The Tomb of Horrors

1

Kaerion thought it might be different this time.

But it never was.

The walls were white, the pure white of marble cut from mines in the Cairn Hills. Elaborate stonework decorated the walls and recesses of the temple, relieving the simple, austere lines of its basic design. Statues of strong-jawed men and women, shields held forward, swords raised, gazed proudly back at him. Everything here bespoke strength and courage, forthright commitment in the face of adversity.

From a distance, the soaring lilt of a warm soprano cut across the silent temple, caressing each note, spinning a gossamer web of sound. He recognized the hymn, one of his favorites. He had chosen it for his own Dedication.

In came the procession, a line of gray-robed figures, hoods drawn, heads bowed, their stately gait carrying them forward as if they were floating. The boy walked at their head. Clad in a simple white tunic, his serene face broken by the hint of a smile, he marched toward the simple stone altar in the center of the chamber with wide-eyed innocence.

Kaerion wanted to step forward, armed with the knowledge of what was to come, and carry the boy away, but some force held him back. He tried to shout a warning, but the sound of a rich-voiced alto singing a harmonic line swallowed his voice as soon as he had opened his mouth. He looked around desperately for someone to help him, but could not find a single ally.

That’s when the screaming began.

In a single, dizzying moment, the beautifully rendered hymn shattered into painful dissonance. Kaerion clapped dirt-crusted hands over his ears, desperate to escape the cacophony. Slowly, the screams faded, yet he could hear another voice, distant and faint but growing louder. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the scent of blood that had begun to pollute the air, and strained to make out what this new voice was saying. It came to him slowly—

“Kaerion, get your gods-blasted ass out of that bed!”

The nightmare shattered as a boot connected hard with his side. Kaerion groaned, his already full bladder protesting the abuse, and swatted feebly at his attacker. His stomach twisted fiercely, nearly disgorging last nights gristly mutton. Only sheer force of will and a tongue swollen to twice its normal size spared him that indignity.

Another groan escaped his lips, this time in response to the throbbing in his head, which had quickly outstripped the pain in his side. Rubbing scarred hands across eyes nearly crusted shut, he forced himself to gaze upon the visage of the demon that had ripped him from sleep.

A harsh, angular elven face stared back at him, arched brows raised even higher—in anger or amusement, it was always difficult to tell. The elf raised a gloved fist, obviously prepared to strike again, but Kaerion held up one arm in entreaty, wondering when the gnomes would finish their incessant hammering inside his skull.

“Peace, Gerwyth,” he mumbled, “or so help me I’ll throw your bony elven carcass right out the window.”

A ghost of a smile cracked the elf’s imposing facade, drawing the alien features in starker relief. Delicate cheekbones rose even higher, accenting the angular lines of his face. Long blond hair, pulled back from a high forehead by a silver circlet, flowed around the curved expanse of ears, only to fall into a jumbled cataract around shoulders covered by a dark green cloak. Beneath the folds of the cloak, metal studs glinted softly in the candlelight.

“Damn it, Kaerion, this is serious.” All trace of levity fled from the elf’s face. “We’re in trouble again, and I’ll be hung and quartered if I’m going to die because you can’t get your ale-sotted wits about you.”

“What now?” Kaerion asked, rising unsteadily to his feet. The room spun viciously, but he managed to catch himself before he fell by grabbing on to the stone wall to his left. His hair stank of tabac, and the sour reek of his sweat filled the small room. It nearly made him vomit, but he mastered his rebellious stomach once again, instead releasing only a single noisy belch.

“Gods’ blood, Kaer!” the elf shouted. “How long are you going to go on doing this to yourself?”

Kaerion ignored the question—as he always did. He was far too sober to think about the circumstances that had brought him to this place. All he really wanted to do was find a dark corner and drink his throbbing headache into quiescence.

“You said we’re in trouble,” he replied, with considerably more aplomb than he felt. “What kind of trouble?” He thought perhaps reasoning with his old friend might reduce the likelihood that he would continue to shout.

“Do you remember the merchant who needed caravan guards to help transfer his assets from Hammensend to Woodwych?”

Kaerion nodded. The greedy bastard had hired thugs to steal valuables from certain families and then tried to sell them back to these families for twice their value. It was a good thing they hadn’t made it back to Hammensend, he thought wistfully, or that pile of filth would have had to deal with him.

“You mean Master Hemon, the thief who—”

“I mean the merchant who hired us to protect his interests,” the elf interrupted. “The one connected to half of the crime lords in this city.” He paused, obviously looking for some sign that his companion understood where he was heading.

Kaerion opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off with a sharp gesture.

“Gods! Did you have to take it upon yourself to ‘redistribute’ those gold nobles?” Gerwyth asked.

Kaerion felt his own temper rise, and the pounding in his skull intensified. “It wasn’t really his money, anyway,” he said through gritted teeth.

Five years they’d traveled together across the roads and byways of the southern Flanaess and Gerwyth still didn’t understand. Even after everything that had happened to him, after he’d proven his own guilt and cowardice a dozen times, there were still a few things that mattered.

Like getting stinking drunk, another part of his mind thought, instead of standing here arguing like an old married couple.

“Yes, well,” the elf responded, with all the grace of a spurned fishwife. “Now he’s taken the money that is his and placed a bounty on our heads. I was down by the docks when I found out. It seems that there are quite a few people who won’t mind sharing the reward, and they are apparently going to try and collect soon. We’ve got to leave Woodwych for a bit. If we hurry, we can start our journey as soon as the gates open. I have a purse set up for us in Rel Mord. It’s a big enough city that we can lay low until we meet our contact.”

“Contact?” Kaerion questioned sarcastically. “Who are we working for now, the Circle of Eight?” Truth be told, he didn’t feel much like working for anyone and had told his friend that on occasions too numerous to count. “I’m not taking on any more work, Gerwyth,” he stated flatly.

The elf’s eyes flashed emerald green. Nearly a decade of familiarity allowed Kaerion to read his friends moods. When his almond-shaped eyes took on that color, it meant the ranger was at his most dangerous.

Gerwyth, however, did not challenge his companion. “We can argue about this later,” he replied. “Right now, we need to get out of here before it’s too—”

The sharp crack of splintering wood echoed loudly from a distance.

“Late,” the elf finished.

Kaerion heard the deep-throated grumble of voices followed by several muffled screams and knew that trouble had indeed found them. He only hoped that the bastards left the innkeeper and his family unharmed. The Griffon’s Wing wasn’t the best inn within the walls of Woodwych by any means, but its owners were decent people, even if their patrons left something to be desired. If any of their family were hurt tonight, Kaerion thought angrily, he just might make a personal trip back to Hammensend and gut that fat merchant himself.

The door to his room shuddered beneath a fearsome blow.

Instinctively, Kaerion reached for his sword and cursed when he discovered his scabbard was not buckled on. He scanned the room, trying to remember where he had dropped it. Battle tension ran through his system, chasing away a good portion of the aftereffects of the previous evening, as it always did. His head, however, still remained a bit fuzzy, and it took a few moments to locate the well-worn scabbard beneath a filth-encrusted cloak.

Kaerion drew the sword just as the door rocked beneath another blow. He could clearly see the door’s thick wood beginning to split, and he looked to Gerwyth. The elf had just finished stringing his bow and held the weapon in one hand. Silver runes ran down the curved ash-wood body, bathing the room in cold fire.

Kaerion gripped the worn hilt of his own weapon tightly. Years of habit brought his thumb forward to rub the pure white diamond set deeply into the leather-wrapped pommel. The action always calmed him before a battle. He stifled a curse as his finger touched only simple steel, and he cast a bitter glance toward the corner of the small room, where a finely wrought jeweled scabbard lay against the wall.

Galadorn, he spoke the sword’s name silently, longingly, as if calling out to a long-lost lover. Where once he would have heard its response, deep-voiced and regal, sonorous tones ringing with unearthly purity, he sensed only the slightest of responses, like the tremulous whispers of that lover’s farewell, and he nearly staggered under the familiar weight of loss that descended upon him.

Forged with powerful magic and blessed, legends said, by the hand of Heironeous himself, the mystic sword would protect its wielder from all but the most powerful spells, and its holy might would cut through the thickest of armor. But the power of the sword lay beyond him now, lost the moment his faith in his god shattered under the vaulted domes of a hellish temple. Try as he might to separate himself from this poignant reminder of his past, the sword always remained. He’d tried everything from weighting it down and tossing it into a river to hiring hedge wizards to cast spells of holding. The result was always the same. He’d wake up from a drunken stupor with the sword only a finger’s breadth from his hand—and permanently sheathed in its jeweled scabbard. Thus, he was forced to wield a simple piece of cold, dead steel.

“We should climb out the window and make for the roof.” The elf’s voice broke through Kaerion’s mournful thoughts. “It’s too far to jump down to the lane below.”

“Gerwyth, you know I will not run from this.”

The ranger smiled, tossing his cloak behind one slender shoulder. “Who said anything about running? The roof will make it far easier for her,” he said, indicating the glowing bow, “to pick off whoever is after us.”

Kaerion shrugged and followed his friend to the window. There was no time to put on any armor, and the close quarters of the room made it more likely that he could be cornered and overmastered by a rush of bodies. The roof was just as good a place as any to send these ruffians back to the dark mother who bore them.

The door finally gave way under the combined attack of several figures, and they let out a shout of victory as the last plank shattered. Before he climbed out the window, Kaerion made out the glint of chainmail beneath some of the attackers’ cloaks. At least that will slow them down somewhat, he thought, as he pulled himself up over the jutting lip of the window.

Above him, he could make out the scuttling form of Gerwyth. The nimble elf was already rolling quietly on to the rooftop. He caught the howls of outrage from the thugs in his room as they realized that their quarry was escaping. A few quick pulls brought Kaerion to the roof, where he took a moment to catch his breath.

The gray light of false dawn hung over the rooftop, giving everything a dim, muted feel. Patches of fog rolled past, touching his face with its cool fingers. He spotted Gerwyth standing to one side, head cocked slightly, eyes scanning the urban horizon. Kaerion knew his friend had sensed something amiss and now relied on his hunting instincts—instincts which had made him one of the best trackers and guides in the southeastern Flanaess—to unearth the source of his unease.

“We’ve got company,” the elf said after another moment.

The twang of a bowstring and the sharp hiss of an arrow cut though the pre-dawn silence. Kaerion leapt to one side and noticed with satisfaction that the ranger had done the same. The arrow shattered as it struck stone.

He wasn’t prepared, however, for the sudden emergence of six figures from the gloom. He had a moment to watch Gerwyth deflect two sword strokes with the hardened curve of his magic bow before his attackers were upon him. He ducked quickly as the blade of a sword came whistling for his neck, and he brought his own weapon across in a quick cutting stroke, satisfied when he felt the blade slash deeply into the stomach of his opponent.

His other attacker wasted no time, however, taking advantage of the opening presented by his defensive move, and Kaerion grunted hard as a mailed boot connected with his side. He used the momentum brought on by the kick to place some distance between him and his opponents.

There were four of them, hard-eyed and steel-jawed all, each with the look of practiced killers. The heavy-booted one wore chainmail and carried a wicked-looking curved sword. Of the three, his eyes were the coldest, like blue ice, and Kaerion knew he’d have to take that one out fast. Two others wore no armor, but each wielded long daggers in either hand. The fourth lay on the ground, holding in the bulge of guts that threatened to spill out.

Kaerion opened his stance and shifted his weight toward his center, taking deep, easy breaths. The last remnants of the previous evening’s debauchery fled beneath the familiar thrill of battle. Let them come to me, he thought. They’ll have to fight me on my terms.

The sounds of battle rang out over the rooftop, and he risked a glance at his friend, noting with satisfaction that the elf had dropped his bow and now wielded two gleaming short swords with expert precision. One of the figures, a grizzled human, lay at Gerwyth’s feet, clutching the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Blood spurted out between the man’s fingers, raining down upon the cold stone of the rooftop.

A furious snarl brought his full attention back to his own problems. He raised his sword to parry as the mailed figure ran toward him, swinging his weapon in a wide arc. Kaerion gave a curse as the two blades clanged together with great force, nearly shattering his wrist. Gods this man was strong!

Both dagger-wielding men moved in swiftly as Kaerion grunted with the effort of freeing his sword from the curve of his opponent’s blade. He sidestepped the first viper-fast dagger by stepping inside his main opponent’s guard with his left foot and bringing his right foot behind him while twisting his hips. The momentum freed his sword, but made his right side vulnerable to the second man’s daggers. He cried out as the twin blades punctured shoulder and forearm.

Sensing victory, the mailed warrior redoubled his efforts, and Kaerion found himself hard pressed to block the vicious cuts of the man’s powerful attacks—especially while minimizing his exposure to the two other men who circled him like wolves waiting to pounce on a wounded elk. Sweat poured down his face now and his breathing grew labored. Grimly, Kaerion tried to summon his reserves. While years of heavy drinking had not quite erased the effects of a lifetime of training and battle, he was like a weapon dulled by abuse and neglect.

