The Tomb of Horrors

18

A ragged shout went up from the assembled guards. Majandra turned from the supply inventory she was taking—her fifth since they had arrived at the supposed site of Acererak’s tomb nearly three days ago—and sent a prayer to any god listening. She looked at the knot of guards scrambling with picks and shovels. It was clear they had found the collapsed remains of yet another tunnel. She only hoped this one would actually lead into the tomb.

Over the course of the last three days, they had found four such collapsed tunnels. After hours of backbreaking labor, they had unearthed each one and sent a contingent of guards into them. Three had proven to be useless, ending in walls of solid rock. The fourth had led to an ancient metal door and a trap so cleverly constructed that it had nearly killed three of the guards when huge sections of the tunnel crashed down upon them. Only the quick work of the remaining guards and a judicious use of Phathas’ magic had freed them quickly enough for Vaxor to call upon the healing power of Heironeous and save the wounded men.

Nor was it only their expedition that had suffered the sting of the cruel traps protecting the ancient tomb. During the course of their excavation, the guards had uncovered fragments of armor, bits of bone, even the cracked and shattered remains of almost whole skeletons—all of it a grim testament to the devilishly cunning construction of the tomb’s protection. Not for the first time, Majandra found herself wondering how many enterprising souls had braved the horrors of the Vast Swamp, only to die here at the doorstep of Acererak’s tomb.

These were truly dark thoughts, she realized, for one so close to completing a quest that had occupied much of her time these past three years. And yet, she found most of her thoughts taking dark turns ever since Kaerion and Gerwyth had set out in search of Bredeth.

“Worried, child?” asked a voice from somewhere close behind her.

Majandra jumped with surprise before recognizing Vaxor’s deep baritone. Turning, she saw that the cleric had walked up while she had been deep in thought. He now stood there solicitously, his deep-set eyes searching yet compassionate as they seemed to look through her. Often, when confronted by full-blooded humans who insisted on classifying her as young—and therefore the target of patronizing discourses on life—the half-elf fought the urge to point out that she was, in all likelihood, as old, if not older, than they.

Somehow, the urge never manifested itself when she spoke with Vaxor. Nor did it do so now. Something in the man’s demeanor would have made any such statement seem crass and petty. Instead, she swallowed and said, “They have been gone nearly five days, Vaxor, and even Phathas’ attempts at scrying have not revealed anything. Of course I’m worried.”

The cleric placed a battle-roughened hand upon her shoulder. “I understand your concern, but Gerwyth is as skilled a ranger as ever I’ve seen. He has led us safely through danger countless times. If anything, I’d worry about those bullywugs. They are probably still trying to find out what army has swept through their tribal lands.”

In spite of everything, Majandra found herself smiling. What Vaxor said was most likely true. Yet for all of his comforting words, he had not mentioned Kaerion, and it was clear to the bard’s trained ear that the omission was deliberate. Despite all they had gone through these past several months, the fallen paladin stood as a barrier between Majandra and the cleric, as if Vaxor’s obvious distaste for Kaerion had now somehow extended to a part of her. She should have been angry at the priest’s uncompromising righteousness, his unyielding judgment. Instead, Majandra found herself profoundly saddened. That a good and noble man such as Vaxor should be so blinded by his own fanaticism was a cause for sorrow, not fury.

Her smile fading, the bard returned Vaxor’s steady gaze. The two stood in tense silence until the cursing shouts of several guards broke the deadlock. It was Landra, however, all cool efficiency and control, who actually approached the gruff Heironean priest.

“The men say the rock in the collapsed tunnel is too hard for them to break through with their tools,” the guard captain reported. “They’ll need some help, preferably of the arcane kind.”

“At once,” was all that Vaxor said, before hurrying off to find Phathas. As Majandra watched the cleric go, she couldn’t help but see Landra’s face twist into a grimace.

“Bit of an old lemon, if you ask me,” the weathered fighter said conspiratorially. “That man could use the largest wineskin this side of the Glorioles. Do him some good.” And then she, too, turned and walked back toward her charges. This time, Majandra’s face split into a wide grin, her spirits truly lifted.

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

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

Nothing happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The tomb had claimed its first victim.

19

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked at the boy once again. Several of the guards were clapping him companionably on the shoulders, acknowledging the actions that had just saved their lives. Even Kaerion knelt before the lad and thanked him. Instead of showing the embarrassment that Majandra would expect from a boy his age, Adrys merely accepted the congratulations with a brief nod of his head and a wan smile. There was more to this merchant’s son than met the eye, she thought, and vowed to keep a closer eye on their newest member.

Decided clearly on their course of action, Majandra and her companions gathered before the mist-filled archway. Absently, she noted that both Gerwyth and Kaerion had their weapons drawn and had asked Landra to position guards at the party’s back. With everything that had happened to them since they entered the tomb, the bard realized she had forgotten about the potential danger from any creatures that had made the lost corridors of stone their home during the many years since Acererak’s minions had constructed his resting place. She was glad that her companions had the presence of mind to keep watch. Perhaps Phathas was right. Maybe their commitment and their strength would prevail over the ancient evil lurking within these halls.

Once again, the wizened mage stood in front of the group. This time, however, he raised both hands, fingers slightly curled, in front of his eyes and spoke the words of power. When he was finished, the base stones on the left and right of the arch pulsed with a yellow and orange light, while the keystone within the archway flickered with a blue incandescence.

Majandra watched as the mage stood before the archway in silence, studying the mystic construction with eyes that had always seen far and deeply. “There is strong magic woven into the very heart of this stone,” he said. “I believe that the arch itself functions as a teleportation device. The stones that are glowing are part of a key that will change the coordinates of the target area.”

“Knowing what we have experienced so far,” Vaxor said, “I would wager that the arch is currently set to send whoever walks through it to a particularly deadly location. The trick will be unlocking the right sequence for a safe journey.”

“Who should attempt the sequence?” Gerwyth asked. “There could be further traps built into the arch that Phathas hasn’t detected.”

It only took a few moments for Majandra to make her decision. “I will,” she said with all of the confidence she could muster. “I have had some instruction in the ways of magic.” The bard smiled as she looked at Phathas. “And, if there are any physical traps—well, I have some experience dealing with those as well.”

This last she said with a great deal of nonchalance, hoping to slip that bit of information by her companions, who would no doubt be surprised by such a revelation.

She failed.

Amid the whispered murmurs of surprise, it was Vaxor whose voice she heard frame the question she had most wanted to avoid. “And how, my dear,” the cleric asked in the most colored of paternal tones, “did you come to possess such an expertise?”

The half-elf blushed, hoping that the pulsating lights of the archway masked her discomfort. “Well,” she said in an even tone, “you don’t think I spent all my time in Rel Mord poring over ancient parchments and rehearsing fragments of old songs, did you? Let’s just say that I had some colorful friends and leave it at that, shall we?”

With that, Majandra withdrew a small pouch of tools from within a hidden fold of her cloak and set about examining the stonework around the archway. A few minutes later, after she had poked and prodded and searched the area on and about the arch, the half-elf turned to the rest of the waiting company. “Seems clear to me,” she said. “I’m heading up.” And with a single note, she tapped into the still-active levitation spell she had cast when examining the rune-inlayed mosaic. Gently, the bard floated up toward the top of the arch. Gingerly, she pressed her palm against the pulsing blue stone and was rewarded as the incandescence solidified. Slowly she returned to the floor and touched the orange and then the yellow pulsing stones. Each in turn burned with a solid light until Majandra was finished.

Nothing happened for a few moments—and then, with a bright burst of light, each of the glowing stones pulsed once again.

“I sense no change within the magical construct,” Phathas said.

Majandra acknowledged the wizard’s comment with a sigh of frustration and then quickly tried a new sequence. Again, nothing happened. Determined to uncover the correct order with the least amount of time wasted, she kept trying. It wasn’t until her last attempt, when Majandra touched the yellow, blue, and orange stones in that order that the arch emitted a single sharp sound. Within seconds, the swirling mist faded, until Majandra could see a passageway heading off into darkness.

There was a collective sigh, as if the entire company had been holding its breath, waiting to see the outcome of her attempts. She turned and was rewarded by the mage’s beaming smile. “Well done, my child,” Phathas said, and she could hear the pride evident in his thin voice.

With the path clear ahead of them, the company resumed its former marching order and continued their march. The half-elf’s inability to see anything ahead of her should have offered a warning. However, flushed with her recent success, Majandra wasn’t paying much attention. She could do no more than scream when, with a sudden, deep lurching motion, she felt first the floor, then the walls, and soon the entire tomb itself fall away from her, replaced by a blackness so impenetrable that she knew it had no end.

20

Kaerion felt a moment of disorientation as the darkness receded. The bard’s scream had offered him a few seconds of warning before the complete and total annihilation of light, and so he was not caught in total surprise. As the spinning in his head gradually receded, he blinked, trying to make sense of what his eyes were showing him. The long hall had disappeared, and now the members of the expedition were crammed into a small room, holding their heads as if each nursed one of the hangovers that he had woken up with every morning for more than ten years. Wherever they were, the teleporting arch had clearly worked as designed.

He cast another glance over his companions. Satisfied that no one had suffered any permanent harm, Kaerion gave his surroundings a more thorough search. The room itself was no more than ten feet wide and, judging by the way Vaxor’s pulsing light reached from end to end, it was less than twenty feet long. In the center of the room, glaring at him with an expression of hatred locked in solid stone, stood an imposing statue of a gargoyle. Though startled enough to draw his sword at first sight of the creature, Kaerion’s heart settled as his eyes registered that one of the monster’s four gruesomely muscled arms lay on the floor at its clawed feet.

“Careful, Kaerion,” Gerwyth said as Kaerion slowly approached the statue. “Give a shout if it starts to move.”

The fighter grunted his affirmative as he stalked silently over to the gargoyle, sword drawn and held ready for a sudden attack. The elf was right to warn caution. Both of them had seen enough animated statues in their time to be forever wary about stone constructions.

