Read The Tomb of Horrors Online

Authors: Keith Francis Strohm - (ebook by Flandrel,Undead)

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The Tomb of Horrors (9 page)

BOOK: The Tomb of Horrors
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“Then come,” the elf said. “Let us lend our own considerable
scholarship to the debate raging in this very room.” He slapped Kaerion once on
the shoulder and then rose, heading toward Vaxor and Phathas, who were now
engaged in a heated exchange over the scroll’s meaning.

May the gods have mercy upon all of us, Kaerion thought as he
joined the trio.

Outside, the winter wind whipped hard against the painted
glass of the suite.

 

* * *

 

Death lurked in the shadows of the room.

Durgoth couldn’t quite see the cloaked figures skulking in
the dark beyond the pulsing light of the silver-wrought lamp, but he could sense
their presence—crossbows poised, watching, waiting for a sudden movement or a
silent signal. He knew that Jhagren detected their presence as well, for the
monk sat completely and utterly still in his wide-backed chair, gazing calmly at
the flickering shadows. The cleric had spent enough time with Jhagren to
understand that this calm demeanor belied an almost unearthly focused mind and a
body trained to uncoil like a serpent in an explosive attack at the first sign
of violence.

Let them try. Durgoth was tired of dealing with this rabble.
He had already warded himself with a quietly whispered spell. All it would take
would be a swift command to his golem, hulking silently behind him, and blood
would flow. Unfortunately, that would not get them any closer to their goal. The
cleric expressed his disappointment with a sigh and leaned back in his chair.

They had arrived here nearly an hour ago. A quick
conversation with their hostage had revealed that the simpering fool was far
more interested in living than he was in protecting his guilds secrets, and so
they navigated their way through the maze of sewers toward one of the guild’s
main hideouts, using their captive as a key to bypass all manner of traps and
checkpoints. News of their impending arrival must have preceded them, for when
they reached their destination, they were ushered into a side passage by a
hard-eyed woman with close-cropped hair. After making sure their prisoner was
unharmed, their guide brought them to this room and instructed them to wait.

The room itself was sumptuously appointed, all out of place
with the dank tunnels of the surrounding sewers. Thick red carpet covered the
floor, and a mahogany desk sat in the center of the chamber. Another high-backed
chair, a match to the ones that both Jhagren and Durgoth sat upon, stood behind
the desk. The pungent scent of cloves filled the room, driving out the acrid
stench of sewage.

Besides the graceful curves of the polished lantern that lay
upon the desk, Durgoth could make out several jade figurines—nymphs, dancing and
cavorting in typical abandon. A jeweled dagger lay next to the figurines, a
palpable reminder of the violence that brooded behind the room’s elegant
exterior.

Just as Durgoth’s temper began to fray once more, a figure
strode quietly out of the shadows and took a seat behind the desk. Gray eyes
regarded the cleric coolly from a lupine face, its animal resemblance reinforced
by close-cropped silver hair and a salt-and-pepper goatee. Deep lines radiated
out from the sides of the man’s eyelids almost to the temples, as if he observed
everything with intense scrutiny. His lips drew back in a half-smile, revealing
a set of perfectly white teeth—though Durgoth noted that the man’s apparent good
humor never reached his eyes.

“Welcome,” his host said after a few more moments of silence.
The man’s voice was low and resonant, with a smooth, cultured accent. “I am the
Guildmaster, though you may call me Reynard. I trust that I have not kept you
waiting too long. I had… pressing matters elsewhere.”

Without lifting his gaze from the cleric, the man drew
heavily bejeweled hands from the folds of his purple cloak and absently traced
deft fingers across the folds and curves of the jade nymphs. The half-smile
never left his lips.

For one intolerable moment, Durgoth felt as if he were being
sized up by a predator. Gray eyes bore into his with an almost hypnotic power.
So, Durgoth thought, this is how the rabbit feels before it gives itself to
death. He returned the gaze evenly, a slow smile creeping across his own face.
Let others be cowed by such a display. He had met and destroyed far more
powerful challengers than this ragged gutter-scum who paraded around in the
finery of his betters like a child playing with her mother’s silks.