He saw his opening when one of the unarmored figures darted in for a quick attack. Kaerion brought his sword up, feinting a strike against the leader. Sidestepping the dagger, he reached out with his right hand and grabbed the collar of the man, throwing him into his mailed opponent. While the two stumbled against each other, Kaerion aimed a blow at the man’s weapon, grimacing only slightly as his sword neatly sliced off his opponent’s arm at the elbow. The mailed figure screamed and fell to the ground. His severed hand landed with a metallic clang several feet away, still holding the scimitar.

Kaerion took advantage of the distraction and quickly ran one of the dagger wielding figures through with his blade. The remaining attacker turned to flee. Kaerion cursed and started to take off after him, but stopped short as the figure stumbled once and then pitched forward, an arrow protruding from his throat.

Kaerion turned to see Gerwyth lowering his bow, an exultant smile on his face. The elf’s cloak and studded leather armor were spattered with gore, and his blond hair was streaked red with blood. In the lanes below, the two companions could make out the stirrings of the city watch come to investigate the early morning disturbance. The remaining assassins would no doubt have high-tailed it out of the inn, not wishing to be exposed to the authorities.

“So, Kaer, what do you think now?” the elf asked as the two caught their breath.

“I think,” Kaerion replied, wiping blood from his blade, “that you are an insufferable fool who is right more times than is good for him.”

“Does this mean you’ll come with me to Rel Mord?”

Kaerion nodded in the first rosy light of day. The shouts of the watch grew louder and more frantic as they neared the Griffon’s Wing.

“What choice do I have?” he replied.

2

Fire spat an unkindly illumination in the large stone room. Gray tile, already slick with blood, caught the hellish light, its hue transforming to a grisly crimson. Bits of bone and discarded flesh were strewn about the central blaze, sizzling beneath the intense heat. The awful stink of butchered meat lay heavy about the hall.

Durgoth ignored the gruesome sight in the same way he ignored the moans and pitiful cries of the faithful who lay wounded and bleeding at his feet. Instead, he concentrated on the hulking figure standing naked before him. Nearly eight feet tall and brutally constructed, the creature was all muscle, sinew, and vein—a mass of bulging flesh and bone held immobile in the rigor of death.

The cleric sighed once in satisfaction, inspecting the vessel in front of him. Days of painstaking preparation had brought them to this moment. Endless hours of study and toil transformed the monastery’s ancient refectory into a focal point of the Dark One’s power, until the sacrifice began. Everyone had contributed—a bit of flesh here, a limb there, and in the case of the most faithful, their entire bodies—all given freely to build the creature before him. Only the seer had resisted, struggling weakly until Durgoth removed his head and fused it, mouth still open in mid-scream, upon the cold shoulders of the vessel.

Now, all that remained was the final prayer, the ancient rite that would infuse the mass of flesh before him with the dark power of Tharizdun. Durgoth breathed deeply and recalled the hallowed text. At first, his mouth refused to form the words; the ancient phrases withheld their dark meanings from him. Sweat beaded down his face and his hands trembled, for he knew that his Master would brook no failure here. Without an outlet, the accumulated power would rise up and destroy him, like a swollen river bursting its dam.

Years of study and self-discipline took over just as Durgoth’s will was about to break. An easy calm stole over him. He opened his mouth again, and this time the words spilled out, sibilant as asps. There was a moment of stillness as his voice echoed in the vast hall. The cleric feared that he had made a mistake in reciting the ritual—until he felt a presence in his mind as horrifying as it was intangible. He resisted a shudder as Tharizdun’s power flowed through him, a vast wave of darkness that threatened to sweep away everything in its path. The cleric cried out beneath the force of the god’s will, struggling to keep the spark of his life flickering beneath the divine assault. Finally, the vessel of flesh before him twitched twice and Durgoth felt the pressure ease off of his mind. Secure in the knowledge that he would survive, he gathered what little resources he had remaining and plunged toward the final blessings, ending the dark prayer with a shriek.

Silence descended upon the ancient hall. Even the most grievously wounded held their sobbing tongues. The cleric rose wearily to his feet, not remembering the moment he had fallen to his knees, and stared at the misshapen creature. It twitched twice more in the silent room before giving a great shudder. When at last it turned its gruesome face to survey the hall, Durgoth could see that its eyeless sockets held a darkness more absolute than night.

“Golem,” he nearly shouted, “whom do you serve?”

Far more quickly than he had thought possible, the creature turned to face him and opened its mouth. At first, he could see it struggle for speech, its swollen black tongue squirming in its mouth like a blood-gorged leech. It gained some control, however, and after a few moments managed a thickly voweled response. “Y-you, blessed one. By the will of my Master, I serve you.”

The hall erupted into spontaneous murmurs, as the once-miserable cultists writhed in holy fervor. Durgoth accepted their adoration and gave back twice more to great Tharizdun. Gently, almost as if he were congratulating his own child, the cleric placed his hand upon the construct’s shoulder.

“Good,” he replied to his latest triumph. “That is very good indeed.”

His power spent, Durgoth turned from the golem and regarded his flock. Men and women, grievously injured by their own hands, were sprawled in clumps before him, muscle and bone exposed to the air where they had sawed off limbs and flesh as a gruesome offering to their god. One of them reached out a bloodied stump and tried to touch the clerics robe. Durgoth curled his lips reflexively and kicked out at the offending cultist—angered by the woman’s audacity. His person was inviolate, a precept he drilled into his followers’ heads from the moment they arrived at the monastery.

He watched the mewling cultists for a few moments more. Their ecstatic cries reminded him of the pitiful moans of jhapeth addicts, men and women who had long-since given away their humanity, losing themselves in the seductive comfort of that narcotic root. Like the jhapeth-lost, these cultists represented the castoffs and dregs of the Flanaess, fugitives that he had welcomed in Tharizdun’s name.

And now they would be the instruments of the Dark One’s freedom.

He called Jhagren over with an absent wave of his hand, quietly satisfied at the monk’s quick response. Behind him, Durgoth could feel the presence of the golem looming in the shadows. If his pock-faced advisor felt any discomfort at the constructs presence, the red-robed man didn’t show it. He simply bowed once as he approached and regarded Durgoth with his usual even expression. The cleric smiled, but waited a few moments before speaking. For all the mystery that surrounded this man, he knew that it was tied closely with the Scarlet Brotherhood. Perhaps Jhagren felt that he could steal the codex and deliver it to the Order in Hesuel Ilshar, or perhaps he was simply a spy. Either way, Durgoth enjoyed testing the man’s patience.

“What do you say, Jhagren? It appears that our lord has truly blessed us.”

Jhagren nodded impassively. “Indeed, we have been blessed Durgoth.”

“Now, my friend,” Durgoth said, in that slightly superior tone that he knew must make the monk yearn to send his hand striking at the soft cartilage of his throat, “it is time to prepare for our journey. Tharizdun has granted us a great boon this day, but we will still need support for our expedition.”

“Yes, blessed one,” Jhagren replied. “The tomb we seek lies many weeks to the south, beyond the kingdom of Sunndi. I have already contacted some associates of mine. We shall meet them in the Nyrondese city of Rel Mord, and from there we will strike out for the Vast Swamp.”

“Good,” Durgoth said. “Will we have difficulty remaining inconspicuous in the city?” He motioned, indicating the golem behind him.

“No, blessed one. The companions who will accompany us on our journey know several, shall we say ‘less-traveled’, ways into Rel Mord. And, like any large city, there is no dearth of innkeepers who are willing to look the other way as long as they have enough gold coins to distract them.”

The cleric nodded, confident that the always-efficient monk had everything in order. “Excellent,” he replied. “Then I leave you to find what able-bodied help you can to load our boats for travel. We leave in two days’ time.”

He gestured once, knowing that the golem would follow him out as he left the room. Durgoth had done some research on his own. The tomb they sought was none other than Acererak’s, an ancient wizard who, it was said, had sought to conquer even death. Legends surrounded Acererak’s tomb, rumors and old tales of magic and treasure beyond the imagination. And danger. Those heroes who set out after Acererak’s legacy never returned.

Durgoth smiled.

There would be plenty of opportunities to make sure Jhagren met with an accident. And then the world would be his.

3

Rel Mord sat like a giant fist in the vast grasslands of northern Nyrond. Beyond its fortified wall, the marble spires of the Royal Palace soared into the afternoon sky, but even its exquisite craftsmanship could not disguise the crenellated barbicans and manned towers visible even from outside the city. Other stone structures, less lofty perhaps but no less imposing, proudly thrust their own elaborate heights skyward, like the teeth of some great dragon. The swift-moving Duntide River lay at the city’s feet, a jeweled serpent whose sun-dappled scales burned bright beneath the noonday light. Everywhere the sound of life thrummed, strong and sure.

Despite the press of bodies milling about the stone-fortified gatehouse guarding one of the three entrances to the city, Gerwyth hummed a lively elven song. Kaerion looked over at his companion, wishing, not for the first time, that he could share in his friend’s high spirits. But a sense of unease had stolen over him these past few days, and it had grown steadier as they approached the capital.

If Rel Mord was the martial and political heart of the country, Nyrond itself was an aging soldier. Roads that had once crisscrossed rolling plains and gentle hills, connecting and supporting cities, towns, and hamlets, lay damaged and in disrepair, their earthen lengths scarred with deep ruts and pocked with wheel-snapping ditches and holes. Or they stood uncared for, allowed to run wild with bracken and the thorned scrub vines that grew as wild as the almost endless grass fields. What’s more, the village folk were withdrawn, sullen. Farm doors remained closed to strangers, and merchants refused to trade, no matter how heavy the purse before them.

Kaerion had noted all of this and voiced his unease to Gerwyth. The ranger had just shrugged and proclaimed the ways of humans too inscrutable to his elven sensibilities. The rest of the journey had taken place in silence, as Kaerion’s distress grew.

Now, the two stood amid a crowd of wagons and people, waiting for their turn to enter Rel Mord. The rank stench of unwashed bodies and animal dung burned in Kaerion’s nostrils, and he tried to ignore the rising shouts of squabbling traders and farmers as they all pressed forward, eager to enter the city. He wondered how his friend’s trained senses could handle such a miserable assault, and was just about to ask when a large weight slammed into his side, nearly toppling him over.

With a grunt, he disentangled himself from the net of arms and feet that surrounded him and came face to face with a red-faced bull of a man who stared back at him with an unpleasantly furrowed brow. The man’s eyes were drawn together sharply and his mouth seemed frozen in a permanent frown.

“My apologies,” Kaerion began in his friendliest tone, “I did not mean to stand in the place that you intended to fall into.” He gave the unpleasant man a hard look, at odds with his congenial tone.

Though broad of shoulder and thick of limb, the offending man still did not have Kaerion’s mass. At first it seemed as if he might actually growl something back, but he took another look at the fighter’s well-tended mail and leather scabbard and hastily grumbled an unintelligible phrase before scampering off into the crowds.

Kaerion felt a slender hand rest upon his shoulder.

“Easy, Kaer,” Gerwyth said in a soothing tone. “No sense traveling all the way to Rel Mord only to spend time in the city prison.”

Kaerion exhaled through his nose before replying, “Gods, you know how much I hate large cities!”

In truth, it wasn’t the unending crowds and lack of privacy that was really bothering him. The wineskins had run out quickly, and he was afflicted with a throbbing head that never seemed to leave him. His nights, never the refuge they were for other people, were now filled with nightmares. If anything positive could be said for this city, it was that he could soon find himself in the taproom of some inn, cradling a blessed mug of ale. Maybe even two.

“I know you do,” replied the elf, “but if you can relax for just a bit, we’ll soon be inside.” He indicated the line, which had moved considerably closer to the gatehouse.

They reached the gatehouse a few candlespans later, only to be challenged by a guardsman in plate armor. The soldier flicked a bored gaze over the two men. “State your name and business in the city of Rel Mord,” the guardsman intoned in a flat voice.

“Gerwythaeniaen Larkspur and Kaerion Whitehart, lately from Woodwych,” the elf responded. He would have continued, but the bored guard had already moved on to the next person in line, waving the two travelers in with an impatient shake of his halberd.

“They must take their duties very seriously,” the elf said with a smile as they passed through the stone gateway.

Kaerion simply scowled at his friend. Disgust with the soldier’s obvious laziness warred with his own painful memories. There was a time when he would have called the gods’ own thunder down upon anyone serving under him who shirked his duties so blatantly, before—

He shook his head to deny that memory. It was another life. No one served under him now. He was master of nothing. Let the city commander worry about the discipline of his own troops. Kaerion certainly wasn’t about to start caring. And when, he thought as he loosened his cloak, did it get so blasted warm? There were still several weeks left until Readying and the early spring thaw.