Vaxor’s light grew brighter as he and the other members of the expedition drew closer to the statue. Satisfied that the looming block of worked stone before him was simply a statue and nothing more, Kaerion bent and picked up the gargoyle’s splintered arm. Like each of the other three arms, the stone appendage possessed a round indentation in the center of the palm; its flint-gray claws curled slightly around it. As Kaerion called the others over to examine this new discovery, one of the guards shouted out her own find—a narrow tunnel that sloped away from the room at an angle.

“Landra,” he heard the cleric of Heironeous say, “take three guards and set them to watch the tunnel’s mouth. I don’t want any surprises.”

“A fearsome beast,” Gerwyth remarked as the guard captain signaled her compliance. “I’m just glad that we don’t have to face the tearing claws of this thing in battle.”

The elf was right, of course, Kaerion thought as he traced the gargoyle’s palm indentation with a calloused finger. The statue itself was over eight feet tall, and each of the beast’s teeth looked sharp enough to cut through the thickest armor. He’d settle for poking around an old statue any day.

“This depression looks deep enough to hold a large stone,” he said to the others, each of whom were poking and prodding the statue.

“A stone,” replied Majandra, whose hands, Kaerion could see, were sliding expertly across the ridged lines of the statue, “or a large gem.”

The half-elf rummaged through the leather pouches hanging from her belt until she produced several red-hued stones, each with many crystalline facets. The gems gleamed in the surrounding light. “Perhaps you should all step back,” the bard said as she reached out and gently placed one of the gems in the gargoyles upturned hand.

Kaerion fell back quickly, his long sword in guard position. Briefly, he wondered where the bard had come across such large gemstones. Full of surprises, that one, he thought, a brief smile flickering across his face—replaced quickly by a frown as he remembered where they were. There would be time for such idle speculation later.

Nothing happened.

Kaerion let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and saw the others do the same. Poised for flight before the statue, Majandra relaxed and held out a second gemstone. Again, she placed it in one of the gargoyle’s hands.

Again nothing happened.

Kaerion saw her cast Phathas a rueful grin as the wizard leaned on his staff, staring with interest at the stone monster. The half-elf placed a third gem into the creature’s hand, and Kaerion let out a cry of warning as he saw the gargoyle’s fingers twitch slightly. A moment later, the beast’s claws closed sharply about the stones. Running toward Majandra, Kaerion heard a loud grinding sound, and a spray of glistening red powder erupted from the statue’s hands.

Pulling the half-elf away from the gargoyle, he was surprised at the string of invective that issued forth from the bard’s mouth. Kaerion was certain he caught fragments of at least four different languages he was familiar with in the torrent of curses that poured out of her mouth, and at least as many languages that he had never heard before.

Stunned silence filled the room as Majandra finally brought herself under control. Several of the guards shifted from foot to foot, obviously amused in the wake of the half-elf’s blistering anger, but too respectful to comment on it.

“My dear child,” Phathas said at last, breaking the silence, “you do understand that our goal here is to collect treasure from this dreadful tomb and bring it back with us to Rel Mord, and not the other way around?”

Even in the pale light, Kaerion could see the tips of the half-elf’s ears turning red. Companionable laughter broke the tension and soon even the normally dour Heironean cleric chuckled at Majandra’s discomfort. Kaerion turned away from the embarrassed half-elf, who had finally given up on trying to maintain any semblance of dignity and now wiped tears of laughter from her own eyes, to check on Adrys, who had remained silent through this entire exchange.

The boy was not there.

All levity leeched from Kaerion’s body as he scanned the room, hoping that the merchant’s son was merely lost in the press of bodies. His hope was crushed, as swiftly and as surely as the gemstones that they had so recently placed in the hands of the gargoyle.

“Has anyone seen Adrys?” he asked, his voice cutting through the surrounding laughter.

“He was just here a moment ago,” one of the guards responded.

“Come on,” Kaerion shouted to his companions, “we have to find him!”

He bolted from the room, lighting a torch and pushing past the guards who stood sentry at the mouth of the tunnel. If anything happened to the lad, the boy’s blood would be on Kaerion’s hands—hands that were already soaked in the blood of innocents.

The tunnel ran at an angle briefly and then straightened. Kaerion cursed as the area quickly narrowed and he was forced to crawl. The tunnel soon opened into a room of similar length and construction as the hall from which they had entered the tomb. Bright paintings covered the smooth walls of the room. Wild colors swirled and ran together with all the energy of a pulsing rainbow. Though different from the paintings that covered the entrance hall, the pictures depicted by the mad brush of the long-dead artist contained the familiar animal/human hybrids that were the subject of so much of the tomb’s artistry. Some of these creatures, however, held globes of bright color between their hands.

Much to his relief, Kaerion found Adrys standing in the middle of the room, a torch held high in one hand. Running over to the lad, Kaerion checked to see that no harm had come to him. Satisfied, he knelt before the boy and cupped his thick hand beneath the boy’s chin.

“Adrys, why did you wander away from us?” Kaerion said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. Now that he had found the boy safe and unharmed, his relief was giving way to irritation at the boy’s disregard for his own safety.

Adrys’ face twisted into a worried frown, and Kaerion could see tears welling up in his eyes. The boy stared at him, lower lip quavering. “I’m sorry. I thought I heard someone calling my name,” he said simply. “It sounded like my father.”

A wave of tenderness crept over Kaerion, cooling his growing anger. The lad had been through a great deal and had lost much. It was possible that the cursed power of the tomb had reached out to capitalize on the boy’s grief and loss. He had no right to be angry with Adrys. He was simply a child and had not meant any mischief.

“It’s all right,” he said gently. “It’s all right, but I want you to promise that you won’t go wandering off again. If you hear someone calling your name, tell me. We’ll get to the bottom of it together. All right?”

The boy nodded once and gave Kaerion a brief smile, wiping at his eyes. “I promise. If anything happens again I’ll come to you.”

Satisfied with the boy’s contrition, Kaerion turned to face the rest of his companions, who had burst into the room with startled exclamations. Each of them stared in wonder at the bright, familiar paintings. They were about to spread out and search the room when Vaxor’s voice boomed, “Hold! Remember the hidden pits. Before anyone moves, we should sweep the room.”

It was solid advice, and Kaerion was disappointed that he had rushed in without thought. In his incautious haste to find the boy, he could have put them both in deadly jeopardy. It took quite a while for the guards to finish their check, sweeping and prodding the stone with the ten-foot poles, but at last they proclaimed the floor pit free. Unfortunately, their search had also turned up only a single entrance from the room—another mist-covered archway in the center of the room’s southernmost wall.

“There may be other ways out of this hall,” Gerwyth said to the group as they assembled near the tunnel’s entrance. “I suggest that we move in pairs, keeping each other in sight, and check the walls for hidden doors.”

The expedition split up, and Kaerion found himself happily partnered with Majandra. Despite their growing closeness and the experience they had shared on the night of the bullywug attack, events since then had prevented them from exploring their newfound bond. Although the peril that they currently found themselves in did not lend itself to lowering their guard and sharing intimacies, Kaerion had to admit that he felt a surge of emotions—all of them pleasant—when the flame-haired bard was nearby.

They had not been searching long when one of the guards posted to the western wall of the room shouted that she had discovered the outlines of a door. Kaerion turned, the words “don’t touch anything” on his lips, when he heard a loud click. Kaerion desperately ran toward the pair of guards, diving the last few feet.

He was too late.

Moments before he reached the guard, her body shuddered. Twin spears, their wicked blades covered in blood, erupted from the hapless soldier’s back. She fell to her knees and then, with a single gurgling breath, toppled to the floor. By the time Kaerion’s momentum carried him to the body, a line of blood had pooled on the floor.

Vaxor was at the soldier’s side instantly, placing a hand upon her throat. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly, confirming what Kaerion had already suspected—the woman was beyond the cleric’s help. Nodding his own understanding, Kaerion rose to his feet as the priest began a softly spoken prayer to protect the soul’s journey as it sped toward the Arch Paladin. Kaerion wondered if there would be anyone who would pray in such a way for his soul—not that someone who had betrayed their god so deeply would have any right to expect mercy or reward in the afterlife.

The cleric bowed as he spoke the final words of the prayer and rose slowly to his feet. “We must find a suitable resting place for the body,” Kaerion heard him say to Phathas as the mage walked over, laying a heavy hand on the priest’s shoulder. “Then, when we leave this accursed place, we will take the bodies of the fallen back to the temple of Heironeous to see what can be done for them.”

“You are most generous,” Phathas replied, motioning for two guards to do as the priest bid. Once that gruesome work was finished, the party returned once more to their search of the walls.

“I sure hope we find something else here, Kaerion,” the bard said as the two of them knelt below a lurid depiction of two hawk-headed humans. “I’ve no wish to step through another teleporting archway. I still can’t think straight from the last one.”

Kaerion tried to smile at Majandra’s words, but he succeeded in no more than a grimace. “I understand completely,” he said, “though I’d settle for a teleporting arch if it meant we could bypass all the tomb’s traps.”

The half-elf grunted her affirmative and then returned her attention to the section of wall before her. The two sat there in silence for a few moments more. Kaerion had just finished rapping on a block of stone with the hilt of his dagger when Majandra spoke again. “Have you noticed anything strange about Bredeth lately?” she asked.

Kaerion drew his attention away from the wall and looked at his companion. Even now, hundreds of feet below ground, covered in sweat and dirt, he admired the way the torchlight played in her eyes and among her hair. It took a few more moments for him to register that she had repeated the question.

“Hmm? Oh, sorry,” he apologized, feeling his face flush beneath the sudden heat there. He tried to avoid the bard’s eyes, but couldn’t help see the sparkle of amusement glistening in them. “Something strange about Bredeth?” he continued. “Well, he has been a bit subdued since the bullywugs kidnapped him, but experiences like that can affect a person deeply. I’m not sure I’d call that strange.”

“You’re right, of course,” the half-elf said. “He has been subdued, but it’s more than that. He’s been too… agreeable lately. It’s not like him.”

Kaerion nodded and followed her gaze to where the subject of their conversation stood before another section of wall, dutifully searching. He opened his mouth to reassure Majandra, but before he could speak, Gerwyth’s voice echoed across the hall.

“I think I’ve found something!” the elf said excitedly. “It looks like an illusion of some sort.”