As if sensing his resolve, the thief turned his gaze away. Durgoth could see
that the man truly smiled now, and he felt his own anger rise. “Your guild
betrayed me. I don’t deal with betrayal very well, Reynard.”

“Come now, Durgoth. Oh yes, don’t act so shocked, friend,”
the Guildmaster replied at the look of surprise that flicked across the cleric’s
face, “I take it upon myself to know the name of everyone who travels through my
domain.” He stopped, indicating the room and the sewers beyond with a wave of
his hand. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes, I believe we were talking about
betrayal. It is I who feel betrayed. Does that surprise you?”

“Surprise me?” Durgoth asked. What in the Nine Hells was this
man raving about? And then it hit him—the attack, the ease in which he and his
group bypassed the Guild’s traps and watch wards, the attitude of the seemingly
crazy Guildmaster—everything led to one inescapable conclusion.

“You planned this whole damned thing,” Durgoth said.

Reynard slapped his hands together sharply. “By Zilchus’
Sacred Vault, he’s figured it out,” the thief said with a smile.

“Why?” the cleric asked. He was tired of being played for a
fool. If Reynard didn’t cease his prattle, Durgoth would show the damned thief
what it was like to antagonize a priest of the Imprisoned One.

“Simple,” the Guildmaster replied. “You have something I
want—or rather, you will soon have something I want.” Durgoth shot him a venomed
glance until he continued. “I have discovered, through no fault of your own, I
assure you, the ultimate destination of your journey.”

“Go on,” the cleric urged a hint of steel creeping into his
voice.

“Like any good businessman, I want a piece of the action. I
offer the services of my guild in exchange for a share of the gold, jewels, and
other treasure you liberate from the… ahh… site.”

Durgoth stared at the thief in disgust. The man’s gray eyes
were alight with greed. He could almost hear Reynard counting the gold coins in
his head. What were petty coins and useless treasure next to the dark glory of
Tharizdun?

“If that’s what you were interested in, why didn’t you simply
offer to meet instead of attacking my followers?” Durgoth asked.

Reynard gave the cleric a crooked smirk. “I needed to make
sure that you were capable enough before I reassigned my best guild members. The
loss of a few men is a small price to pay for a share in the riches that await
beneath that tomb.”

“If we are capable enough—and I
know
that we are,”
Durgoth replied with a wicked gleam in his eye, “what’s to stop us from killing
you and every one of your skulking guildsmen that are in this room right now?”
The idea appealed to him greatly.

Reynard leaned forward in his chair, fingers steepled
together beneath his chin. “Because,” he said softly as he met the cleric’s gaze
once again, “I have some information that you would find exceptionally valuable.
Information that you would have a difficult time retrieving from a corpse.”

Don’t be too sure, Durgoth thought viciously. But he remained
silent, regarding the grizzled thief with a measuring look. He was intrigued by
the man’s offer and, to be honest, his cunning. He might be little more than
scum, but he was smart and dangerous—a true predator whose weakness for gold
would make him a valuable tool.

“What information is this?” Durgoth asked, finally breaking
the silence.

“According to a few of my agents in Rel Mord, a group of
nobles is planning an expedition through the Vast Swamp—” Reynard paused before
continuing—“their ultimate destination: the ancient tomb of Acererak the mage. I
can provide you details and locations once we have agreed upon the deal.”

But Durgoth had ceased listening. Another expedition, he
thought, and sat back in his chair. Another group making their way toward the
ancient tomb. He knew this was not a coincidence. There were no coincidences
where Tharizdun was concerned. Surely this was a sign. Even bound by the
accursed will of the other gods, his master was reaching out to him, letting him
know that he was on the right path.

“Blessed be your Dark Will,” he whispered, already plotting
his next move.

Reynard cleared his throat gently. “So Durgoth,” he asked,
“do we have a deal?”

Let the thief have his useless treasure, if that would secure
his aid. Once Durgoth had the key, he would free his master, and his
magnificence would swallow the whole world. No amount of gold would be able to
stop it from happening.