“Where are we supposed to meet this contact of yours?” he asked Gerwyth, who had stopped to converse with a blue-cloaked elf maiden. “I’ve a powerful need to wash the dust of the road from my throat.”

The two elves continued to speak for a moment more, the mellifluous tones of the Elvish tongue flowing between them like quicksilver, before the ranger nodded and touched hand to heart in the elven gesture of farewell. He turned to Kaerion slowly, with a familiar grin on his face.

“Has anyone ever told you, Kaer, that you are a prime example of your race?”

Knowing that he wasn’t about to get a quick answer to his question, the fighter sighed. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he replied sardonically.

“Hmm, yes. You would.” The elf’s grin widened after a moment. “Fear not, my friend. I have just been informed of the location of our meeting place.” He sketched a courtly bow and spoke in his best high-class accent, “If you’ll just follow me, my lord,” and turned into the crowd.

Kaerion threw up his hands and followed.

Despite its fortress-like appearance, the City of Rel Mord was abuzz with domestic life. Traders and merchants of all races and nationalities drove wagons teeming with bolts of brightly-colored cloth, silks, and woven fabrics toward the market, while a seemingly endless train of livestock and other animals plodded their way through the wide streets. Soldiers patrolled the lanes and avenues, some as bored as the gate guard, others careful to watch the collection of street urchins, beggars, and musicians that wove in and out of the passing crowd.

Drawing close to the market, Kaerion could hear the strident call of booth merchants and the hum of commerce taking place in a variety of languages and dialects. Common, Baklunish, and Flan mixed with the tongues of elves, dwarves, and even a few gnomes to form a multi-layered wave of sound that washed over the two companions.

Despite the outward signs of life, Kaerion clearly felt the same sense of quiet desperation that had greeted both he and Gerwyth on their journey south toward the city. The music and laughter and tenor of the entire city seemed just a bit too loud and forced, the faces of its citizens a bit too wary, or worse, apathetic. Walking through its streets, Kaerion could see a film of dirt covering the magnificence of its stone temples and buildings. Even the royal palace, which had quickened the beat of his heart with its martial splendor, now seemed hollow and empty, like an ancient tomb, as the two adventurers drew closer. Nyrond had been a kingdom divided, sapped of strength by war and betrayal, and it was clear to Kaerion that the wounds had still not healed.

As they moved deeper into the city, the press of the crowd eased somewhat. Streets narrowed, wood and stone buildings drew closer together, and the anxious stamp of merchant feet was replaced by the soft-soled tread of robed priests, royal messengers, and court functionaries, who carried on their business with an air of self-conscious dignity. Kaerion’s heart lurched for a moment as he caught sight of several mailed priests of Heironeous heading right toward them.

He must have stopped in his tracks, for Gerwyth spoke in a gentle voice at his side, “Peace, Kaer. Let us be about our business.”

The comforting tones settled him somewhat. He nodded and continued on his way past the group of approaching clerics. “Traitor,” he expected them to yell. “Betrayer! Coward!” He was all of those things—and more. How could the Beloved of the Arch-Paladin not see his shame? It was clearly written on his soul.

But the priests walked right by, intent on their own private conversation. No one had even spared a glance his way. Kaerion wiped the cold sweat from his brow and followed his friend down another street.

Most of the buildings in this area were made of stone, with an impressive amount of gilt marble facades. A few of the decorously crafted houses even had small yards surrounded by iron gates or stone walls. The few folk who were walking about the cobblestone streets were richly appointed, wearing fine tailored velvets, thick cloaks, and an array of gold jewelry around throat and hands.

“Where are you taking us?” Kaerion asked his friend in a tight voice.

“To our destiny,” Gerwyth replied in a voice so heavy with melodrama that the fighter wondered how his friend could still stand.

He shot the elf a barbed look and crossed his meaty arms in front of him. “No more joking,” Kaerion said tersely. “I’m tired and hungry, and I don’t have any patience for your damned elven wit!”

Gerwyth sighed, the ever-present smile falling from his angular face. “Fine. If you must know, we’re going right there.” The elf pointed a slim finger at a two-storey wooden building just past the bend in the street.

Kaerion eyed their destination carefully. Despite not being made of stone, the elegantly carved lines of the structure blended perfectly with the surrounding architecture. A high-peaked roof lent the building a sense of dignity, matched by the elaborately framed windows and exquisitely worked door. A masterfully painted sign hung above the lintel, proclaiming the name of the establishment.

“The Platinum Shield?” he asked. “Who in the hells are we meeting here, Ger? The Nyrondese Royal Family?”

When the elf failed to reply, Kaerion stared at him in disbelief.

“No,” he said after a few moments, “you didn’t. Phaulkon’s feathered ass, what have you gotten us into this time?”

Gerwyth just shook his head and pulled his friend toward the inn. “Come on, Kaer, just relax. At the very worst you’ll have the chance to get drunk in the best taproom in the city of Rel Mord.”

Against his better judgment, Kaerion followed his friend into the Platinum Shield.

“They’re late,” Bredeth snapped in an arrogant tone as he slammed the door to the sumptuously decorated suite.

Majandra Damar gave a breathy sigh at the intrusion and stopped running graceful fingers across the strings of her harp, upon which she had been composing the final themes for a new work. It didn’t matter anymore, however, as the man’s interruption had already driven the melodic line from her mind.

The yew harp cast out its final, plaintive note and the room descended into silence. Majandra regarded her guest thoughtfully. The noble’s perfectly sculpted face held a slight red tinge that was deepening even as she watched, and his gold-flecked eyes flashed dangerously in the dim light of the room. Even his normally immaculate close-cropped blond hair lay askew, tousled by wildly gesticulating hands.

Good, she thought. He’s angry. This should be fun.

“They are not late, Bredeth. Phathas made arrangements for them to meet us three Stardays hence, and the last I checked,” she said, looking out of the stained glass window to her left, “it is still Starday.”

“I have wandered the streets and the situation is even worse here than in the other cities,” the noble replied. “My country is suffering. My people are exhausted. Nyrond is but an echo of the great nation it was. And we—” he leaned over and stabbed his finger violently down on the table before him—“who have a plan that can help restore the country to its former glory, have to wait on the whim of two foreigners who are probably sitting in a brothel right now laughing at their good fortune.”

“First off,” retorted the bard, “these are not your people. You are cousin to His Majesty, and a distant one at that. Your head, however inflated with its own sense of importance, will never, gods’ willing, wear the crown. And second, Phathas himself chose these ‘foreigners’. If he believes that they offer us our best chance of success, then I shall not gainsay him.”

“Such insolence.” Bredeth nearly spat as he drew closer to the bard. “If we were in my father’s castle, I would have you beaten and cast out with the other criminals.”

“I pray that I never fall so low as to have to ply my skills for a family of tone-deaf boors who couldn’t appreciate a song if it came from Olidammara’s own mouth. With any luck, I’ll never find myself near the drafty wreck of a keep where you were born.”

Bredeth recoiled as if he had been slapped, and Majandra wondered if perhaps she had gone too far this time. The young noble drew even closer to her, his perfect teeth clenched tightly. “You have noble blood in you, Majandra,” he whispered, “and that has protected you so far. But don’t ever forget what other blood flows through your veins.”

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.

“Acererak’s 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.

4

The air stank. Damp and fetid, the awful stench filled the sewer tunnels that snaked with labyrinthine complexity beneath Rel Mord. Built of thick, dark stone, the sewers channeled waste and garbage—the unmentionable castoffs of civilized society—from the city above into the deep-flowing waters of the Duntide River. Small ledges in each tunnel allowed passage over the oozing flow of sewage, though even the relatively high ceiling did not make the journey anywhere near comfortable.

Durgoth fought down another gag at the oppressive fumes, cursing silently at the necessity for such a demeaning entrance into the city. A thin layer of slime and moss clung to the slick walls of the passage, and the sound of dripping water echoed everywhere around him. Just for a moment, he heard in the dreadful repeating sound thousands of voices calling out his name in awe and terror. Moss-covered walls became towers and temples, draped with banners proclaiming his majesty and the power of the god he served, and the chill touch of the damp sewer air become the crisp bite of the winter wind whipping hard across the plains and grasslands of Nyrond at his command. This is how one should enter a city such as Rel Mord, the cleric thought, and he vowed to make it so after he had completed his quest.

The moment passed and Durgoth glanced at his companions, noting with a touch of bitterness that among the group that had traveled from the monastery, Jhagren alone appeared serene and unaffected by their dank, oppressive surroundings. Even young Adrys could not match the easy gait and impassive mien of his master, though it was obvious that the apprentice tried valiantly. Only the dull, heavy tread of the golem, walking dutifully behind him, kept the clerics temper from fraying completely. He allowed a rare smile at the thought of his creation. Let the others wonder about the extent of his powers, now. He could command death, and soon, he knew, his Master would give him the power to command life.

Their guide, a rough-voiced human with a small, angular face that resembled a ferret, interrupted the clerics ruminations. “About twenty yards up this passage is a narrow side tunnel that leads into a larger chamber. We can take a few moments to rest there before continuing on.”

“I don’t understand,” Durgoth replied. “We are obviously beyond the city gates, and we’ve passed at least four separate ladders that would take us up into Rel Mord proper. Why don’t we push on and use the next ladder?”

Truthfully, he was more than annoyed at the delay. The sooner they settled in the city, the sooner they could make final preparations and begin their journey.

“We may be beyond the gates,” the guide spoke in a calm voice, “but the streets of Rel Mord are patrolled by armed sentinels, and we can’t risk being spotted as we emerge from the sewers. It would endanger not only us, but also the Guild’s relationship with the city watch. As long as we do nothing overt, the watch commanders can take their bribes in good conscience. And even were we to leave the sewers unnoticed, it would be difficult to travel inconspicuously.” He indicated the hulking golem with a deft finger. “Even cloaked as it is, it would be a risky thing to try and pass off the creature as human. No. There are several passages that will take us into the Poor Quarter. From there, I can take you to a Guild house, where you’ll be hidden until you’re ready to leave as a respectable caravan master.”

Durgoth nodded reluctantly at the logic of the thief’s words. “Then lead on, but hurry. I have much more important things to do than skulk around in a gods-blasted sewer.”

When they entered the chamber, Durgoth was surprised at its elegance. A high-vaulted ceiling arched into darkness beyond the light of their group’s torches, and the walls, almost painfully drab in the sewer tunnels, were almost garishly ornate, decorated as they were with grinning bas-relief gargoyles and prettily accented stonework. Several passages ran off this chamber, each one beginning with a wide archway. Above the center of each arch, seemingly flying out of the very stone itself, hung the torso of a beautiful winged human. The right hand of each sculpture bore a stone sword, while the left hand lay open, palm up, as if holding something invisible to the eye.

The cleric looked around for a moment, almost enviously. Their guide had said this chamber was used long ago as a way station for the caretakers and guards that once patrolled the sewers, repairing any damage and clearing the tunnels of any creatures that might have taken up residence there. The quality of the stonework spoke volumes as to the skill and wealth of the founders of Rel Mord, and Durgoth could not help but be impressed.

How far they have fallen, he thought as he watched several of his cultists lay down their packs and wipe the muck from their boots. Out of the corner of his eye, the cleric saw Jhagren talking softly with their guide. When the two were finished, the monk made his way silently toward him.

“How long do we rest?” Durgoth asked.

“A few moments only,” Jhagren replied. “Our guide indicated that we had perhaps another half hour of travel before we were deep enough in the Poor Quarter to emerge from the sewers.”

“Good,” the cleric nodded. “How are the others holding up?”

The journey by river boat and then overland had taken over a month of hard travel, and even he, nourished by his god and the finest provisions he could purchase, felt the strain of such a trek. His concern, however, was not truly for the welfare of his followers. Let Tharizdun give strength to those who deserved it. He only wished not to be slowed down by those who were undeserving.

“They are tired, blessed one,” replied the monk, “but they are eager to accompany you on your quest. They will do what it takes to continue.”

“Indeed they will,” the cleric confirmed with a hint of steel. He would have replied further, but another voice interrupted him.

“Danger,” it hissed with the cold sibilance of the grave. It took a few moments for Durgoth to realize that it was the golem itself that had spoken.

“Where?” the cleric asked, searching for the cause of the alarm.

But it was too late.

The room plunged into total darkness.

“What treachery is this?” Durgoth shouted above the wild cries of his followers.

A moment later another voice answered, “Please, my dear friend, let us not be too hasty in our pronouncements. This is not treachery. This is merely a renegotiation of terms.”

Durgoth’s blood burned with anger. Was that amusement he heard in the ringing tones of that voice? He was nobody’s plaything, to be used and made a fool of. Quietly, he reached for his obsidian mace.

“And what if I choose not to renegotiate?” he asked of the mysterious voice.

When the reply came, it was yet a different voice. “That would be most… unfortunate.”