Kaerion walked over to where his friend stood. On the wall was a painting of a heavily muscled human with the head of a jackal holding a sphere at his waist. Carefully, Gerwyth extended the shaft of an arrow and touched the brightly painted sphere. To Kaerion’s surprise, the wooden shaft disappeared as it pressed through the sphere. It was clear that Gerwyth remembered their experience at the demonic mouth earlier, for the ranger gingerly pulled the arrow shaft back out of the red circle.

It emerged unscathed.

By now, the rest of the expedition had gathered around. Phathas moved forward and studied the illusory sphere intently. After a few moments of soft muttering, he raised a single gnarled finger and pointed at the vivid picture. There was a bright flash that nearly blinded Kaerion. He cried out, throwing an arm across his face. The others must not have been as quick, for he heard their cursing continue.

Blinking the last of the pulsing circles from his vision, Kaerion peered at the wall once again—and was surprised to find that the full-length painting of the jackal-headed human had disappeared, replaced by the uneven expanse of a rocky tunnel. He could see that, like the tunnel that lead from the gargoyle room to this one, the passage before them rapidly shrank down to a crawlway.

Kaerion made sure his shield was securely fastened to his back and then called for a torch. “Gerwyth and I will head down the passage first,” he said to the group. “We’ll call back if it looks safe.” He nodded once to the elf and then entered the passageway.

The walls here were rough and unadorned. In the light of his torch, he could see tiny rivulets of water running down the sides. We must be underneath the swamp, he thought, and wondered how long the tomb’s ancient stonework had kept out the press of mud and water above their heads. Kaerion’s morbid speculation was interrupted as both he and the ranger were brought up short by a blank wall.

“Dead end,” he said unnecessarily and let out a sharp curse. “We’ll have to go back and tell the others.”

“Not so fast, Kaer. Look here,” Gerwyth said, pointing to the left side of the wall.

Kaerion peered into the flickering corner of the wall and saw the faint outlines of a door, cleverly hidden in the stone. He’d forgotten how much he counted on the rangers sharp elven eyes.

“Should be easy to open,” Gerwyth said. “Just press here and—” the ranger’s words cut off as the floor space he was kneeling on cracked and tilted forward wildly, spilling the elf through the now-opened door.

“Ger!” Kaerion shouted as his friend’s lithe form disappeared. Crawling carefully to the edge of the unstable section of the floor, Kaerion peered through the door, relieved to see the normally graceful elf pulling himself slowly up from the floor where he had been dumped in an unceremonious heap.

“I’m all right,” the ranger said as he adjusted the straps of his pack. The elf gave a slow whistle a few moments later. “I think you should bring the others, Kaer. They’re going to want to see this.”

Kaerion nodded. “I’ll be right back, Ger. Be safe.”

“I’m not planning on going anywhere,” the ranger said, a crooked smile forming on his face. “Now use that human penchant for haste and gather the others, you orc-brained lummox.”

By the time Kaerion informed the others of their discovery and the entire group had navigated the trapped door, the ranger had set torches into several empty iron sconces that dotted the walls of this room. It wasn’t the sconces’ ancient craftsmanship, however, that currently captured the attention of everyone in the large chamber. Kaerion made his way through the press of bodies that gathered in the center of the room. In the now-bright light, he could see three large chests, one made of gold, another of silver, and the third of sturdy oak bound with thick iron bands. Majandra had already declared the area around the chests free from traps, and several guards had tried to lift them—but to no avail. Each of the chests was inexplicably bound to the floor.

Kaerion watched as the half-elf walked over to the gold chest, intent on bypassing its ancient lock. A premonitory warning, or perhaps it was merely a surge of overprotectedness, sent a frisson of warning up his spine. Quickly, he motioned for two of the guards to flank Majandra as she bent her skills toward opening the chest. He also placed himself in front of Adrys, who, he was unhappy to note, had moved to a position far too close to the only objects of interest in this room.

“A few moments more,” the half-elf said as she manipulated two small metal tools inside the chest’s metal lock. True to her word, a few moments later, Kaerion heard the lock click.

Majandra gave the assembled group a wink. “See,” she said as she deftly placed the tools back into a hidden fold of her cloak. “Nothing to it. Now all we have to do is lift the lid, and we’ll see what this chest has been hiding from—”

The rest of the bard’s words were cut off by the piercing shriek she let out as the top of the chest flew open, disgorging a tumble of black, serpentine shapes.

“Asps!” Vaxor shouted above the din of angry hissing coming from the released snakes.

Kaerion watched in horror as the writhing mass of scales and fangs struck out at Majandra and the two flanking guards. In desperation, one of the guards drew forth his sword and stabbed in to the attacking asps, while the other fell to the floor holding his hand, which already looked black and swollen with venom.

As Kaerion rushed forward, bringing his shield from its resting place and drawing his own blade, he could see that Gerwyth had already drawn his bow. It was clear to Kaerion that the elf’s firing line was hampered by the press of bodies that stumbled away from the mass of snakes.

“Kaerion,” he heard Phathas shout, “clear Majandra and the others away! I can deal with the asps myself.”

The mage’s words were all the impetus he needed. Concern for the guards and, more importantly, his fear for Majandra, had already drawn him close to the battle. Sheathing his sword, Kaerion leapt toward the half-elf, who was quickly stumbling back from the snapping fangs of the asps. He slammed his shield into the press of snakes just as his forward momentum knocked Majandra away from danger. Rolling quickly to his feet, Kaerion was forced to bring his shield up again and again to parry the enraged asps as their mouths darted in at amazing speeds, seeking the soft flesh of his arm or shoulder. One snake, untangling itself from the others, had managed to crawl underneath Kaerion’s guard. He felt a slight pressure against his abdomen as the asp’s fangs met the coiled steel rings of his mail. Realizing he had become as much of an obstacle as Majandra had to whatever Phathas had planned, Kaerion kicked at the snake with his boot, and then shouldered the unwounded guard out of the way.

As he collapsed in a heap on top of the beleaguered soldier, Kaerion saw Phathas step forward and spread both his hands, joining them at his thumbs. The mage shouted another eldritch phrase, and a sheet of crackling flames erupted from his outstretched hands, engulfing the asps. Their angry hissing grew even louder as the barrage of flame continued, until Kaerion couldn’t distinguish between the asps’ sounds and the sizzle of burning flesh. When Phathas finally withdrew his hands, only a pile of ash remained where the snakes had been.

Kaerion rolled off of the guard and helped the winded man to his feet. He was relieved to note that Landra and a few of her charges had pulled the wounded guard out of the battle and carried him over to Vaxor. The cleric now knelt by the stricken man’s side and laid a hand upon the swollen length of his arm. A blue glow suffused the priest’s hand, and wherever it touched, the black puffy flesh returned to a more natural size and hue. In a few moments, the wounded guard was completely healed. Though he was happy for the man, Kaerion felt uncomfortable at the reminder of Heironeous’ power.

“The polite thing to do before you knock a lady over is to warn her first,” Majandra’s smooth voice interrupted his thoughts.

“My apologies, lady,” he said in his most chivalric tones. “I will endeavor to warn her ladyship whenever the need arises again to knock her on her petticoats.”

Kaerion felt his mood lighten as the bard smiled, her eyes twinkling with laughter and something else—something far deeper and sweeter than amusement. Unbidden, something that Gerwyth had tried to tell him in all the years they had traveled together flashed through his mind. Though he had suffered through his own imperfection and weakness, there were still things for which life was worth living. He would never have guessed that one of those things would be an enchantingly beautiful daughter of a Nyrondese noble house.

The satisfaction of his newfound revelation lasted only a few moments, for as soon as the expedition fully regrouped after the asp attack, the bard returned to the gold chest. She examined it carefully, tapping its inner walls, and then shook her head. “Nothing inside here at all,” she informed the assembled group, “except some old asp scales.”

Kaerion could hear the disappointment in the collective sigh that went through the group. Still, he knew that the setbacks they experienced so far would not deter the Nyrondese from their goal. They had planned and sacrificed so much for this journey. He could see in the set of every shoulder—including Majandra’s—that giving up was not an option. He had to admire that kind of conviction.

Although somewhere along the way he had come to view these nobles as his companions and not merely his employers, he still felt that, for the most part, their expedition was foolish. He had risked his life at first because of the promised money, and then simply because that was what one did for companions—even if at that time he felt like a complete outsider, in danger of his secret guilt becoming exposed. Kaerion knew now that, with the probable exception of the Heironean priest, whose faith and commitment to the ideals of his god would not allow him such weakness, the rest of the nobles had accepted him into their company as an equal, a valued companion, despite who he was.

Kaerion now stood at the brink of believing in their goal—the resurrection of an entire kingdom—not simply because of his growing love (yes, he had to admit it for what it was) for Majandra, but because there simply was too much evil and destruction in the world to allow Nyrond, a once bright and powerful nation, to die without a fight.

The click of another lock brought Kaerion back to his present situation. Majandra had moved on to the silver chest, apparently disposing of its lock as easily as she did the first one. He was relieved to see, however, that the half-elf moved quickly away from the unlocked chest. She relieved a long wooden pole from one of the guards. Carefully, she extended the pole toward the silver chest, and with a deft move of her wrists, she lifted its hinged top open with the awkward instrument.

Nothing happened.

Slowly, the half-elf walked toward the open chest, and with her came several guards, including Landra, their swords drawn. “Nothing here but a crystal box,” one of the guards said, sheathing her weapon and reaching into the chest.

“No!” Majandra shouted and flung herself at the guard, but it was too late. As the soldier withdrew the crystal box from the chest, Kaerion heard the soft snick of a releasing catch. Small darts shot out of the chest, buzzing in all directions. Kaerion heard several cries of pain from the group standing before the chest. He raised his own shield just in time—

And nearly dropped it as he watched a sharp-tipped dart cut easily through the air toward Adrys’ unprotected neck. To his amazement, the boy stepped forward and brought his left hand up and at an angle before his face, striking the wooden shaft of the flying needle and knocking it aside.

“Adrys, how did you do that?” he asked, running to the boy’s side.

“Do what, sir?” Adrys asked with a bewildered look on his face.

