few moments, and then back at
Bredeth, who also wore an ill-suited look about his face. She sighed once and
made a decision. Sketching a quick and none-too-respectful bow at the
dour-looking noble, she followed Kaerion out the door.

Curiosity had won.