“Then here is my reply,” said the cleric.

He touched the tip of his mace and shouted into the darkness. The room filled with a dim bluish light. Durgoth could see figures skulking out of the shadows toward their group.

Suddenly, the air was filled with the hiss of flying crossbow bolts. Two cultists fell to the stone floor immediately, bolts imbedded in the center of their chests, while a third clutched his leg in obvious agony. Durgoth shrank back for a moment, expecting the sting of metal, but Jhagren Syn sprang into action. Soundlessly, the monk stepped to Durgoth’s side, his hands moving blindingly fast. Three bolts to the left clattered harmlessly to the floor, while the fourth, which sped right for Durgoth’s throat, split in two beneath the knife edge blow of Jhagren’s calloused hand.

The cleric was stunned for only the briefest of moments before he turned to the golem. “Defend me!” he shouted at the mass of flesh and muscle. Without a word, the creature stepped in front of Durgoth, ready to meet the advancing figures.

He turned to give orders to Jhagren, but the monk was already gone, carrying the fight to their attackers. Durgoth spotted the man rolling to his feet amid three opponents. The monk was a red blur, spinning, kicking and punching. When he was through, two men lay dead on the floor, and the last one clutched at the red ruin of his throat, unaware that he was already dead. Durgoth watched as the monk opened his hand, dropped the shattered cartilage to the floor, and then rushed forward to meet more attackers.

Another deadly hiss brought his attention back to the fight at hand. Five crossbow bolts hit the golem in the chest with a meaty thunk. The creature ignored them and reached out with a thickly-muscled arm to slap away the short sword of a thief. Another swipe of its arm struck the attacker squarely, and Durgoth could hear a sharp snap as the man’s bones broke beneath the blow. The thief crumpled into a pulpy heap on the ground.

That nuisance taken care of, the cleric scanned the room for bowmen. Sure enough, he spotted five figures hastily reloading their crossbows on a ledge in the northern section of the room. With a vicious smile, he focused his will and began to chant in a deep-throated voice. He twisted his arm up in a swift motion and then finished the words to his prayer. A beam of pure darkness shot from his hands, consuming all light in its path. When the beam struck the bowmen on the ledge, they screamed and began to tremble. Durgoth watched in satisfaction as the darkness consumed their flesh from the inside out, until nothing living was left on that ledge.

The sounds of battle and the cries of the wounded filled the wide chamber. Jhagren and Adrys continued to strike blow after blow against the treacherous thieves, and Durgoth noted the pile of bodies they had left in their wake. The slightest whisper of sound alerted him to the presence of a cloaked figure approaching from behind. He cursed once and spun, trying to avoid the inevitable attack, but it was too late. He cried out as a dagger plunged deeply into his side. Blindly, he struck out with his fist and felt it strike the would-be-assassin with a satisfying crunch. Swiftly, the cleric grabbed his obsidian mace and swung it hard at his attacker, hoping to take advantage of the thief’s surprise at being struck. His opponent, however, was far faster. The thief ducked beneath the whistling mace and drew his own sword. The two opponents circled each other warily, though Durgoth spared an occasional glance at the golem, hoping to maneuver his attacker within reach of the creature’s grasp.

His opponent attacked left. Durgoth allowed himself to be drawn in by this obvious feint, blocking hastily with his mace. When the thief drew a second dagger and struck at his right side, the cleric stepped easily aside and kicked his attacker with a heavy boot. The man doubled over only for a moment, but it was enough time to bring his own mace crashing down on his opponent’s head. The thief’s skull cracked open like an egg. Gray matter and blood spilled out on the floor.

Durgoth turned from his defeated opponent and surveyed the scene. The battle was clearly over. Jhagren and his apprentice were moving quickly through the center of the chamber, scanning the shadows for any more opponents, and the golem had just cracked the back of his last attacker.

Silence descended upon the room. Dead bodies littered the floor, and the ground was slick with pooling blood. Several of his followers were among the corpses, but he noted with some satisfaction that most of those who journeyed with him from the Fellreev forest were still alive.

It wasn’t until Jhagren shouted, however, that Durgoth noted the single figure slinking away toward the shadowy recesses of a side passage. He turned toward the retreating figure, one hand on the onyx-wrought symbol of his faith, and spoke the words of another prayer. He shuddered once as the divine energy of his god poured forth from him.

The figure froze in place.

As Durgoth approached, he noticed the fine weave of the thief’s cloak and the jewelry on hand and ear. This was no simple gutter snake or cutpurse, but someone of substance in the Thieves’ Guild. Someone they could use. He motioned the golem forward and commanded it to hold the helpless human. The creature reached out and grabbed the thief by the neck.

Secure in the knowledge that their prisoner could not escape, the cleric released the thief from the bonds of his spell. The man struggled briefly, but stopped when the golem tightened its grip around his throat. The thief stared bug-eyed at his captor.

“So, my dear friend,” Durgoth said to the terrified man, “I think it’s time we continued our conversation.”

“W-what do you want from me?” the thief managed to gurgle.

The cleric smiled and sent out a quick prayer of thanksgiving to Tharizdun, for even compressed by the crushing grip of his golem, he could hear the familiar tones of the voice that first spoke to them in this chamber.

“Why,” replied Durgoth in an overly sweet tone, “I want to take you up on your offer. Let’s renegotiate our terms, shall we?”

5

“More ale!” Kaerion bellowed at the portly barkeep. “And bring along a few more fingers of that damned Dragons Breath. Packs a fine kick, it does.” He slammed down his mug on the chipped wooden bar and drew his other hand across his mouth.

The common area of the Men O’Steel tavern was packed with bodies, hard drinkers all of them. Humans, elves, and even a few dwarves jostled and joked, drank and swore in its dim-lit confines—though Kaerion noticed that no one let their hands stray too far from their weapons. Dirty rushes covered the floor and serving maids swooped from table to table, collecting coins and absently swatting away roaming hands and pinching fingers. Somewhere off in a corner, a minstrel swept swift fingers across the strings of an instrument.

Kaerion turned back to his drink, disgusted. Only a few moments later, the barkeep deposited two more mugs of dark ale and three small cups filled with a brownish liquid. He sniffed the cups, satisfied by the smoky scent that wafted up. Holding up his first cup, he saluted an elf, who had just tied the beard of a dwarf to the cheap wooden table upon which he rested his head, completely passed out. The elf gave a quick smile in return, and Kaerion could not help but think of his own companion. The thought forced him to drain the cup of its contents in one gulp.

The drink filled his belly with the heat of a small fireball. The fiery sensation spread throughout his body, until he felt his very blood boil. He let out a deep bellyful of air, amazed at how the drinks flavor lingered on mouth and tongue. The din of the tavern and the warmth provided by ale and liquor had combined to lift the tension of today’s events. His head swam peacefully in a warm sea of alcohol.

Until now.

Damn him to the Abyss, Kaerion thought acidly, recalling his meeting with Gerwyth just a few hours ago. He had stormed out of the Platinum Shield and headed for the nearest tavern, intent on getting himself utterly and completely drunk. He had been well on his way when the elf walked in, fresh from his meeting with the wrinkled old mage.

Ten years! Ten long years they had traveled together and fought side by side. Kaerion felt betrayed. Gerwyth should have told him what he was planning long before today. He had even said that very thing to the blasted elf. His companion had mumbled back something about friendship, honor, and duty.

Words.

They were simply words to him now. Once he had understood their meaning, had embodied them with his life. But looking back across the hard trail of choices he’d made, he could not quite recall that man. It was as a fading memory, nothing more than a dream.

It wasn’t the journey itself that was making Kaerion angry, though the gods know he wouldn’t look forward to crawling through a steaming swamp in search of an ancient tomb, and it wasn’t even the presence of the Heironean priest—even if the pain and shock of that meeting still lingered. It was the fact that Gerwyth hadn’t filled him in on the whole truth regarding their next job.

Kaerion had known few people he could depend on after… his thoughts hesitated a moment, still afraid to go there… after the god had pronounced judgment. Embittered and angry, Kaerion had spent a few years wandering from city to city, selling his sword where he could, keeping himself in food and drink. Mostly drink. It wasn’t until he had met Gerwyth—at swordpoint, no less—that he had felt comfortable enough to open himself up to the possibility of friendship. Over the course of several years, he had grown to trust the elf implicitly. They were shield mates and brothers. Inseparable.

Or so he had thought.

Kaerion broke from his painful reverie, only to discover that he had finished his drinks. He was about to order a few more, when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. “What?” he slurred as he spun around.

The figure standing before him appeared hazy and indistinct. It took a few moments for Kaerion to realize that the figure was fine. He rubbed his eyes a few times and willed them to focus. After a few more moments, the blurred shape resolved itself into the form of a familiar half-elf face. Majandra, he remembered the bard’s name.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked.

He shrugged, though the movement cost him some effort. He’d lost track of how much he’d had to drink tonight. “It’s your country,” he replied. Something about his reply must have struck him as funny, because he found himself laughing right after he had spoken.

He caught the quick frown on Majandra’s face, but the bard did not reply. Instead, she sat down next to him and ordered ale from the barkeep.

“What are you having?” she asked in a neutral tone.

“A really bad day,” Kaerion found himself replying. When the bard said nothing, he pursed his lips and then decided to be polite. “I’ll take an ale.”

She relayed his order and then turned back to face him. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed her eyes before. Wide and slightly slanted, they reflected the dim light of the tavern like twin pools of gold.

“You think us foolish, don’t you?” the bard’s voice cut through his ale-induced wanderings. He blinked and turned as much of his full attention as he was able back to her.

He found himself shaking his head. “Don’t think yer foolish,” he said, forcing his now-sluggish tongue to function. But truly, he didn’t know what he really thought—about Majandra and the mission she and her friends wanted to undertake, or about Gerwyth.

“Then why do you carry around such anger?” she asked in a casual tone, but Kaerion could feel a quiet intensity from her.

All at once, he felt tired. Tired of carrying around anger and pain. Just once, it would be nice to share his burden with someone else. To tell someone else the things that he hadn’t even told Gerwyth.

She stared at him, eyes alight with intelligence, red hair flaming around her softly angled face. She was beautiful. Beautiful and interested. Kaerion felt his own heart soften beneath the soulful glance she was giving him.

He started to talk, to unburden himself when Majandra pitched forward for a moment.

“Hey!” she shouted at the lout who had tried to stagger past her, but obviously misjudged his way. “Watch where you’re going.”

The drunk muttered something incomprehensible under his breath and started to weave his way past the bard. Instinct, not quite dulled by the wash of alcohol in Kaerion’s system, sent an alarm ringing through the haze that had enveloped his mind. His hand shot out and caught the offending drunk by his stained shirt.

“Hey,” the man complained in a loud voice, “let go of me you crazy bastard!”

Several of the taverns patrons turned their attention to the happenings, and Kaerion could hear the mumbled stirrings of the crowd.

“Kaerion,” the bard exclaimed, “what are you doing?”

The fighter kept his grip on the drunk’s shirt. “Yer gold pouch,” he managed to say without too much slurring.

Majandra stared for a moment without comprehending, but checked her belt when she realized his meaning. Her eyes flew wide when she discovered that the drunk had stolen her coin pouch.

“You little—” she started to shout, but the thief grabbed a half-empty mug of beer and threw it at Kaerion.

Caught off guard, Kaerion let go of his prisoner as the thick liquid stung his eyes. Blinded by ale and not a fair bit of rage, he threw a wild punch, hoping to stun the sneaky bastard before he had a chance to run away. His fist connected solidly and he heard a heavy thud along with the shattering of crockery.

It wasn’t until he had cleared away the last vestiges of ale from his eyes that Kaerion realized what had happened. Three angry men stood around the remains of a wooden table. A fourth man, clearly not the cutpurse he was after, lay dazed atop the splintered wood.

There was a moment of silence before all hell broke loose. Someone threw a bottle that shattered against the wooden bar, and the tavern erupted into violence. The three men advanced on Kaerion, brows furrowed in anger. All around him he could hear the telltale shouts and thuds of brawling fighters.

Kaerion tried to sidestep the first man, who threw a punch at his midsection, but ale-dulled reflexes would not respond. Breath whuffed out of him as the man’s blow struck him solidly. It wasn’t until the third kick to his head that Kaerion realized he’d been knocked down. Dimly, he heard Majandra’s voice protesting and then a bright flash of light. The repeated blows to his head stopped for a moment, and Kaerion struggled to his feet.

All around him, tight circles of men and women fought with each other. In the wild chaos, he could make out his three assailants, each crumpled to the floor clutching their eyes. He searched for Majandra and was relieved to find her calmly sitting on the bar and watching the exchange.