Kaerion stared at the boy for a moment, confusion stealing over his own features. Perhaps the nearness of danger caused him to see something that wasn’t there. Surely the untrained son of a merchant would be unable to deflect a dart with his hands. There were few seasoned warriors he knew who could do such a thing, unless…

Unbidden, flashes of a pockmarked man in a blood-red robe, hands weaving deadly arcs in a shadowed alley, appeared in Kaerion’s mind, but they were quickly replaced by concern as he heard Majandra shout his name.

Running toward the sound of her voice, the events of the last few moments forgotten in his haste to reach the half-elf, Kaerion never saw the look of cruel satisfaction that passed over Adrys’ face.

21

Majandra held the ring up to the torchlight. A clear jewel set delicately along the ring’s onyx band caught the light, reflecting sparkles like brilliant pixies along the plain stone walls of the room. She concentrated briefly and hummed a single low note. With her now magically enhanced senses, she could see the telltale nimbus of power surrounding the ring—it gleamed golden, albeit weakly. The years of Phathas’ lecturing came back to her in a flash, and she quickly identified the type of spellcraft. It was protective magic, imbued into the ring with consummate skill.

The half-elf was still holding the ring up to the light when Kaerion appeared amid the press of bodies surrounding the opened chest. “Majandra, what’s wrong?” he asked, casting careful glances at the surrounding area with what the bard identified as his professional soldier look. She would never have thought that she’d find such a cold glance appealing, but Majandra had to admit that Kaerion’s concern for her was quite comforting.

“Nothing is wrong, Kaer,” she replied. “I just wanted you to see what I’d found inside the chest. It’s quite exquisite, really.” She held the ring so that he could have a closer look.

Relaxing, Kaerion peered at the piece of jewelry she held within her hand and whistled appreciatively. “I’m no gem crafter, but I’d say that the stone is a diamond of uncommon quality.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “but it’s also magical and will help protect its wearer from harm—” she paused, looking around. “Where’s Adrys? This would be perfect for him.”

Intrigued by the ring, the others pressed in to have a look. Thus, it took her a few seconds to locate the boy in the midst of the confusion. “Adrys,” she called out to where he sat, lounging idly against a wall and talking softly with Bredeth, “come here.”

“Majandra,” Kaerion broke in, “I think we should have a talk about Adrys. I’m concerned.”

“I agree,” she replied, shooing away the last of the curious. “Which is why I think that giving him the ring makes the most sense, given our current circumstances.”

“Yes, but maybe we should wait until we’ve had a chance to talk with the others before you do this?” he suggested.

“Nonsense,” Majandra said as she turned to the subject of their conversation, who stood before her with a questioning look upon his face. Though nearly five times his age, the half-elf stood only a hand taller than the boy. She smiled at the lad before holding out her hand, the ring gleaming brilliantly in the center of her palm. “This is for you,” she said, and brought her hand closer when it appeared that the boy would be too shy to take it. “It will help protect you while we’re in the tomb.”

After a few more moments of steady prodding, the boy took the ring. Slowly, he placed the item on his finger and flexed his hand. At last, a smile beamed on his face. “Thank you,” he said, and Majandra was sure she caught the gleam of a tear in his eye. “My pa was supposed to give me a lifeday gift when we made it back to Pitchfield, only…” he paused, “only we never got there.”

Majandra ran an affectionate hand through the lad’s hair. What had happened to the boy was tragic, and she cursed the ill luck that stranded him here—crawling through the dusty corridors of an evil wizard’s tomb.

The bard gave Adrys’ shoulder a squeeze before she let him go back to where he had sat quietly, out of the way of danger. She watched him go for just a moment before turning back to Kaerion. The fighter wore a frown upon his face.

“What is your problem with Adrys?” she asked, unable to fathom his sudden concern. Hadn’t he been one of the few people who had argued for allowing the boy to accompany them into the tomb? “Can’t you see he has been through enough without having you looming about him with a dark cloud of disapproval?”

“It’s not that, Majandra,” Kaerion replied. “Really it isn’t.”

“Then what is it? Tell me.” She was frustrated and let the emotion bleed into her voice.

Kaerion opened his mouth to reply, but his answer was cut off as someone nearby cleared his throat quite loudly.

“We must not dally here any longer, Majandra. There is still another chest to be opened, and we must continue on our way.”

She recognized Vaxor’s low voice. Despite its commanding words, the bard could hear worry and concern coloring the cleric’s deep timbre. She spun to face him.

“The chill of this dank place is taking its toll on Phathas,” the priest said, pointing a rough-skinned finger at the mage, who huddled against his staff in the corner of the room, coughing. “I’d like to explore some more before we have to rest for the day.”

Concern for her old teacher filled her—and guilt for forgetting to consider how he might be faring in this accursed place. “Clear away from the last chest,” she said, “and prepare the group to head back up the crawlway.”

She didn’t wait to see if anyone followed her orders, but moved quickly to the chest and, running practiced hands across its length, checked for any traps.

Satisfied that the chest itself was trap free, she withdrew the picks she used for sensitive locks and began to coax the steel catch that held the chest closed. By the time the half-elf had counted to one hundred, the lock gave a soft click and fell open. Not taking the time to bask in her success, she retrieved the long pole that she had used to flip open the previous chest. Standing against the far wall beneath the crawlway that had led to this treasure room, she carefully lifted up the lid of the chest.

A bright flash of red light almost blinded her, but before she could throw up her arms to protect her eyes, the floor of the room rocked wildly—and then just as suddenly stopped.

That was when she heard the first scream.

Before her, standing amid the crushed remains of the wooden chest, loomed a horrifying creature devoid of skin. Nearly twice the size of Kaerion, the skeletal monster held two large scimitars, one in each bony hand. The beast’s eyeless sockets regarded her with uncanny perception, tracking her every move. She could see that one of the skeleton’s scimitars was already stained with blood, and her own blood ran so cold at the sight that she feared it might stop altogether. Below the beast’s arm, Kaerion’s sword waved unsteadily, as he desperately tried to recover from the force of the monster’s initial attack.

The notes of a spell rose from Majandra’s lips, and she cupped her hands, waiting for the release of mystical energy. Absently, she noted that Phathas had moved out from where he had been resting and moved his own hands in the familiar rhythmic gestures of spellcasting. Thus, she was not surprised when the pulsing blue length of her arcane missiles met the blinding electrical force of the mage’s lightning bolt as they reached the creature simultaneously—

Only to wash over it as if they had never existed.

“’Ware the monster!” Phathas yelled. “It’s impervious to magic!”

Majandra cursed as the arch-mage confirmed her fear. Something protected the beast from arcane attack. Most likely this was another of Acererak’s tests.

“Protect the boy!” she heard Kaerion shout to the three guards who rushed forward to assist him. “I’ll distract the creature from here.”

As Majandra moved to assist Phathas in retreating from the center of battle, she was pleased to note that the soldiers had obeyed instantly and now surrounded the boy in a ring of steel.

Two other guards struck at the skeleton from the left side, and as the creature brought one of its scimitars cutting downward, Kaerion leapt up and delivered a double-handed blow to its exposed wrist. Bone chips sprayed in all directions, but Majandra was dismayed to note that the fighter’s attack had little effect on the skeleton. It lashed out with its second scimitar, faster than one would think possible for its size, and the bard cried out as Kaerion sidestepped the attack by inches. The scimitar struck sparks from the stone floor where it rebounded with a screeching crash.

It was then that Vaxor stepped forward, holy symbol held like a shield above his head. As the cleric walked toward the skeleton, she could hear his baritone rumble like the heart of the earth itself, calling upon the power of Heironeous. His holy symbol pulsed with a golden glow, suffused with the energy of the god.

The skeleton paused in its attack and turned toward the cleric. To Majandra, it seemed as if the cleric grew taller with every step, his voice deeper. The monster threw up one arm before its face and took a single step backward.

Suddenly, a cold wind blew through the room, rumbling with the force of a mighty storm. The bard felt the chill pierce through her leather armor and into her skin, like needles of ice. Unbelievably, she saw the incandescence of Vaxor’s holy symbol sputter and die, and she marveled at the silence, knowing that the words to the priest’s prayer had died upon his lips.

The skeleton threw down its arm and moved forward to attack once again, its mouth opening and closing as it did so. The monster was laughing silently!

Unwilling to foul up the concerted defense being mustered by her companions in the relatively close quarters of the room, Majandra pulled out the leather bag that held her harp and quickly unwrapped it. Not bothering to tune, she struck a major chord and began to sing an ancient elven battle song, willing the courage and strength in each word and note to find a home in the hearts of her companions.

Two guards fell quickly beneath the renewed onslaught of the creature, leaving only Bredeth, Kaerion, and Vaxor to face the foe directly. Just as the part of her mind not involved with singing wondered where the ranger could be, an arrow flew out from the crawlway above. She watched as it flew somewhat erratically before striking the creature in the chest and shattering several of its ribs in the process. Another missile followed the first, and this time Majandra saw that the head of this arrow was nothing more than a rounded mass of metal, a flying mace. This one hit the creature near its shoulder, cracking a thick clavicle. Encouraged by the success of Gerwyth’s attack, the bard modulated her song into a major key, and poured the emotions she never had the opportunity to share with Kaerion into the song.

Several steps away, the inspiration for her current song had readied his shield and, deflecting a swift strike by the skeleton, reached down and grabbed a fallen guard’s warhammer. Striking at the creature’s hips, Bredeth and Vaxor covered Kaerion while he adjusted his new weapon. They moved aside with perfect timing as Kaerion gave an incoherent cry before launching himself at the skeleton. Two mighty swings of the hammer against the creature’s leg shattered its tree-trunk of a femur, and it fell to one bony knee.

At that moment, Gerwyth loosed two more blunt-arrows. One tore the creatures left arm from its socket, and the other caught it squarely in the jaw, knocking the skeletons skull from its shoulders with a sickening crack. The monster flailed its remaining arm wildly for a few moments before falling to the floor with a loud crash and splintering into multiple pieces.

Majandra stopped playing at that moment and drew her stinging fingers to her mouth. She was surprised to note the copper-taste of blood in her mouth.

“Well done, my friends!” Phathas said as he inspected the now lifeless bits of bone that littered the floor of the room. “Well done indeed.”