The cleric offered his hand to Reynard and smiled. “I accept
your terms,” he said.

“Excellent,” Reynard replied, and rapped sharply upon the
table.

Two other figures emerged from the darkness, a man and a
woman. Durgoth’s breath nearly caught in his throat as they approached the desk.
The woman wore the flickering light like a garment of gold. It rippled across
tanned skin stretched smooth across a full-figured body and reflected off of
eyes the color of pure honey. Tight-fitting leather hose clung to long, muscular
legs and ended in high-topped boots. Her corset laid her midriff bare and dung
to the rounded swell of breasts. Two silver bracers lay strapped to her
forearms, and she carried a black yew staff, inlaid with silver. Durgoth could
see the polished glint of a small crossbow at her belt.

Her companion seemed made of shadow. Skin almost as black as
obsidian absorbed the light, and a close-cropped black beard accented the man’s
pronounced jaw line. Long hair lay bound at the nape of the neck with a dark
cord, and Durgoth was sure he saw the telltale glint of a fanged garrote along
its edges. A form-fitting leather garment, sporting an amazing number of small
pockets, covered his muscular frame. He carried a short sword on his left side
and a number of body scabbards held daggers.

The woman tossed Reynard something as she entered and stood
with her companion several paces away from the desk. With a shock, Durgoth saw
the master thief holding a severed hand and was only slightly surprised to see a
familiar ring. The hand belonged to the thief who had guided them here.

“This is Sydra and Eltanel,” Reynard said, indicating the two
figures. “Sydra is a practitioner of magic whose sorcerous powers will
complement your own. Eltanel is the best lockpick and trap-springer in the
Guild. They will both be valuable additions to your expedition.” Reynard rose to
his feet. “They will be able to give you the details on that other expedition. I
will leave you to make your plans, but remember—” he threw the grisly hand onto
the desk, knocking over the jade figures—“I don’t take betrayal very well
either.”

 

 

 

 

Two nights before the expedition was set to leave, Majandra
found herself navigating the torchlit streets of Rel Mord with Bredeth. The
blue-gray shadows of dusk had finally deepened into true darkness, and a heavy
winter mist swirled across the ground like some undulating serpent. The city’s
winding streets were mostly empty of traffic, as many citizens had retired to
taprooms or the familiar comfort of home and hearth. A few, however, braved the
chill air and the shadows, walking openly beneath the safety of torches and oil
lamps, intent on their own business. Others slid in between the shifting shadows
of old buildings and alleyways.

Majandra kept a constant watch for the footpads and cutpurses
that made the night their home. Not for the first time she cursed the heavy
sacks and packages both she and her companion practically had to drag through
the street.

“What in the name of the Nine Hells are we going to do with
all this clothing?” she complained. “We’re going to be spending months in a
swamp for the gods’ sakes, not wintering with the Ice Barbarians.”

Bredeth, already several paces ahead of the half-elf, stopped
and turned. “You know that Phathas tries to plan for any eventuality,” he said.
“It does appear, however, that our dear mage may be planning a bit too hard,
eh?” With that, the young noble shouldered his burden and staggered back on his
course.

Majandra stared after him, puzzled. For the past week, the
two of them had spent a great deal of time purchasing provisions, haggling with
caravan masters, and running errands for both Phathas and Vaxor. But in the last
two days, she’d seen a decisive shift in the normally sour nobles attitude. Gone
were the tantrums and highborn disdain for physical labor, the refusal to carry
anything without the aid of a servant, and all of the protestations of a
pampered heir. Tonight, he’d labored hard, making several trips to the merchants
without complaint, and he had even offered to go to the Royal University to pick
up several scrolls that Phathas feared he might need on the road. Quite unlike
the acid-tongued snob she usually dealt with. And the bard was almost certain
that the noble’s last statement had been an attempt at levity. Unbelievable,
Majandra thought, as she hurried to catch up to his rapidly retreating form.

BOOK: The Tomb of Horrors
13.3Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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