He was about to speak with her when a thick-nosed man with a large circle of metal pushed through his left ear grabbed him by the shoulder. Kaerion spun around and blocked an incoming punch with a muscular forearm. He ducked another wild swing, but felt the floor spin beneath him. Overbalanced, Kaerion hit the ground. Desperately, he kicked out at his attacker, struck solid bone, and raised himself, once again, to his feet. No attack came.

When he looked around, he saw his opponent curled up on the ground, holding the jagged edge of his shattered bone as it protruded brutally from his leg.

“Kaerion, look out!” Majandra shouted from her vantage point by the bar.

Warned of an impending attack, Kaerion brought up both arms. The movement saved him from the full crushing force of the chair, which broke as it struck him from the side. Dazed, Kaerion could do nothing as two men leapt upon him and brought him crashing to the ground. Instinctively, he curled into a ball, warding off as many blows as possible, but even he could not delay the inevitable. He caught sight of the bottle descending upon his head before darkness claimed him.

Terys Van stood with arms folded, surveying the damage in the tavern’s common room. Wooden tables and chairs lay overturned or smashed Splinters of wood and broken shards of glass and crockery crunched under the booted tread of his guardsmen. Here and there, he spotted small clumps of bloodied rushes, and the occasional tooth. The stench of stale beer and cheap smoke mingled with the sour musk of sweat, producing the familiar smell of desperation.

Fourteen years as a sentinel in the city watch, however, had pretty much inured him to the darker and more violent aspects of life in Rel Mord. So it was with a somewhat bored nod of his head that Terys acknowledged the young guardswoman who stood at attention to his left, waiting to offer her report.

“Typical bar fight, sir,” the smartly uniformed guard spoke at his signal. “No deaths. Three wounded seriously. The clerics are seeing to those. They’ll be ready to meet the king’s judgment. The rest are being escorted to the prison now.”

“Good work,” he responded. The entire investigation had been quick and efficient. The sentinel was calculating the time it would take him to stamp the paperwork through and head home for the night when he noticed the guardswoman still standing stiffly to his side.

“What is it, Kendra?” he snapped. He was in no mood for complications.

“Sir,” the young guard straightened at her commander’s tone, “several witnesses identified the one who started the fight.”

She pointed to a spot near the bar, where a bear of a man leaned heavily against the wall, arms bound behind his back. Blood covered his tunic, and even from his position, Terys could make out an angry bruise beginning to blossom on one side of his face.

“I see,” he said, dismissing the guardswoman with a sharp wave of his hand. “I’ll handle it from here.”

“But, sir,” Kendra called out, “I think—”

Another wave of his hand silenced the protesting guard. “I said that I would take it from here, Corporal.” He sent her to deal with the proprietor of the tavern, who was complaining loudly about the loss to his business.

The prisoner looked up as he approached, and Terys’ steps faltered for just a moment. The man’s face was handsome enough, even with the rapidly deepening bruise, but his eyes—they were hard eyes, steel blue and penetrating. The eyes of a killer.

The guard stopped a few feet from the sulking prisoner, leaving enough room to draw his sword should the need arise. The man was still drunk, evidenced by his slightly swaying posture and his rapid, irregular breath, but there was no reason to leave himself completely vulnerable should the man’s anger overcome his common sense.

Terys ran calloused fingers across his goatee, in a move calculated to disguise his own tension. He regarded the prisoner briefly, hoping that the interrogation would move along quickly so that he could finish up for the night, but the man’s flat gaze revealed nothing.

Puzzled, he drew breath to speak but was cut off by the sound of a feminine voice. “There you are, Captain. I’m glad to see you’ve finally arrived.”

Terys flinched. The voice was rich and textured, almost sultry, but even he could hear the biting tone of self-conscious authority mixed with reflexive disdain. Noble, he thought. No doubt slumming the Poor Quarter, looking for some lowborn excitement before she returned to the trying world of servants and sumptuous meals. It wasn’t that uncommon. He just wished it had happened on someone else’s watch.

He turned to face the source of the voice, hoping that his face disguised the frustration he was feeling, and caught his breath. Before him stood one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She smiled gracefully, throwing exquisite features into stunning relief, and all at once he felt an ungainly fool. It wasn’t until he gazed at the gold ring and matching medallion, etched with the long-antlered stag, symbol of House Damar, that he realized just how complicated his evening had become.

“Milady, I was simply going to interrogate the prisoner,” he responded, looking back at the hulking drunk.

“Well,” the noble said, ice creeping into her voice, “I would hardly call a friend of the daughter of the Duke of Flinthill a prisoner now—” she paused “—would I?”

Terys swallowed hard. This wasn’t going well at all. “Milady,” he managed to force out the words, “other witnesses name this man the cause of the evening’s … brutalities. I do have my orders. He must be detained and questioned.”

“Nonsense,” she exclaimed. “You will release him at once, and I will take full responsibility for his actions. I’ve already paid the innkeeper—” she spoke the word with such disgust that it was clear to him what she truly thought of this establishment—“for any damages that may have resulted from tonight’s mishap. I’m sure you’ll agree that everything is taken care of.”

“B-but my orders…” Terys stammered. “Surely you understand that I have to follow procedure on this.”

“Now, Captain,” she said, drawing closer, and he could feel his face flushing red at their proximity, “I would hate to have to tell the city commander that I had difficulty with one of his captains the next time I see him at dinner.”

The threat was as real as it was politely delivered, and Terys found himself backed into a corner. Enforcing the law was his duty, but the labyrinthine complexity of Nyrondese politics was not unknown to him. The city commander would not appreciate the daughter of one of the major noble houses of the realm criticizing his troops. On the other hand, a favor delivered now might cause this Damarian daughter to smile upon the commander’s efforts, something he would surely reward the one who dispensed the original favor.

“Well, Milady. If you are taking responsibility for this … gentleman, then who am I to gainsay you? I will release him,” he replied, and ordered one of his subordinates to loosen the man’s bonds.

And may you both be damned, he thought.

“Thank you, Captain. I’m glad that we could come to such an understanding.” She smiled again, the graceful upturn of her lips belying the condescension that Terys could hear dripping from each word.

Bitch, he thought as he turned to go.

“Oh, and captain, one more thing,” the lady said, “next time we meet, please feel free to address me as Lady Majandra.” With a toss of her fire-red hair, she put a slim-fingered hand on her companion’s shoulders and guided him out of the tavern.

“Why did you help me?” Kaerion asked. His deep voice still slurred, though Majandra couldn’t tell if that was from the ale he’d consumed or the cracked and swelling lip that still bled.

She thought of her answer as they weaved their way through the narrow, angled streets of the Rich Quarter. After their exit from the Men O’Steel tavern, the bard had quickly started to guide them back to the suite at the Platinum Shield. They had made most of the trip in silence, their quiet journey broken by the whistling of Kaerion’s nose as he drew breath through his nostrils. It was only after they had entered this section of the city that the man had spoken.

“What good is being noble-born if you can’t use it to your advantage once in a while?” she said finally as they made their way through the servant’s entrance to the Platinum Shield.

A few of the serving lads and kitchen maids looked askance at their condition, but Majandra paid them no heed. A few silver coins would keep their tongues relatively quiet.

She started to bring Kaerion up the side stairs to her room, but stopped when she heard Bredeth’s arrogant whine close by. She cursed and guided the listing fighter back down the stairs and through a side passage. It wouldn’t do for any of her companions to see Kaerion like this—especially Bredeth. That highborn dolt would make an issue of it, and she didn’t want to risk the possibility of Kaerion walking away from their offer. They needed him.

Or perhaps you need him, a small voice whispered in her mind. She ignored the implications of that and tried once again to sneak him upstairs. This time, Norebo, god of luck, smiled upon her. Majandra breathed a sigh of relief as she led Kaerion to her bed and closed the door to her suite.

Gently, she helped Kaerion out of his tunic, wincing at the sight of fresh bruises and old scars that marred the sweeping cut of his massive chest and broad back. By the time she tucked silk sheets around his girth, he was half asleep, staring vacantly at the ceiling.

“Didn’t answer… question,” he mumbled as she made to leave. “Why… help… me?”

When the answer came, it surprised even her. “Because you have a tale to tell, and I’m a sucker for a tale. Especially,” she said, half to herself, “when it comes wrapped in a gorgeous frame like yours.”

But Kaerion hadn’t heard. Sleep had finally claimed him.

6

The days passed with a quiet hum of intensity as Phathas and his companions met with a seemingly endless array of merchants, provisioners, caravan masters, and even a few of the old wizards colleagues from the Royal University. The group checked and rechecked their calculations, measuring the distance against their available stores and trying to plan for most emergencies. Nights were spent poring over old maps and the notes from Phathas’ research, verifying the probable location of the ancient tomb and the safest possible route toward it.

Kaerion watched the preparations from a distance, trying hard not to remember spending his time similarly in the years when he commanded battalions of armed men. For that’s what the activities of the last few days felt like—preparations for a war. He just couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that they had already lost.

Why then, he asked himself several times, am I staying?

Ever since he had woken up the morning after his ill-fated altercation at the Men O’Steel, he knew that he would accompany Gerwyth and the rest of the group on their journey. Perhaps it was the perverse desire to confound and antagonize the hot-headed Bredeth, who had spent a good portion of that morning arguing with Majandra, Gerwyth, and Vaxor once he had learned about Kaerion’s activities of the previous evening. Or perhaps it was the fact that, despite his protestations to the contrary, a part of him still believed in the power of friendship and honor. Perhaps it was even the desire to remain close to the fiery-haired bard, the only person besides Gerwyth who, in the last decade, had ever shown him a measure of true kindness. In the din and tumult surrounding the last few days, it was difficult for him to identify his motivations. He only knew that he had woken up that morning with a blazing hangover and a commitment to the upcoming journey. Only one of those two things had eventually faded away.

Now, he watched and waited, not quite sulking, but definitely anxious to keep his distance from the Nyrondese party—especially Vaxor. A few times, he had caught the priest of Heironeous casting a stern gaze his way, and though he was able to meet the clerics eyes, he found himself shrinking inside, trying to hide his shame from that penetrating countenance. If the cleric had discovered anything, he did not, thankfully, confront him.

As time passed, Kaerion’s head began to ache and he found his muscles trembling, as much from the onslaught of nightmares and sleepless nights as from an absence of ale. Kaerion gritted his teeth and bore the pain. There would be time for indulgences soon enough. He just hoped he had the strength to survive until then.

A few nights before the group was supposed to leave the city, Gerwyth tapped Kaerion lightly upon the shoulder and pointed to a secluded corner of the suite. Phathas and Vaxor were engaged in a long discussion regarding the implications of a verse on some ancient scroll, and both Majandra and Bredeth were doing some final negotiations with one of the merchants who was providing the draft animals for their expedition. Alone and, truth be told, anxious for some company, Kaerion shrugged and followed Gerwyth. For once, the elf’s face did not bear a mocking smile. His demeanor was uncharacteristically serious.

Kaerion stared at his friend. The silence and hurt of the last few days stretched out between them like a yawning chasm. There had been several attempts at normal conversation between the two of them the day after their arrival in Rel Mord, but each one had ended with shouting and the same bitter feelings of hurt, anger, and betrayal. It took more than a few moments for the silence to break.

When it did, it was the elf who spoke first. “I hate seeing you like this, Kaer.”

His friend’s words were spoken softly, carefully, and try as he might to deny it, Kaerion could hear the concern in the ranger’s voice.

“You should have told me who we were supposed to meet, Gerwyth,” he replied. “You should have told me everything.”

The elf nodded and waited a bit before speaking. “You’re right, of course. I should have. It was wrong of me to hold back on you like that.”

Kaerion sat stunned for just a moment. In all the years that he had traveled with Gerwyth, this was the first time the free-spirited elf had ever apologized for anything.

“It’s just that I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you all about this job, and I knew I would really need you on this one.”

“There’s a reason why I wouldn’t have come, Ger,” Kaerion replied, heat building in his voice. “All of this,” he indicated the lavish room and the two nobles who dickered on oblivious of the two guides, “reminds me of the life I left behind, the life that my own mistakes destroyed. It’s like Galadorn….”

He paused for a moment after he spoke the holy sword’s name—even now, after everything he’d forsworn, he couldn’t speak about the blade without experiencing a frisson of awe and reverence.

“That sword reminds me of everything that I’ve lost. It’s a damned curse. The last and final punishment meted out by the god I betrayed. Only now, I have to spend months pretending to be nothing more than a hired sword while traveling with a pack of nobles and their Heironean cleric.” Kaerion pitched his voice even softer before continuing. “Do you know what Vaxor will do if he uncovers my sin?”

Gerwyth nodded and placed a hand upon Kaerion’s shoulder, giving it a companionable squeeze. “I do understand, Kaer. Truly I do. We have traveled many leagues together, my friend, and I have watched you suffer from the mistakes you’ve made. You have rebuilt a part of yourself from the ashes of your defeat, and that takes great strength and courage, whatever you may think. But a half-life is no life at all. I’ve seen the way you drink, hoping that it will fill the part of you that is still missing, the part that died over ten years ago. The time has come for you to stop running and face that darkness inside.”