Vaxor and Landra were already seeing to the wounded, and the bard was relieved to know that neither of the guards who had fallen was dead. She was doubly relieved to discover that Kaerion’s wounds, while bleeding profusely, were not life threatening.

“That was fancy shooting, Gerwyth,” Majandra said as she watched a guard bind the tear in Kaerion’s arm with a thin cloth.

“Thank you,” the ranger replied, dropping down lightly from his perch in the crawlway above. “I had those arrows made special by a master fletcher. They don’t fly worth a damn, but they sure do the job once they hit.” The elf turned to where Phathas and Vaxor stood, conferring. “Well,” he said in loud voice, “I’ve had about enough of this room. I think it’s time we made our way back to the main hall.”

Majandra agreed wholeheartedly and was collecting her gear for the brief ascent when she heard a small voice from somewhere opposite the crawlway. “Wait, everyone.” it said. “I think I’ve found something. It looks like a trapdoor.”

The bard looked to the source of the voice and found Adrys standing near the mass of the giant skeleton’s skull. She moved quickly to his side and examined the area he was pointing to. Sure enough, the level plane of the floor was broken by a thin seam, which lay several inches below the surrounding stone.

“It certainly is a door,” the half-elf said. “It looks as if the force of the skull falling in this area triggered it open. Good eyes, Adrys.”

It only took a few moments to clear the skull away from the area and finish the job that it had begun. Below her, Majandra could see the uneven stone walls of yet another tunnel.

“It looks like it’s you and me again, Gerwyth,” Kaerion said as the rest of the group prepared for the descent.

“I’d like to go, as well,” Bredeth interjected. “You could always use another sword at your backs.”

Majandra heard the familiar eagerness in the noble’s voice, tinged with a touch of uncertainty at the two companions’ possible response. At least that sounded more like the Bredeth she knew. Idly, she hoped that Kaerion took him up on his offer. The noble was always easier to deal with when he got his way.

“No problem,” Gerwyth said at last, clapping the noble on the arm. “Another sword could definitely come in handy—especially the way Kaerion swings his around like an apprentice butcher trying to kill turkeys with a meat cleaver.”

Majandra’s laughter covered the black-maned fighter’s response, but she could see by the man’s rueful smile that he was not offended. Within moments, the three were in the tunnel and out of sight.

This was, she reflected, the hardest part of adventuring—waiting for someone else to do the job. The fact that this someone else was also someone that she cared for deeply only made it worse. Thus it seemed like ages before she saw the light grow brighter in the tunnel. A moment later, she heard Kaerion’s voice.

“It’s a safe passage,” he said, his words echoing slightly in the expanse of the tunnel. “But it simply leads back to the hall where we first entered the tomb.”

She could hear the others cursing at the news and starting to pull their gear over to the original crawlway, but she didn’t move. Thus, she was the only one in the treasure room to hear the sound of shouting that echoed faintly down the tunnel.

“Get Vaxor and the others!” Kaerion said seconds later. “Gerwyth and Bredeth are in trouble!”

Majandra barely had time to reply before the light receded rapidly down the tunnel, leaving the passage blanketed in darkness.

Kaerion’s breath echoed as he crawled through the narrow tunnel as fast as his armor and gear would allow. Visions of horrifying monsters and gruesome traps filled his mind as he tried to imagine the danger that his friends now found themselves in. He cursed once as the tunnel turned sharply and he scraped the skin of his hand raw on a jagged rock. Another few feet and he was free of the tunnel. Heedless of his protesting muscles, Kaerion drew his sword and charged into the main hall.

The telltale flicker of torchlight emerged from a shadowy indentation along the east wall—a depression that hadn’t been there when the group had first entered the confines of the tomb. A cry of pain threw all thoughts out of Kaerion’s mind as he ran toward the passageway. The familiar sound of combat spurred him onward. With a rush of speed, he pushed past the splintered remains of a gruesome painting and ran through an open door.

The broad swoosh of wings alerted him to danger just moments before a black shadow loomed overhead. With a cry, Kaerion dived forward, rolling hard across his wounded arm. Three arrows hissed out of the corner of the room, striking his mysterious opponent. As he raised his own blade, the blood-red torchlight revealed a familiar figure. Above him, suspended by the awkward flapping of its stone wings, hung the gargoyle whose statue loomed in another part of the tomb. Only now the four-armed monstrosity was not an artists representation. It was all too real.

Holding his shield at an angle to protect his left side, Kaerion darted in for a quick slash with his sword. His opponent opened its stony mouth wide, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth, as it brought the gray bulk of its left leg forward to block the attack. Kaerion fell back hastily as the gargoyle sprang forward and cut at him with four swift slashes of its hooked claws. He managed to deflect two with a sweeping move of his shield, but the third attack caught him a glancing blow near his neck, knocking him slightly off balance. He spun, letting his momentum carry him away from the creature, putting him out of range of its final attack, which would have caught him square in the chest.

A shout from the corner of the room distracted the creature enough for Kaerion to widen the gap between them. Seconds later, another arrow came winging out of the darkness, this time its steel head pulsed with a red glow. The magic shaft caught the gargoyle on its wingtip. The beast let out a hollow-throated howl of protest and flew back up into the shadows of the room.

“Gerwyth,” Kaerion shouted between great gulping breaths of air, “what happened here?” Desperately, Kaerion searched the ceiling, watching warily for another attack.

“I’m not sure,” came the ranger’s reply. “I was waiting for Bredeth at the mouth of the tunnel, when all of a sudden I heard a cracking sound. By the time I saw the shattered plaster near the entrance of the tomb, our young friend had already thrown open the door. Within seconds I heard his cry for help and called for you before I came running.”

Kaerion nodded. “Where is our noble warrior?” he asked, catching sight of the elf as he nocked yet another arrow to his bow.

“I’m right here,” said a voice roughened with pain.

Kaerion spun at the sound, catching sight of Bredeth’s stumbling form. The nobles armor was dented and torn in several places, and blood streamed freely from his open wounds. A gleam of light caught Kaerion’s eye as he ran to the hurt nobleman. With a gasp of surprise, Kaerion noted the thick leather collar, studded with a cluster of blue gems, clutched tightly in Bredeth’s left hand.

“I pulled this off the creature’s neck before it sliced into me,” Bredeth said before slumping heavily against the raven-haired fighter. “Do you think Majandra would approve?”

Kaerion had no time to reply. The air above his head swirled with the flapping of stone wings.

“Incoming!” Gerwyth shouted, moments before the gargoyle fell like a terrible missile out of the ceiling’s shadows. More concerned with Bredeth’s safety than his comfort, Kaerion pushed the wounded nobleman to the floor and stepped back sharply. Razor-sharp claws sliced the air just inches from his face, but not before Gerwyth’s arrow struck the creature sharply in its back.

Taking advantage of its momentary disorientation, Kaerion planted his feet and swung his blade in a deadly arc, twisting his hips to add more power to the blow. His sword met the creature’s stone skin with the force of a hammer striking an anvil, and Kaerion nearly lost his grip on the blade. Bits of stone cracked and fell from the monster’s hide, and it roared in pain. Withdrawing the blade, Kaerion gave silent thanks to Phathas, who had imbued the blade with magic after their battle with the demon in Rel Mord.

Wounded as it was, the gargoyle was still a severe threat. It lashed out twice with its upper claws, catching Kaerion across the face and at the juncture of shoulder and neck. It was, however, the monsters lower claws that did the real damage. Forced to raise his shield to block an attack from the beast’s claw-tipped leg, Kaerion was unprepared for the twin thrust of its hands as they raked the unprotected length of his chest. Kaerion’s armor shredded into thin strips beneath the force of the gargoyle’s strikes. He fell back, unable to muster an effective defense against the evil creature’s tremendous strength and speed.

At that moment, twin bolts of energy flew from the open doorway, catching the creature in the face. It screeched once and turned to face this new threat. Grievously wounded, Kaerion withdrew, confident that the flares and flashes of arcane energy he saw emanating from the doorway would keep the gargoyle busy for the moment. Reaching a sure hand into a pouch at his belt, Kaerion withdrew a vial of green liquid. With one swift motion, he uncorked the container and brought it to his mouth, swallowing the sweet-tasting potion inside. Immediately, the pain of his wounds receded and some measure of strength flowed back into his limbs. Smiling in anticipation, Kaerion withdrew another glass container and prepared to quaff its contents.

A muffled explosion caught the fighter’s attention. To the left of the entranceway, he saw that Vaxor had called upon Heironeous for help—and the god had answered. Three arrowhawks appeared in a blaze of light and circled the gargoyle, their powerful wings and arrow-like bodies offering them greater maneuverability. Two opened their sharp beaks and shot a ray of energy at the gargoyle. The beast evaded the first blast with a sweep of its wings, but ran headlong into the other mystic bolt. The third arrowhawk, however, misjudged its flight and flew too close to the gargoyle. Angered by the wounds it was receiving, the stone-skinned monster concentrated its attacks on the hapless creature. It disappeared in a flash of light, its last sound a screech of pain.

Energized by his brief respite and the application of the healing potion, Kaerion raised his sword and swallowed the second potion. Time seemed to slow as the magical liquid took effect, and the fighter could feel his blood quickening. He gave another cry before launching himself into battle, delighted at the speed in which his feet carried him. Within moments, he had delivered two swift cuts to the gargoyle’s side. The beast, in turn, lashed out at the circling arrowhawks with its upper claws and then spun toward Kaerion, intent on disemboweling him with its remaining attacks.

Kaerion’s magically enhanced reflexes acknowledged the danger and wove a seamless defense. His blade flashed in the torchlight, knocking back each of the gargoyle’s attacks. Obviously enraged by its ability to harm him, the monster ignored the attacking arrowhawks that darted in and out of its reach, concentrating all of its attention on Kaerion. Secure in his ability to parry the gargoyle’s claws, the fighter was caught unawares as it lashed out, grabbing hold of him with implacable strength and launching itself higher in the air. Briefly, Kaerion caught sight of his companions nearly thirty feet below, as he hurtled toward the far wall of the room. Just before it seemed as if the gargoyle would slam itself against the wall, it let out a deafening roar and released its grip on Kaerion. Gracelessly, the fighter plunged downward, striking the wall with bone jarring force before crashing to the ground. His sword flew from fingers suddenly gone nerveless and skidded several feet away.