Kaerion shrugged the elf’s hands off of his shoulder. “That is my decision to make, Ger, not yours. When I’m ready for such a journey, I’ll take it.”

“Perhaps,” Gerwyth replied, “if you were an elf, such a sentiment would hold true. But the life-flame of your kind burns fast, and I would not see you carry such pain to the grave. You are a true friend, Kaerion, and I will bend every ounce of my power to help you.”

“Like you’re doing with Phathas?” Kaerion said Bitterness burned like a hot coal on his tongue.

Gerwyth raised an eyebrow at his response. “Phathas is an old friend. And yes, I would do anything I could to help him—even brave your wrath.” A trace of that familiar mocking smile crept upon the elf’s face.

Despite himself, Kaerion found his anger abating somewhat. “You could have told me about Phathas,” he said with just a trace of pettiness.

“That was another lifetime, Kaer,” Gerwyth responded. “And truth be told, I didn’t think you’d be that interested. Besides, if I regaled you with all of the details of my life, you’d be half-dead before I finished.” His smile grew even wider.

“Yeah,” Kaerion replied, a grin forming on his own face, “no doubt from boredom.”

The elf’s almond-shaped eyes widened in a poor imitation of innocent shock, and he let out a sharp laugh before offering Kaerion his sword arm. “So,” he asked, “shall we still travel together as shield-mates?”

Kaerion regarded his companion’s outstretched arm. He was still a bit angry with Gerwyth, but only because the elf’s actions forced him to deal with things he had wished remained hidden. It was the way of friends to speak and act truthfully toward one another. He thought that in a strange way, by hiding the truth from him, Gerwyth might have been revealing an even deeper truth—a revelation that would not have been possible when the world existed in black and white.

Finally, Kaerion grasped the elf’s forearm. “Always, my friend,” he said. “Always.”

“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 clung 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.”

7

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.

The two traveled for quite some time in silence, and the bard listened with fascination at the nocturnal voice of the city. The deep-throated bark of a dog, the yowl of an upset alley cat, the cries of merriment and anger rising from inns and public houses, even the faintly threatening tread of feet in the shadows—all of it combined to form a rich symphony of sound that surrounded her, its powerful chords touching her with a profound sense of mystery and promise, hope and despair. She sighed and wondered idly if she’d ever be able to capture the essence of this city in her own music. That would be a work worthy of a master bard.

A few more turns and the two arrived in the wealthier section of the city. Majandra noted, without surprise, that everything seemed muted here, dulled. There were fewer people on the streets, fewer taprooms. Looking into the windows and elaborate stained glass portals of the surrounding houses one saw mostly darkness. The half-elf knew that beneath this placid exterior there existed a vibrant and dangerous world—a world of lavishly appointed drawing rooms, sumptuous parlors, and decadent boudoirs where noble and merchant alike gossiped, schemed, and seduced each other in a complex game of politics and survival. Outside, however, everything was quiet and still.

Majandra cast a glance at her companion and was surprised to see his normally pursed lips drawn back in a slight smile. He walked smoothly in the shadowed lane, despite the heavy burden slung over one shoulder, and the half-elf had the impression that if it weren’t for the cumbersome gear he carried, Bredeth would have been skipping toward the Platinum Shield.

The noble must have caught her quizzical gaze, for he slowed his pace a bit and stared back. Trapped, Majandra could do no more than smile sheepishly and quickly turn away. Despite their polite interactions this evening, the tension of their earlier fight still lay between them, and like a phase spider, it sprang up at various times. The bard expected a spiteful reprimand or other such recrimination, but was surprised when Bredeth resumed his former pace, smile still intact.

She was even more surprised when, a few moments later, he broke the silence. “It’s really going to happen, isn’t it?” he asked. “After so many months of planning and research, we’re really going to do it.”

So that’s it, Majandra thought, hearing the noble’s tenor voice ring with excitement. Bredeth was giddy over the thought of playing hero. Well, let’s see how well he does when we’re mired knee-deep in swamp sludge with a host of biting insects crawling through every chink in armor and clothing.

“Yes,” she agreed, keeping her tone positive. “And we couldn’t have done it without Phathas and the support of Vaxor’s church.”

Bredeth nodded, ignoring or completely missing the bard’s gentle reminder.

“This is our chance Majandra, a chance to do something for my … the people of Nyrond,” he said with only the briefest of hesitations.

Perhaps she was being too hard on the young noble, she thought as they finally approached the Platinum Shield. It was clear that he cared deeply for the folk who lived their lives within the borders of the kingdom—even if he was trained to lord himself over those who were of “lesser” station.

“Perhaps, once we have restored Nyrond,” Majandra said as they veered toward the small servants entrance to the inn, “we can help the nobility learn to trust and believe more in the dignity and talents of those whom they lead.”

Bredeth snorted as the bard finished. “Now why in all the world would we want to do that?” he asked, almost knocking down the servant who had opened the door as he muscled past. “There’s a reason why we lead them, and a reason why they need to be led.”

Majandra swore softly and staggered into the servant’s hallway of the Platinum Shield, arms almost numb from carrying her burden across the city. She knew that her companion’s change of heart was too good to be true. “Constant as a noble’s arrogance,” she repeated the old adage.

Preoccupied by these thoughts, Majandra failed to see the sharp-eyed lad slip into the doorway behind her. Nor did she see the splash of scarlet beneath his worn servant’s livery.

Durgoth Shem stood in the darkened alleyway and studied the elegant building before him. A cruel smile played across his face. Days of bribing merchants, threatening servants, and following what leads they could uncover had finally brought them to their quarry.

Although Luna, the great moon, cast a half-lidded eye down upon the city this evening, thick clouds obscured its silvered gaze, hiding Celene, the lesser moon altogether, and deepening the shadows. It was, he thought, the perfect night for a hunt. Their prey would have no idea what hit them. He’d sent Adrys ahead earlier, disguised as a servant. The foolish nobles had been so wrapped up in their puerile chatter that they hadn’t noticed the lad slinking in behind them. The apprentice had returned an hour later with all of the information they needed.

There were six of them, holed up in a large suite on the top floor. Four doors led off the main chamber into separate bedrooms, but it was the mage’s room that concerned Durgoth the most—for that was the most likely location of the group’s scrolls and maps. With that information in hand, he would have an easier time locating the tomb.

A pity, he thought for a moment as he rubbed hands together against the chill night air, that they didn’t have time to wipe them all out. But the wealthy quarter of a city was no place for a pitched battle. They would have precious little time before the sentinels arrived. No, the plan was simple: Durgoth would cause a large enough diversion to draw the nobles from their rooms, while Sydra and Eltanel would, with a small complement of thieves from the guild, secure the upper suite and retrieve the scrolls. After some discussion, it was decided that the swift-footed monk would remain outside the inn to “discourage” any pursuit.

As if reading his mind, Jhagren stepped from the shadows of the inn and signaled. Although he knew the monk couldn’t see him, Durgoth nodded his understanding. Everyone was in place. It was time for the diversion.

The cleric cleared his mind, taking three deep breaths. While less difficult than the magic that created his golem, this summoning spell took a great deal of concentration. Softly, the cleric intoned the words until he felt the mystic portal open. Reality shifted around him as planar forces collided and intermixed. Durgoth focused his will and called upon the creature he needed, and his summons rang through the planes. At last he felt an answer. It came, guided by his master’s power, and he sent it to the place fixed firmly in his mind. He shuddered once as he felt the planar portal shut. An icy wind blew hard between the buildings of Rel Mord as Durgoth completed the words to the spell. Despite this, sweat beaded thickly upon the cleric’s brow. He wiped at it absently and watched through the Platinum Shield’s windows as a reddish glow pulsated within the common room.

Durgoth smiled.

It was only a matter of time.

Kaerion woke suddenly to the sound of screaming. Years of campaigning across the continent and the natural instincts of a warrior brought him rolling to his feet, sword in hand. He scanned the room for signs of immediate danger.

Though the fire in the hearth had burned to embers, he could see Gerwyth shouldering his leather quiver and strapping on short swords. In the muted red glow of the coals, the elf looked bathed in blood.

The screams continued, followed by the sound of breaking glass from the common area below. Free from immediate danger, Kaerion allowed himself to relax just a fraction.

“What do you think it is—thieves, assassins?” he asked Gerwyth in a cautious whisper.

The elf shook his head. “No. I’m not sure what it is,” he replied, “but I have a very bad feeling about it.” Finished with the last adjustments to his bow, he slapped Kaerion on the back. “Are you coming, Kaer, or should I ask our guests to wait until you’ve had a bath?”

Kaerion grunted as Gerwyth turned and ran out of the room. Quickly, Kaerion grabbed his shield and strapped it to his forearm. There wasn’t enough time to don his entire suit of armor, but the curved steel of an embossed shield—all that was left of his once-famous field dress—had served him well these past years.

Blearily, he stumbled through the door and into the main suite, shaking his head to clear the last cobwebs of sleep from his mind. Not for the first time, he envied Gerwyth’s ability to snap out of his nightly reverie at a moment’s notice. It was a trait that had saved their lives many times, and he found himself wishing for that ability right now. Not willing to waste another moment, he drew a few quick breaths and launched himself down the stairs to the common area.

The grisly sight that greeted him nearly froze his blood. The elegance of the inn’s taproom lay in bloody shambles. Tables and chairs lay splintered and broken on the ground, amid a pile of bodies who looked as if they had been punctured with a thousand sharp needles. Blood pooled on the floor and lay spattered across the walls.

In the center of the destruction, standing among the shattered detritus of wood and glass, stood one of the most terrifying creatures Kaerion had ever seen. Nearly eight-feet tall, the hulking figure lashed out with a set of razor sharp claws and tore the throat out of a man who charged it with a sword. The victim’s sword clattered to the ground and the creature stalked forward, intent on the remaining patrons of the inn, who were knocking each other over in an attempt to flee.

In the remaining light of the taproom, Kaerion could see that what he’d first thought armor was actually a thick collection of wicked barbs covering the monster’s whole body—including the length of a meaty tail that whipped back and forth behind the creature’s substantial bulk. The barbs glistened with blood.

At that moment, Kaerion heard a familiar voice shout something at the creature. He looked again at the panicking crowd and saw both Vaxor and Majandra. The two had placed themselves in front of the crowd.

“Gerwyth, we have to do something to distract that… thing,” Kaerion shouted. It was clear that the two nobles couldn’t hold out much longer. The bard’s hair was caked with blood that streamed down from a vicious wound on the temple, and the priest’s once-shining chainmail looked severely battered and rent in several sections.

The elf nodded assent and knelt. “I have just the thing, my friend,” he said, and then in one fluid motion drew two arrows from his quiver, knocked his bow, and released them in swift succession. The wooden missiles flew unerringly across the space and caught the creature between barbs in the juncture of neck and shoulder.

They had no effect.

The creature opened its mouth, revealing row upon row of needle sharp teeth, and let out a high-pitched ululation. Kaerion dapped hands to ears and watched in horrified fascination as the monster advanced. The twin arrows fell from the monster, as if worked out by unseen hands.

Gerwyth let out a curse and grabbed two more arrows. This time he rubbed the curved length of his ash bow and spoke several words in Elvish. The weapon’s silvery runes pulsated with a blue-tinted glow as the ranger took aim and fired. This time, the arrows streaked across the room, leaving a trail of blue fire in their wake.

The creature let out another wail, this one even worse than before, as the missiles pierced the hollow beneath its right arm. It stopped its advance and whipped itself around to face Kaerion and Gerwyth. The creature’s tail struck out behind it, and only Vaxor’s hastily raised shield protected him from a deathblow to the head.

Kaerion rushed forward to meet the creature, swinging his own sword in an arc. The steel rang loudly as it struck the monster square in the chest. Sparks flew out from the violent contact, but the creature did not slow. He ducked once as the figure lashed out with its own razor sharp claw, just barely missing him. He took a step back, hoping to find some weak spot on the beast—

And cried out as the monsters tad struck him hard on his shieldless side. The pain was incredible. It was as if thousands of needles penetrated his skin and were simultaneously making their way through his veins toward his heart. He felt as if his blood had turned to ice and his stomach churned with a familiar sensation—fear.

Kaerion cried out again as the walls of the inn melted away and he found himself surrounded by walls of solid stone—white stone, carved and worked like the walls of a temple. He knew this place, and the knowledge caused him to choke with panic. This was the scene of his disgrace.

“No!” he shouted in defiance, and the stone walls disappeared.

Kaerion lay on the ground, curled up in a ball. Around him, he could see Majandra and Vaxor attacking the barbed beast, keeping it distracted, unable to concentrate on killing its fallen victim. Three more arrows thudded into the monster, one catching it in its baleful red eye, and at last it gave ground.

Kaerion rolled to his feet. Anger had replaced the fear that had chilled him, and he let out a bellow as he rushed in. The beast struck out with its barbed tad, but he managed to deflect the blow with his shield. The shock of that contact nearly broke his forearm, but he kept pressing forward. Twice he landed blows that would have felled a bugbear, but the monster just shrugged them off. The third time, Kaerion blocked the creature’s razor claw with his own blade and then spun, slicing out with his sword as he turned with his hips.

The steel bit deeply into the creatures throat and it let out a shocked gurgle. A small trickle of steaming black blood fell on to the blade, and then the wound closed, pushing the blade out.

Kaerion shouted in frustration. He backed away, letting Vaxor and Majandra keep the creature busy. Another two arrows buzzed angrily as they struck the creature, this time in the chest. Their enemy let out a roar and swept his tail before him, knocking Majandra and Vaxor out of the way. Quickly, the beast turned and faced Gerwyth. It pointed the wicked curve of a single claw at the elf archer and spoke a single, horrific word. A green bolt of energy shot out from the beast’s claw. Kaerion saw the elf try to roll out of the way, but it was too late. A green bubble of energy coalesced around the ranger, freezing him in place.

“Here, take this!” Majandra shouted at him and threw her own blade at Kaerion. “I have to help Vaxor.” She indicated the fallen cleric, who was struggling to rise.

Kaerion reached down and took the blade, catching a glimpse of a silvery glow before he was forced to dodge another barbed claw.

Time seemed to slow as Kaerion met the creature’s blows with sword and shield, his world reduced to the ring and clash of steel on barbed flesh. It wasn’t until the creature launched forward with both claws that he saw his opening. Ducking under the beast’s attack, Kaerion let his momentum carry him forward and slightly left of the creature. With a curse, he spun and brought his sword down hard on the meaty expanse of tail.

The beast recoiled as the mystic blade severed the section of tail. Kaerion tried to take advantage of the beast’s vulnerability, but his sword had bitten too deeply into the wood of the inn’s floor. He could not raise it up.

It only took a moment for the barbed monster to recover, and Kaerion found himself hastily raising his shield. One of the creature’s clawed hands struck him hard on the shoulder, laying open muscle and sinew. The other batted away his shield and then lashed out, catching him directly in the chest.

Numbed by loss of blood and fatigue, he could not muster the strength to free himself. The creature chuckled low in its throat as it brought Kaerion inexorably closer to its spiked chest. Once impaled, the fighter knew that he wouldn’t survive long.

Just then, he heard Vaxor’s voice, deep and intense, chanting over the sounds of combat and the cries of the frightened crowd. A circle of white light formed behind the creature, a circle whose intensity grew by the moment. The beast must have noticed it, for it stopped trying to pull Kaerion closer and turned to look.

The circle burned brilliantly now, like a miniature sun. With a high-pitched squeal, the monster threw Kaerion to the ground and fled.

Kaerion cast about the room and saw Vaxor, bloodied and bruised, holding a section of the beast’s severed tail above his head with one hand. The other traced holy sigils in the air, glyphs that remained visible, burning with unearthly potence in the panicked atmosphere of the inn.

Suddenly, the circle of light spun open, like the iris of a human eye. Power flooded into the room, white-hot and palpable. Kaerion nearly wept at the familiar presence. Vaxor had called upon the power of Heironeous, and the god answered, filling the room with a fragment of his puissance.

Without thinking, Kaerion fell to his knees. Never in the time since his betrayal had he placed himself so close to the power of the god he had once served. The presence was like a knife that cut open a half-healed wound, and Kaerion ached with the sense of loss that swept through him.

The creature, on the other hand, screamed in agony as tendrils of energy reached from the circle, pulling the creature toward its opening. It struggled vainly against the god-wrought force, and Kaerion watched in fascination as the monster fell into the opening and disappeared with a final, high-pitched wail.

The pulsating circle remained open a few more moments. A sound like thunder filled the room, causing those members of the crowd who were still alive to dive on the floor with their heads covered. Kaerion cast a glance at Vaxor and knew, by the look of complete devotion that crossed the priest’s face, that the phenomenon had nothing to do with the activities of a normal thundercloud. It was clear that Heironeous had spoken—words that only the faithful could hear.

The circle irised closed and then disappeared, plunging the room into stunned silence. Kaerion watched as Vaxor fell to his knees, whether from his wounds or from some movement of faith Kaerion could not be sure. Panting, he picked up Majandra’s sword and moved toward Gerwyth, who still stood frozen at the stairs landing.

Before he could offer any assistance, an explosion from somewhere upstairs caused the already damaged building to buckle. Kaerion spun around and saw Majandra helping the priest to his feet. She looked back at him, eyes wide. “Phathas!” she shouted. “He’s still upstairs!”

“Vaxor, see to Gerwyth. Majandra and I will head up to the suite. Follow as soon as you can.”

In the heat of battle, Kaerion’s voice had assumed a ring of command, carrying easily over the worried shouts and murmurings of the crowd In his haste to aid the old mage, he did not see Vaxor’s raised eyebrow before the cleric moved toward the frozen elf.

Turning, Kaerion launched himself up the carpeted stairs, conscious of Majandra’s worried breathing behind him. A few moments later, they plunged through the doorway of their suite and into the heart of chaos. Tables and chairs lay smashed or overturned in various parts of the rooms, and several tapestries were pulled from their hangings. One entire wall of the suite had disappeared, replaced by a flaming wreck of blackened wood and cinders. A chill wind blew threw the room, stirring ash and fanning small flames that flickered across the carpet and licked at the wood ceiling.

Phathas leaned feebly against the frame of a door, surrounded by a nimbus of red light. Three figures closed him in, each hacking at him with short swords that gleamed in the mystic light. The swords rebounded harmlessly every time they struck the red glow, but Kaerion could clearly see that the mage was weakening. One gnarled hand gripped a silver-shod brown staff, while the other supported the mage’s weight against the frame.

Another figure stood slightly back from the main battle, directly across from where the mage was making his stand. From his vantage point, Kaerion could make out the face of a woman that was as beautiful as it was cruel. Icy features were stretched taut in concentration as her lithe form undulated to an unheard tempo. Silver lines streaked out from a pair of gleaming bracers as she reached into the air with slender arms. Between the smooth curves of her palms, the fighter could see a crackling ball of light growing brighter, as if she pulled the energy from the very air itself. Kaerion had no doubt that she intended to launch this magic at the struggling mage.

Just then, he heard Majandra cry out a single, unintelligible word. Three bluish bolts of energy flew over his shoulder to strike the gesticulating sorceress. The woman screamed and recoiled as the bolts spattered against her flesh. The ball of energy between her hands dissipated, and she turned a hateful eye upon Majandra.

“Kaerion, look out!” he heard a male voice cry out.

Spinning, he caught a glimpse of Bredeth, holding his own against two cloaked figures, before a shadow launched itself at him from the side. Kaerion met the attack with the full face of his shield and slid his own blade between the ribs of his opponent with an absent thrust.

Pulling his blade from the dying figure, Kaerion ran toward Phathas, whose spell was collapsing. With a shout, Kaerion lashed out with his boot and caught one of the assassins hard in the knee. The man cried out and hit the floor. Without breaking his rhythm, Kaerion stepped forward and ran his sword through a second cloaked figure, careful not to get too entangled in the treacherous maze of debris and bodies on the floor.

The third assassin turned away from the mage and launched three silver edged disks at Kaerion. He brought his shield up, blocking one of the missiles with a metallic clang. The other two sank painfully into his arm and shoulder.

Kaerion grunted once as the figure drew another short sword and pressed the attack. Unable to pull out the blades that penetrated his skin, Kaerion’s attempts at parrying these attacks pushed the pointed barbs of the metal deeper into his flesh.

Fatigue made Kaerion’s sword seem as heavy as a suit of mail, but he raised it again and again to beat back the assassin’s attack. It was only after he failed to parry an easy thrust with his shield that he suspected he had been poisoned. His limbs simply wouldn’t respond with their normal speed. It was as if he were submerged in water. Desperate now, for he knew he wouldn’t last too much longer, Kaerion raised his own sword and aimed a vicious sideways swipe at his opponent. When the man brought one of his swords down to parry it, Kaerion spun and bashed his shield into the assassins head. Stunned, his hapless opponent could not block the steel that imbedded itself into his chest. With a wet gurgle, he fell to the floor.

Kaerion quickly surveyed the battle as he removed the sharp metal discs from his arm and shoulder. Freed from his attackers, Phathas had regained his footing and now launched spell after spell at the leather-clad sorceress. He watched for a moment in awe at the speed and grace of the elderly mage. Bleeding and bruised from several wounds, the sorceress had erected her own shield against the attacks. It spattered and sparked as Phathas’ spells slammed against it. Already it showed signs of collapsing.

With a cry, Bredeth finished off his last opponent, and Kaerion could see him slowly advancing with Majandra. Both were intent on killing the beleaguered sorceress. It looked to Kaerion’s trained eye that this battle was nearly ended.

A slight scuffling sound caught his attention. Turning, he peered into the shadowy expanse of Phathas’ room. The sound came again, and this time Kaerion saw a deeper shadow, a figure skulking within the darkness.

“Intruder!” he shouted and ran as fast as his sluggish limbs would carry him into the mage’s chambers.

The well-muscled, black-skinned figure rifling through the mage’s scrolls regarded him with obvious surprise. Kaerion raised his shield, expecting an attack. The thief, however, grabbed a handful of the scrolls lying on the desk before him and launched himself out the open window to his left.

Kaerion ran to the window and watched in amazement as the thief floated gracefully down to the street, already running before his feet touched the ground. He regarded the fleeing thief for just a moment before running out of the room and through the suite, ready to give chase.

“Where’s the sorceress?” he asked Majandra, who was guiding the wounded Phathas to the only remaining chair in the suite.

“She fled,” the bard replied. “Stepped through a portal and disappeared.”

“I’m going after them,” he said, halfway out of the door to the suite. “When you’re done there, take Bredeth and make sure the area is secure.”

He didn’t wait for the half-elf to respond, but took the stairs two at a time in his haste to reach the street. As he ran through the common area, he saw Vaxor and Gerwyth. The elf was no longer immobilized, but it looked as if he needed a few minutes to compose himself.

“It seems we had visitors,” Kaerion said. “They fled and now I’d like to pay them a visit. Come when you can.”

With that, he ran out the main door to the inn and checked the street. The night air was crisp, washing away the copper tang of blood and rent flesh, but Kaerion could spare no time to enjoy it. He cast several long looks down either direction of the street that ran parallel to the inn, hoping to find some clue as to the direction the thief had taken.

So intent was he on tracking down their enemies that he almost didn’t see the scarlet-cloaked figure detach itself from the shadows of an alleyway. He paused for a moment and watched as the figure approached, padding silently across the cobblestone street. A trickle of unease made its way down Kaerion’s back as the cloaked figure, clearly a man by the rough cut of his face and the broad bulk of shoulders, stopped and slowly drew off his cloak. Every move seemed deliberate, graceful. Kaerion was reminded at last of a panther he had once seen stalking wild deer while out hunting with his father.

He took another moment to survey his opponent, for clearly the man did not intend to let him pass. The newcomer wore no shirt beneath the scarlet cloak, and in the dim moonlight, Kaerion could see the smooth ripple of sinewy muscles across the well-defined expanse of chest, shoulder, and stomach.

The man carried no weapons, nor looked as if he had any hidden on his person, and yet, he stared quite calmly at the length of steel held expertly in Kaerion’s hand. Loose-fitting scarlet pants flowed like water with every deliberate movement, held up by a belt of yellow cloth wrapped around twice and knotted elaborately on the side. The man wore no boot or sandals, but rather slid across the winter-cold ground on heavily calloused feet.

Kaerion was taken aback as the man drew forth his left hand to the center of his chest, perpendicular to the ground, while his thumb and index finger were bent parallel to the body, and sketched a deep bow. Carefully, he raised his own sword in salute, one honorable opponent to another.

Kaerion fell backward as the man crossed the distance between them in a blur and caught him with a knife-edged strike to the shoulder. Kaerion grunted and tried to bring his shield forward, protecting the numbed expanse of his sword arm. His opponent moved faster, spinning on one foot and planting a kick that connected hard with the side of his face.

Pain exploded in his head, and he staggered to the side. The man followed through with another strike, this time square in the throat, and Kaerion felt his entire body go numb as he gasped for breath.

The man simply smiled, casting his pockmarked face into a ghoulish grin, and waited for him to recover. Kaerion took that time to reassess his opponent. Although the assassins poison still flowed in his veins, slowing down reflexes, and fatigue from several different wounds drained what remaining strength he had, he didn’t think he’d be able to match the speed of his opponent even if he’d been fully rested. The man moved like lightning.