Above, the gargoyle had completed its turn and now flew right at him, claws extended for a final attack. Out of the corner of his eye, Kaerion saw Adrys huddled behind a thin pillar of stone. For just a moment, he wondered how the boy had slipped past the guards to get this far into the room, but his speculation disappeared as the gargoyles shadow loomed larger.

“Adrys!” he shouted as loud as his stunned body would allow. “Throw me my sword, lad—and hurry.”

Moving swiftly, the boy stood over the sword and looked at the fallen fighter.

“Quickly, lad!” Kaerion shouted again. “I don’t have much time.” A quick glance in the air confirmed his fears. The gargoyle would reach him in seconds.

An evil smile creased Adrys’ face as he bent to pick up the sword—

And threw it even farther away. “It’s time for you to die,” the boy said in a voice too innocent for such words, and then melted into the shadows.

Shock and desperation warred within Kaerion’s breast. He was going to die now. Betrayed by a child even as he himself had betrayed a child. There was a certain rightness to this act, a testament to the simple and brutal poetry of Heironeous’ justice.

The razor claws of the gargoyle descended upon him like an executioners axe—

Only to be met by the bulk of Vaxor’s body as the cleric threw himself between the monster and its intended target. Horrified, Kaerion watched as the beast’s diamond-sharp claws ripped through armor and skin, slicing open the priest’s belly. Defiantly, Vaxor brought his own sword slashing against the creature’s neck, the movement pulling apart the remaining string of muscle that kept his entrails inside his body. Blood and organs spilled out onto the floor as the force of the noble’s final attack severed the monster’s stone head from its body. Bereft of its head, the rest of the monster shattered into a thousand pieces.

In the ensuing silence, the cleric cast a single glance at Kaerion before he coughed up a gout of blood and fell to the floor.

“No!” Kaerion shouted as he stumbled toward the fallen cleric.

Vaxor lay on his back in the center of a widening pool of blood. Amazingly, he was still clinging to life, his breath coming swift and shallow, rattling ominously in his blood-gorged chest. Oblivious to the gore, Kaerion knelt, cradling Vaxor’s head in his hands. The cleric stared sightlessly at the ceiling.

“F-forgive me,” the priest said roughly, a thin bubble of blood and saliva forming at the corner of his cracked lips.

“Forgive you?” Kaerion said incredulously. “You saved my life, Vaxor. What have you done that I must forgive?” Behind him, Kaerion heard the others gather. He could feel their sorrow, like a knife-edge of grief it left his own heart exposed. Bitter tears stung his eyes.

The cleric coughed weakly, bringing up more blood. “I failed,” he said simply, his voice growing weaker. “In Rel Mord… at the inn. The god… spoke… to me.”

“Heironeous spoke to you,” Kaerion repeated, dread beginning to rise in him.

Vaxor nodded his head and swallowed a few times before continuing. “The god… spoke to me. Told me… who… what you were.”

Kaerion held his breath, watching as the cleric’s features twisted in pain. The wounded man’s body gave a violent shudder.

“I… was supposed to… forgive you,” he continued. “To bring you… back to… to the fold. But I could… n-not. My—unnhh—pride wouldn’t let me. I failed.”

“Nonsense,” Kaerion replied. “You shouldn’t talk of such things. It’s just the pain. A few healing potions will take care of everything.” The words came out fast—an attempt to deny the revelation contained in the cleric’s confession. Vaxor was obviously delirious. The cleric needed help now, and perhaps he’d forget the words he’d just spoken.

“Someone reach into my pouch,” Kaerion shouted at the assembly of guards behind him. “I have some healing potions.”

With surprising strength, Vaxor reached out a blind hand and grabbed hold of Kaerion’s arm. “No, my son. It’s too… late for that. Save them… for when… they’ll do some… good.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Vaxor. You’ll be up and walking through this tomb with the rest of us in no time at all.” Kaerion turned his head to face the others. “Someone grab the healing potions!” he shouted, tears rolling down his face. “Please!” This last came out as more of a heaving sob than anything else—though truthfully Kaerion did not know whether it was the cleric’s words or his impending death that broke the dam of emotion he had been carefully constructing ever since he fled the dungeons of Dorakaa.

“Enough…” Vaxor’s voice cut through Kaerion’s grief with an echo of its former power. “I have… battled death… long enough to not… shrink from it… when it comes for me. However… I ask… two things from the Arch Paladin’s greatest… living servant… before I…surrender.”

“Anything, Vaxor. Ask anything and I shall grant it to you if it lies within my power.” The words spilled from Kaerion’s mouth without thought.

Another shudder racked Vaxor’s body, this one greater than the previous one. The cleric took a moment to recover before continuing. “Grant me… your forgiveness,” he asked, his voice little more than a gasp.

“Freely given, Vaxor,” the Kaerion said, still cradling the dying man’s head.

A thin smile creased the cleric’s face. “Then let me… place my hand upon… Galadorn… once b-before the… the darkness…claims me. I would… feel its light before I die.”

Without a word, Kaerion unbelted the leather scabbard that held the holy sword. With infinite care, he extended the sheathed weapon, pommel first toward the cleric. Vaxor reached out blindly for a few moments before clasping the hilt with trembling hands. Incredibly, Kaerion watched as the central diamond set within the pommel glowed with a soft, white incandescence. It let out a single pulse, and then another as a third tremor struck the cleric’s frame. Gradually, the ghostly gleam of the diamond faded into nothingness. With a final breath, Vaxor released his grip upon the blade and died.

22

The screaming wouldn’t stop.

Despite himself, Durgoth grimaced at the shrill sound. Even with their ability to see what those Nyrondese fools had done, some of his followers still fell victim to the tomb’s diabolical traps. This situation, however, came about through the man’s own stupidity. Sydra had given the cultists explicit instructions on how to open each of the secret doors, information she had gleaned from the nobleman she controlled as completely as she did secretly.

The man curled in a bloody heap before Durgoth, the wicked barb of a spear imbedded in his stomach. The fool had simply misunderstood Sydra’s direction.

The screaming stopped for a moment as the wounded cultist noticed his master’s presence. “H-help me,” he pleaded, and Durgoth noticed with distaste that blood flecked the man’s lips and chin.

“I shall, my child,” the cleric replied in his most soothing tone, conscious of the other cultists watching this exchange. Gently he laid a hand upon the now-whimpering man’s forehead. Closing his eyes, he whispered a dark prayer to Tharizdun. With a final hiss, the cleric sent the power of his god arcing through the cultist. The man screamed one final time and then lay still, the life burned out of his body.

Durgoth rose and made a simple gesture of blessing on the corpse. Stupidity, he knew, should never be rewarded.

It was Eltanel, emerging from the shadowy length of the passage ahead, who finally broke the ensuing silence. “The way ahead is clear, blessed one,” he said. “I have marked the passage that the Nyrondese party has taken. I recommend that we rest for a bit, or else we risk coming too close to them.”

Durgoth nodded at the man’s report, noting with interest the sweat covering the thief’s dark brow and the small wet circle along the man’s right thigh—no doubt blood. Whatever Eltanel had discovered, his passage through the tomb had not been as easy as he tried to pass off.

Durgoth offered the thief a knowing smile and was about to turn away when Jhagren spoke. “What of Adrys?” the monk asked, not quite hiding his concern. “Did you see any sign of him?”

Durgoth blinked in surprise. In all of their time together, this was the first time he had seen a chink in the monk’s armor of emotional detachment. So, he noted, the man does care for his apprentice. This was useful information—information that could serve as a weapon in the future.

“No, Jhagren,” the thief replied at last. “I did not see any sign of Adrys.”

“Come, my friend,” Durgoth said, offering the monk a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Adrys is a clever lad—and trained very well. He will find his way back to us, and when he returns, I shall reward him greatly for his service.”

Truth be told, Durgoth had been enraged by the pup’s presumptuous actions. The boy had specific instructions yet chose to ignore them. It was only when it became clear that his involvement had caused the death of that cursed Heironean priest that Durgoth had calmed down. The loss of Vaxor weakened the Nyrondese expedition considerably. Adrys may have handed them the key to an easy victory. In light of that fact, it was easy to view the boy in a more charitable light. If only he could pry Adrys out from under the tutelage of that damned monk. He’d make an excellent servant of Tharizdun.

Obviously not reassured by the cleric’s words of encouragement, Jhagren turned without a word and stormed off in silence. It took a great deal of self-control not to blast the impudent monk as he skulked about. It was only the fact that they were so close to their goal that stayed the dark priests hand. When the Dark One was finally free, Jhagren and all his cursed brethren would be crushed beneath his heel.

“Blessed one?” a tentative voice asked interrupting his thoughts.

Durgoth spun to face the owner of the offending voice, irritation scribed in every muscle of his body. “What is it, now?” he asked.

“Pardon the intrusion,” replied a scar-faced cultist, “but the others were wondering what we should do with the body.” He indicated his recently deceased companion who still lay upon the floor, a pool of blood surrounding his body like a scarlet halo.

Durgoth thought a moment before responding. He had no use for the blasted corpse and would just as soon leave it to rot. However, he had no desire to spend any length of time near the soon-to-be-decaying mass of flesh and, if Eltanel was correct, they’d have to spend a good deal of time here before moving on. In another instant, the cleric made his decision.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said to the cultist, who bowed obsequiously before retreating back to the safety of his brethren. Durgoth sent a silent command and was rewarded a few moments later by the hulking presence of his golem. As the construct regarded him with its cold, eyeless sockets, the cleric pointed to the dead body on the stone floor and said simply, “Dispose of this.”

Without a sound, the golem laid a single meaty hand upon the corpse and lifted it up, walking back the way the group had come, following their original path into the tomb. Despite his initial worries that the creature would slow the group down once inside Acererak’s trap-filled lair, the golem had proven exceptionally useful—both in resisting the deadly force of spears, sliding walls, darts, and other nefarious devices meant to kill intruders, and in cowing the rest of the cultists in continuing on when fear would have caused them to retreat.

Once again Durgoth had cause to be grateful for finding the Minthexian Codex. Even now, the codex called out to him, promising power and dark wisdom in its ancient pages. With a start, he realized that it had been several days since he had looked upon its flowing script and hoary symbols. He was surprised at how deeply his mind yearned to wrestle with its secrets once again.

When he looked around, Durgoth was surprised to find himself standing before his own pack, the box that held the codex out in front of him. Dazedly, he called out to Sydra, who sat nearby, concentrating her powers upon a certain nobleman.

“Where are they now?” he asked.

It took a few moments for the sorceress to respond, and when she did, her voice was thick, almost husky, as if she were waking from a deep sleep. “They are in a chapel of some sort. Someone just set off a trap, unleashing a lightning bolt that killed several of their guards. The nobles are conferring as to what they should do next.”

Durgoth smiled at the news. “Excellent. And how is our very own noble?”

The cleric saw a brief frown cross the sorceress’ face. “He resists my presence, blessed one,” Sydra replied. “He is strong, but he cannot break free.”

“That is good,” Durgoth said as he settled in to peruse the vellum pages before him. “I hope that you can maintain control. I have important work for Bredeth.” He looked up from the text. “Important work indeed.”

The pungent tang of electrified air filled the room.

From her position to the left of the altar, Majandra regarded the smoking corpses with tears in her eyes. The lightning bolt had left nothing but charred flesh in its wake. She gave in to the wave of dizziness that swept over her and dropped to her knees with a gut-wrenching sob.

Death. Everything in this gods forsaken tomb stank of death. Every twisted mural and every corrupted holy symbol in this demented chapel reinforced her perception. She felt death worrying at the bright core of her spirit, like a feasting jackal. It was inside of her now, and with every breath she felt as if she were exhaling a bit more of her own life. If she were anywhere else in the Flanaess, she might have prayed. But not here. Not at the site of Acererak’s twisted power. She was afraid of what dark being might hear her plea.

Instead, she let tears flow down her dirt-streaked face, a silent tribute to the two guards who had given their lives in this tomb. Never mind that they were both dragging bags full of gold and silver coins—thousands of them if their quick count was in any way accurate—before the lightning bolt had arced down the center aisle of the chapel, striking them both. The guards would find little use for the riches now.

As Gerwyth and Kaerion ran toward her from either corner of the room, she wondered if any of them would have use for the tomb’s treasure. Majandra knew in her heart that all of the gold in the world wouldn’t make up for the lives lost in this trap-riddled dungeon. Even if they made it out of the tomb with every last bit of treasure, she doubted if the sacrifice would ever be worth it.

Majandra felt strong arms lift her up as a soft voice spoke into her ear. “Peace, little sister,” the soothing words said, though they came to her as if from a distance. Elvish words, her mind registered at last, and then she recognized Gerwyth’s scent, made slightly muskier by the elf’s sweat-laden exertions in the tomb. The odor was pleasant and, more importantly, familiar. She felt her body relaxing, the aching knot of grief in her chest easing. She trembled a few times before gaining control of herself.

The bard saw Kaerion’s worried gaze and tried to smile her reassurance. Surely, she would have given in to despair long before this had it not been for the fighter’s solid presence. Vaxor’s death had been a cruel blow, one that had cut unexpectedly deep for both of them. Yet somehow, though they had said only a few words in private since that tragic moment, she felt Kaerion’s strength beside her, and knew that their grief was bearable because it was shared.

“We must try and push on, Majandra,” Kaerion said to her after a moment. “This chapel is especially evil, even for Acererak’s tomb. I’d rather not spend any more time in here.”

She nodded and drew in a deep breath, trying to keep it from turning in to a sob. Gently, she placed her hands upon the rangers shoulder and tapped. Gracefully, Gerwyth withdrew his arms from around her.

“Thank you both,” she said, and then stepped down from the altar area. As soon as she moved, she noticed that the once opalescent blue stone of the altar had turned a fiery blue-red.

“Gerwyth—”

“I see it,” was the ranger’s whispered reply. “Just keep moving away.”

The bard backed away slowly, grateful that the elf was taking his own advice. Once clear of the fiery stone, Majandra let out her breath and cast a quick look around the chamber. The chapel itself was over sixty feet long and sixty feet wide, sculpted carefully from the surrounding stone of the tomb. Like other areas of the tomb, the walls of this chapel were covered in mosaics depicting scenes of everyday life. To her dismay, however, the people depicted in these scenes were horribly corrupted. Rotting flesh, skeletal faces, worm-ridden skin—each scene was more ghastly than the last.

Worse still, the whole area was set up like the temples she was familiar with in Rel Mord. Wooden pews filled the east and west portions of this room, while the whole layout drew the observer’s eye to the imposing stone altar in the center of the south wall. Beyond the angry colored stone, the bard could see a tiered dais. Resting on top of the dais was a simple wooden chair—the ceremonial seat of the presiding cleric. Two large brass candelabra stood to either side of the dais, and Majandra could almost see the smoky flame coming from the five unlit white candles that sprouted from the candelabra like skeletal hands. She shuddered at this image, for every detail of the room spoke not only of evil, but also of goodness corrupted. Even the holy symbols on the walls, many representing the good gods and goddesses of the land, were not exact images. Each had some slight imperfection, and many were twisted to demonstrate the reverse of its intended meaning.

Worried, she scanned the room for signs of Phathas. She caught sight of the old mage leaning his bent back against the wood of the pew closest to the tunnel from which they had entered the tomb. She also saw the three remaining guards carefully searching the skeletal figure that lay upon the floor to the west of the altar, its outstretched hand pointing toward the mist covered expanse of another archway. Landra, the guards’ captain, conferred quietly with Kaerion, who had settled himself carefully near the edge of one of the pews.

“Well,” one of the guards said, “it looks like our next step is clear. This archway is our only way out.”

“It would seem that way,” Phathas said, turning from his examination of the wooden pews, “but I would be very careful following through on such an assumption.”

The old mage’s voice quavered across the chapel’s distance. Majandra thought that he sounded tired—more tired than she had ever heard him. A wave of sadness washed over her. She knew that as deeply as she grieved for those who had died, their loss would have cut the mage deeper—especially the loss of Vaxor. The two men had been close friends for decades, and now it looked as if the weight of those deaths bore down upon the mage with an implacable force. Majandra could see just how much the wizened mage leaned upon his staff as he made his way toward the center of the chapel.

“I agree,” the bard found herself saying. “The skeleton pointing toward that archway seems too obvious a clue. I say we split up and give the room another search. But be careful not to touch anything.”

Choosing the area behind the wicked altar, Majandra lost herself in the close examination of the stone wall. She had begun to lose track of time when a shout went up from the opposite area of the chapel. Turning, she saw one of the guards pointing to a small section of the wall, several feet in front of a large, stoppered urn. She made her way toward the guard but waited for the others to arrive before giving the indicated area a close examination.

Before her, about four feet off the ground, Majandra could see a small slot in the stone. Above the slot, the letter O was etched faintly into the gray wall. While the others congratulated the sharp-eyed guard, Majandra tugged at her lower lip, deep in thought. Something about this slot triggered her bardic memory, and she chased that elusive trigger through the twists and turns of her “inner library.” Around her, she could hear the group debating their next course of action. Voices rose and faded, points of view were exchanged, but she heard it all from a great distance.

At last, she honed in on the memory—and nearly shouted in her excitement. “I’ve got it,” she said with such conviction that it stopped all conversation.

“Got what, little sister?” Gerwyth asked in a wry tone.

“I have the answer,” she responded. When she saw the blank faces staring at her, she intoned, “‘If shades of red stand for blood the wise; will not need sacrifice ought but a loop of magical metal—you’re well along your way!’”

“Don’t you see?” she continued. “It’s in the poem. That circle is in the shape of a ring—a ‘loop’ of metal. All we need to do is place a magical ring on to that circle and something will happen.”

“Yeah,” one of the guards asked, “but do you know exactly what will happen?”

“Well, not exactly,” Majandra admitted. “But the poem has guided us correctly so far. I say we risk it.”

The group conferred for a few moments before unanimously opting to follow her hunch. Grateful for their trust, she rummaged through her pouches, but found nothing. She turned to the assembled group. “I gave the ring we found in the room with the three chests to Adrys,” she said. A knot formed in her throat as she said these words. Kaerion had tried to warn her, but she had ignored him, and now Vaxor was dead—quite possibly because of her unwillingness to listen.

Thankfully, Kaerion laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder. “No one’s blaming you,” he said softly. “We just need a ring so that we can get out of here.”

“And I have just the thing,” Gerwyth said, breaking the tension. They turned to find the elf holding a small silver band in the palm of his hand.

“I don’t know what it’s called, but it helps keep me comfortable in temperature extremes,” the elf said. “I think it will do nicely.”

“Thank you,” Majandra replied, unsure why Kaerion glared open-mouthed at his friend.

“Why, you goblin-eared excuse for an elf!” Kaerion shouted. “After all these years… that’s how you’ve done it. I thought your unflinching endurance in the face of the direst of elements was an elven trait and the sign of a courageous spirit, and all this time you were magically protected. Why I should—”

“Don’t bother finishing that thought,” Gerwyth interrupted with a devilish smile upon his face. “You might overtax that lump of clay you call a brain. Besides,” he finished with an injured look, “every elf worthy of the name has a few secrets.”

“Enough, both of you,” Phathas scolded—though the bard could see a smile splitting the mage’s weathered face. “Let Majandra concentrate.”

Letting her own lightened mood shine through, she bent toward the slot and gingerly placed the metal ring against the etched O. She heard a click and then, seconds later, a deep rumble filled the room. Two of the guards jumped back, eyes searching for signs of danger. But the rest of the group simply waited.

Majandra’s patience was rewarded as a large section of the eastern wall sank slowly into the ground, revealing a dark passage.

“After you,” she said with a pleased smirk upon her face.

She followed Kaerion into the darkness.

Kaerion yawned as he adjusted his chainmail shirt. Four hours of sleep before his turn at watch was too little, considering the events of the past day. It was difficult to believe that so many people had died inside this horror-filled tomb in a single day. He could see each of their faces, remember the laughter and companionship they had shared during their journey to the swamp. All of that had ended abruptly at the tip of a spear, the edge of a pit, or the claw of some fearsome beast.