But there were more ways to beat an opponent, Kaerion thought as he launched himself at the smiling figure. He was bleeding from his wounds, but it was draining away the poison, and Kaerion was slowly gaining back some control of his body. His sword whistled as its keen edge cut sidewise in an attempt to lay open the man’s stomach. The smile fell from his opponent’s face as he was forced to roll out of the way of the attack.

Kaerion followed through as quickly as he could, not wanting to give the unarmed man a chance to regain his footing. A second cut with his sword should have laid open the man’s bowels, but his opponent’s agility saved him again. Instead of a deathblow, the sword had made a shallow cut on his hip.

Pressing the attack, Kaerion noted with satisfaction that his opponent was giving ground. Soon, he’d have the man backed into an alleyway. With little room to maneuver, the pockmarked man would not be able to dodge the deadly strokes of his blade.

A few more moments, Kaerion thought as his sword wove a net of steel, driving back his opponent.

There!

Kaerion raised his sword, intent on cutting a deadly swathe of steel across the man’s body—

And struck nothing but air.

The monk had run up the side of the nearby wall and used his momentum to launch a flurry of kicks at Kaerion. Each one shot pain through Kaerion’s already battered body. Another kick caught him straight in the chest, and he found himself knocked backward out of the alleyway.

Kaerion rolled gracelessly to his feet, but already he could feel the presence of his opponent, waiting to rain death down upon him. Kaerion knew he was at the last of his strength.

The twang of a bowstring cut through the night, followed by the hiss of arrows. His opponent cast a baleful eye toward the source of that sound, and Kaerion watched in disbelief as his opponent’s hands moved quicker than his eye could follow, knocking aside the incoming missile. Two more followed soon after, and Kaerion knew that Gerwyth had arrived on the scene. Unbelievably, the pockmarked man deflected two more missiles. The fourth, however, caught him in the shoulder, and he let out a grunt of pain.

In the distance, Kaerion could hear the sounds of the city watch heading toward the embattled inn. His opponent must have heard it too, for he ducked back into the alleyway, safe from the deadly arrows.

“This is far from over,” the man growled at him in a rough voice. He brought both hands together and began a low-throated chant. The air rippled beside him, shadows within shadows. He cast another hard look at the fallen fighter and then stepped into the moving shadows, disappearing as if he’d stepped through an unseen door.

Kaerion groaned and struggled to his feet. By the time he made it into the alleyway, it was clear that his opponent was gone.

When the upper storey of the Platinum Shield exploded in a burst of flames, Durgoth knew that his henchmen had encountered some difficulties. Just how great these difficulties were didn’t become clear until he saw both Sydra and Eltanel fleeing the inn. Rage and frustration at their incompetence ruled him for just a moment. He wanted to strike down their fleeing forms then and there.

Mercifully, the moment passed. Durgoth knew he could deal with their failure later. What concerned him now was the sheer strength of those who unknowingly sought the same thing as he: the Tomb of Acererak. His distraction had been dealt with very effectively. The presence of that other god still shook him deeply, and he marveled at the faith and power of anyone who could wield such holy might. This was no motley collection of treasure-hungry adventurers arrayed against him. Surprised and unprepared, they had still beaten back a carefully planned attack.

Perhaps, Durgoth thought, there may be a way to use such strength. Possibilities began to spin in his mind—plans and plots as cunning and twisted as the man who created them.

The sound of combat caught his attention, and he looked out from his vantage point in the darkened alley, smiling as he caught sight of Jhagren locked in battle with some sword-wielding brute. At least, Durgoth thought with some satisfaction, he could still count on the monk to succeed at his tasks. Though Jhagren’s opponent looked imposing, blood ran from several deep wounds, and it was clear that he was no match for the monk.

Durgoth watched a few moments more. He found himself slightly disappointed when the whistles and alarms of approaching sentinels drew closer. The presence of the elven archer had just made the battle interesting.

“Ah, well,” he whispered to the chill night air. “We shall all meet again. Very soon.”

He faded into the darkness of the alleyway.

8

“The Scarlet Brotherhood… here?” Bredeth’s voice, grating at its normal volume, was pitched just short of a shout.

Majandra winced at the harsh tone, but managed to keep her face impassive. It was clear that the night’s events had rattled the young noble, and she had no wish to antagonize him further. Dark bruises stood out vividly on the man’s cream-tinted complexion, and several cuts crisscrossed both arms.

Despite herself, the half-elf was impressed that the young warrior had acquitted himself well during the battle. Perhaps, she thought, he won’t be a complete liability on the journey.

“How could those damnable assassins have found out about our plans?” the young noble asked in a slightly softer voice. “And why would they take such an interest in us?”

“The Brotherhood has its eyes and ears in every major city,” Phathas replied from his chair in the corner of the room, “and we have made little secret about our intentions. In that, we may have been a bit foolish. As for their interest, well, I believe that a united and healthy Nyrond would be a severe impediment to whatever dark schemes they are hatching.”

Majandra listened to the old mage’s words, trying to look attentive, but concern for her mentor kept clouding her thoughts. Despite the healing prayers of Vaxor, dark circles ringed the deep hollows of the wizards eyes, and his face seemed shrunken, almost ghoul-like in the firelight—weathered flesh stretched taut across the skull, like the cracked skin of an ancient drum.

Tonight’s attack had drained them all, but it seemed as if the battle had taken something permanent from the old mage. Vaxor had dealt with the sentinels and the hysterical rambling of the Platinum Shields proprietor. Even after leading the weary group to the spell-sealed chambers of the Royal University, Phathas seemed strangely silent, bent beneath burdens only he could identify. Now, as they sat within the relative comfort and safety of the university walls, the bard watched in dismay as those burdens continued to consume the flesh of her beloved teacher.

“Something just isn’t right,” interjected Gerwyth, as he drew himself out of the shadow-spun corner of the chamber. His lilting accent caught Majandra’s attention, turning her mind away from dark thoughts. She was surprised to find that despite the evening’s exertions, the elf appeared unruffled. Though he had discarded his usual cloak and wore his studded leather armor openly, the elf would not have drawn comment had he been attending a banquet, such was the effect of his still-immaculate waves of golden hair and unearthly beauty. His eyes reflected back the golden light of the fire, shining like emeralds in the small room, and if not for the grim set of jaw, one would have never known the ranger had fought a pitched battle just hours ago.

“Despite the fact that the attack was well planned,” he continued after a nod from Phathas, “it did not feel like the Brotherhood’s handiwork. It was too… straightforward, if you ask me.”

“I agree,” Vaxor’s deep voice resonated in the chamber. He turned to the silent figure of Kaerion, staring idly into the fire. “Are you sure that you encountered a member of the Scarlet Brotherhood? Perhaps it was someone else—a different group trying to shift blame onto the Brotherhood?”

The fire crackled and hissed within the stone hearth for several long moments before the burly fighter answered. Majandra listened with great interest. Unlike the rest of their group, Kaerion had refused Vaxor’s offer of healing, instead popping the wax seal on a clear flask and drawing a few swallows. After that, he’d bound his remaining wounds and stalked oft. Beyond recounting the events that had transpired, he’d hardly said two words since entering the University grounds.

“No,” Kaerion said in an even tone, “I’m sure it was the Brotherhood. I’ve got the bruises to prove it.”

This last was said with a rueful smile, one of the few Majandra had seen the fighter allow himself. The effect was devastating—even with the deep scratches that cut across his chin—and the half-elf found herself dreaming up a hundred different ways she could bring such a smile to his lips.

“Well then, if the Scarlet Brotherhood is behind the attack, what should we do?” asked Bredeth.

The young noble paced restlessly about the confines of the chamber, anxiety present in every move. The group looked at Phathas, but it was Vaxor who responded.

“What we do next is get some rest. We’ve been up almost all day and night, and we have plenty to do in the coming hours. Because of tonight’s events, it’s clear that the city is no longer safe. We must push up our scheduled departure. Bredeth, you and Majandra should contact the caravan masters after you’ve had a chance to sleep. Tell them to be prepared to leave by tomorrow morning. Phathas, Gerwyth, Kaerion, and I will make sure that all of our provisions are stocked and ready to load on the wagons. Agreed?”

Majandra found herself nodding tiredly along with the rest of the group. Lack of sleep and fatigue had begun to take their toll. She smiled wryly at the probable reaction of the caravan masters, who would no doubt shriek and complain until more gold was thrown their way, but that experience would have to wait until she’d closed her eyes for just a few hours.

Stifling a yawn, she shuffled past Phathas, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze, and was rewarded with a tired smile. Despite the old man’s kindness, she found herself wondering, not for the first time, if he had the strength to complete the journey.

How much will this expedition cost us?

“Unforgivable!” Durgoth shouted into the dimly lit room, noting with smug satisfaction the faces that flinched before the sound of his voice included those of the two thieves’ guild members. In truth, he wasn’t all that angry—anymore. Anger had long-since given way to pragmatic cunning, yet he still raked the assembled cultists and their newfound allies with the fiery edge of his gaze. Fear was a useful tool, and one he wielded like a master.

“But lord,” Sydra replied in an uneven voice, “our targets possessed considerable strength. Rarely have I encountered such power as when I battled the old mage. He was exceptionally skilled—even for a master wizard.”

He listened to the sorceress’ pathetic excuses with an impassive mien. The fact that she addressed him with a noble honorific amused him greatly, but she needed to understand what the rest of his followers already knew: He wouldn’t tolerate failure.

“I was under the impression,” Durgoth said, his voice lashing out like a whip, “that the Guildmaster offered me his very best. Apparently, he was mistaken.”

“Not so, blessed one,” a voice spoke from the shadows.

It took Durgoth a few moments to locate Eltanel’s black-cloaked form. The thief moved confidently forward, pushing past several cultists who stared wide-eyed at the man who so brazenly challenged their master.

Durgoth couldn’t help but smile at their reaction. The thief continued forward, wounded pride evidenced in every motion, and for a moment the cleric wondered whether the man would be foolish enough to strike at him. He was about to signal the golem that stood ever vigilant at his back, but the dark-skinned thief stopped several paces away and stood with hands clasped behind his back, stance easy and open.

“What happened tonight was unfortunate,” Eltanel said, taking a moment to glare at his companion, who returned his scowl measure for measure, “but it was not a complete loss.” He brought one hand forward, holding several thin scroll tubes. “I managed to acquire these before our friends gained the upper hand.” The thief shot another look at Sydra before handing the scrolls to Durgoth.

The cleric accepted the offering with a cold smile. This Eltanel was a cunning one. In a manner of moments, the thief had managed to distance himself from tonight’s defeat, subtly place the blame on his companion, and allow himself to look like the only one who had succeeded in any way. He would bear watching.

“My thanks, Eltanel, for your efforts. Perhaps I spoke too hastily. It appears that Reynard was partially correct in his assessment.” Durgoth watched as the sorceress’ golden eyes flashed angrily at the other thief. There, he thought with satisfaction, with one phrase he had widened the gulf between the two thieves and insured that Sydra would kill herself to prove better than Eltanel.

Satisfied, Durgoth turned his attention back to the rest of his followers. “It is true that our enemies have great strength,” he said, pitching his voice so that it carried to the farthest corners of the room. “But the wise man may use the power of his enemies to his own advantage. This is what we will do. With the information we have gained this evening—” at this he cast a benevolent glance at Eltanel—“we will have a better idea of the location to which our foes will travel.”

“But what about the prophecy?” a voice shouted from the center of the assembled cultists, eliciting a supporting murmur from the group.

“The prophecy has led us here,” Durgoth snapped. He noted the identity of the speaker and absently reminded himself to have the man’s tongue cut out for his insolence. “I have faith in the will of Tharizdun, and it is his will that has guided us here.”

He glanced out at the assembly with satisfaction. Invoking the name of the Imprisoned One had brought them to silence. He could see the gleam of faith in their eyes. They would follow his lead unquestioningly.

“Our enemies seek the tomb of Acererak, as do we. There will no doubt be great danger on the journey, and we shall let our foes spend their strength overcoming these perils. They shall lead us to the tomb, and when they stand exhausted at the gates of the wizards resting place, we shall sacrifice them to appease the dark god’s hunger. Once our enemies have been vanquished we will be able to collect the key and release Tharizdun from his eternal prison.”

This last he delivered triumphantly, hands raised above his head in the traditional blessing. The group responded instantly, chanting the Eight Dark Names of Tharizdun. Durgoth lowered his hands slowly before him, and the assembled cultists fell to their knees in homage to the dark god.

The cleric watched as Sydra and Eltanel left the room, no doubt to report their findings to the Guildmaster. It was important for Reynard to know exactly with whom he had made a deal. It would make it that much sweeter when Durgoth bent his power to destroying the city—including the scum who lived in its shadows—in the name of Tharizdun.

Durgoth smiled in anticipation and closed his eyes as the prayers of his followers swelled over him in waves.

Everything was proceeding perfectly.