None of the faces haunted him as much as Vaxor’s—a quiet and peaceful expression at odds with the brutal way the cleric had died. Kaerion had slept fitfully on the hard ground of the tomb soon after Phathas called the first true rest during their exploration. He had watched idly as the other guards set up the perimeter of their makeshift camp, but the rigors of the day had soon overcome him. Muscles sore and joints aching, he had curled up against a wall and was asleep before his head had fully rested on his bedroll.

Cool darkness enveloped him. Like a potent balm, the cradled nothingness of sleep eased his burdens. There was no grief, no pain—simply the vast darkness of sleep. Then the first image exploded in his brain. Images of a gray stone claw rending vulnerable flesh plagued his dreams. He heard Vaxor scream as the gargoyle’s claws shredded the tender flesh of his abdomen; the cleric’s skin parted like vellum beneath the cutting knife of a scribe, entrails and gore spilling out onto the floor. Kaerion had woken with such violence that the two guards standing watch rushed over to see what had occurred.

He would have remained awake, but Majandra had made her resting place beside his. Even now, hours later, he could feel the soft touch of her fingers as they ran gently along his cheek while she hummed a quiet tune. It had only taken a few minutes beneath her ministrations before he had returned to sleep. But the images returned—and he had tossed and turned beneath their horrifying clarity. Thus, he had gratefully taken his place at watch when one of the guards shook him awake.

But that had been several hours ago, and now his exhausted body demanded more sleep. Kaerion shook his head to stifle another yawn. The others were stirring. There would be no time for rest until they had pushed farther into the tomb. Surveying the surviving members of their expedition, Kaerion felt his heart soften at the sight of Majandra rubbing sleep-encrusted eyes. Both she and Phathas had risen earlier than the rest of the party and poured over their spellbooks under the flickering light of a lantern. As he watched the half-elf’s fingers deftly rework her thick, sleep-ruffled hair into a manageable ponytail, Kaerion fought down the urge to work the knots out of her neck and back with the palms of his own hand. Although he knew he was still unworthy to use words like duty and honor, he had a purpose here, and he would not compromise the group’s safety to yield to his own desires.

There were enough deadly things to contend with inside these walls. He didn’t want to chance losing another person to carelessness—or betrayal. He saw the cruel smile play across Adrys’ face as clearly as if the lad was in front of him. He had been sorely misled by the boy’s act. There would be a reckoning. Until then, Kaerion would stand his watch, vigilant as the others ran through the rest of their morning preparations. About a half-hour had passed, and he found himself wondering just what time it was on the surface.

“The sun has just peaked over the horizon,” Gerwyth informed the group, as if reading Kaerion’s mind. The ranger finished his announcement with a muted growl as he reached toward the ceiling and stretched out his muscles.

Kaerion smiled at his friend, used to the elf’s accurate predictions. The smile faded quickly as he watched Phathas push himself to his feet. The mage, thin to begin with, had lost even more weight during the recent weeks. Skin that was paper thin hung gaunt and tight to the wizard’s skull. Kaerion could see new lines of grief and pain etched into the mazework of creases already in existence. Wrapped in the dirt-stained expanse of his gray-cowled cloak, the mage resembled nothing so much as one of the undead that no doubt haunted the grim corridors of this dungeon.

Only his eyes showed signs of life. Like twin sapphires they blazed with ferocious intensity. Whatever drove the mage, each step must surely have been an act of indomitable will. It was clear that after their experiences these past few months, the wizard would not tolerate any failure. Animated by such implacable commitment, the wizened spellcaster rose unsteadily from his resting place.

“It is time to continue,” Phathas said with a tired gasp. “We are nearing the resting place of Acererak. I can feel it.”

Their preparations complete, the group assembled at the base of the passage, before the secret door. Previously, the party had followed the passage created by the sliding wall in the cursed chapel. Kaerion found himself once again thanking the bard’s recollection of Acererak’s poem, for it had saved them a great deal of time. Two pits along the way will be found to lead to a fortuitous fall so check the wall, she had quoted to them as they made their way down the stone passage. Sure enough, they had encountered a number of pits, cleverly placed behind closed doors. Careful in their observation, they had discovered a concealed door at the base of one of the pits. It had led them to a descending stairway and yet another secret door. This one had been blocked by powerful magic, and it had taken Phathas several tries to bypass the door’s wards. Exhausted, the mage had walked through the door and signaled that the party should rest.

Now, somewhat refreshed from their rough encampment, the group set out. A brief look down the turning passageway had revealed a short hallway ending in a door. Together, the party marched toward that door and, at an all-clear signal from the bard, they threw it open.

From his vantage point at the front of the party, Kaerion saw into a large room. The sting of dried herbs and dust assailed his nose and eyes before he had even taken a single step. The others coughed as Kaerion took several shallow breaths through his mouth and entered the room. In the light of his torch, he could see lines of shelves covering every foot of the wall. Clay pots, jars, and other containers cluttered each of the shelves, some of them lying on their sides, broken or cracked. A large desk and four tables were spaced evenly throughout the room. Carefully, Kaerion kicked aside the soiled wrappings that lay strewn about the floor and made his way toward one of the tables. In the center of the room stood three barrels, each filled with a dark liquid that reflected the flickering torchlight like the eyes of a waiting predator.

Phathas moved toward one of the tables and poked his staff through the cloth wrappings, broken pots, and bits of cracked and powdered bones that littered its scarred wooden top.

“A preparation room of some sort,” the mage said, and Kaerion found himself straining to listen to the wizard’s rheumy voice. “No doubt where Acererak’s servants prepared the dead who were to be buried with their evil master.”

“Looks like dirty water to me,” said one of the guards who had moved quietly toward the first barrel and now leaned over its top. “Smells like someone’s been using it as a middens,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

Gerwyth’s twisted expression confirmed the guard’s opinion. “Smells like Kaerion after an all-day binge,” he quipped. Ignoring the fighter’s growl of protest, the elf continued, “Well, only one way to find out what’s in it.”

With a quick word of warning, the ranger kicked over the barrel. It spun twice, overbalanced by the moving liquid within it. With a crash, the wooden container tipped over, spilling rank liquid on the floor.

“Empty,” Majandra said, as she peered into the fallen barrel.

“This one’s too full to tip over,” Landra said, eyeing the second barrel distastefully.

One of her guards came forward, carrying the splintered end of a pole that had been cut in half by the swinging door of a pit. Gently, he dipped the pole into the barrel and began to stir. Kaerion watched apprehensively as the man continued his experimentation.

“Hey,” the guard said, “I think something’s in here.”

Hand easing toward his scabbard in case of trouble, Kaerion approached the barrel. Bredeth did the same. After several tries, the guard managed to ease whatever the barrel was hiding up along its side and, with a deft twist of his wrist, knocked it out of the barrel.

The object hit the floor with a metallic clatter. Golden metal flashed in the light. Kaerion was relieved to see what looked like a section of a gold-wrought key lying on the floor. He was about to bend down and pick it up when he heard Majandra’s cry of warning.

Straightening quickly, he managed to see the guard withdrawing the pole from the barrel. Thin smoke writhed off of the pole’s edge. Faintly, Kaerion could hear a sizzling sound, as whatever fluid was in the container started eating away at the wooden implement.

“Acid,” Bredeth said, and Kaerion could hear the man’s distaste for the gruesome trap. “I bet whatever’s in the third barrel is equally as dangerous.”

“Indeed,” Phathas said, moving slowly toward the object in question. “I suggest that the rest of you stand back.”

Kaerion obeyed the mage and took several steps backward. The others did likewise, until the mage stood alone before the third barrel. Grasping his staff in one hand, the spellcaster raised his other hand, palm up. A faint hum filled the room, and Kaerion watched in amazement as the thick, gelatinlike substance floated toward the ceiling. When the floating mass hung safely in the shadows of the room, Majandra moved forward and looked into the now-empty barrel.

“Here is the other section of the key,” she said as she bent over and scooped up the golden mass.

Quickly, she brought her section of the key over to where the first piece lay. Standing over her, Kaerion watched as she placed both sections together. With a single bright flash of light, the two sections fused together. Smiling, the bard stood up, holding the remade key in her hands.

“We’ve stumbled onto the next section of Acererak’s poem,” she declared, as Phathas lowered the floating jelly back into the barrel. “‘These keys and those are most important of all,’” the bard intoned. “That means there are probably a number of keys we’ll find hidden in various places before we get to Acererak’s crypt.”

“But what do we do once we’ve collected them?” asked Bredeth, as he gazed in distaste at the gruesome remnants of the preparation room.

“I have no idea,” Majandra admitted. “But the poem has steered us straight so far.”

“Unless Acererak’s words have been guiding us just to lead us to a gruesome end,” Bredeth said.

“A possibility,” Kaerion broke in, unwilling to have the party’s energy and focus distracted by another argument, “but so far following the ancient poem has kept us safe. It’s only when we explore areas of the tomb not written of by that mad wizard that we encounter danger. Given a choice between a passage earmarked in the poem and one not, I would take the one called out by Acererak.”

“Agreed, friend Kaerion,” Phathas said, as he drew closer. “Let us follow the mage’s twisted words as we’ve done, and deal with the consequences as they come.”

With that decision, the group assembled into their regular order, with Kaerion and Gerwyth in the front, and proceeded out of the arched opening. The dark passage quickly turned and the party descended a long set of stone stairs. Their passage disturbed centuries of dust, kicking up clouds of moldering particles that stung Kaerion’s nose.

Beyond the stairs, the passage turned once again, and Kaerion brought the group to a sudden halt. Before them, soaking up the light of their torches, loomed a wide pit. Kaerion moved to the edge and looked down. Thick spikes jutted up from the floor of the pit, glinting in the illumination like the razor sharp jaws of a predator.

Gerwyth moved up beside him and whistled appreciatively at the sight of the trap. “This will take some doing to get around,” he said.

“Not really, Gerwyth,” the bard said. “I can easily levitate over to the other side and rig a rope that the rest of you can use to avoid the pit.”

“There is another solution, my dear,” Phathas said smiling. “Rather than risk triggering any other traps Acererak built into the pit, why not simply walk?”

Kaerion saw the bard’s lips turn up in an answering smile. “That is an altogether satisfactory solution,” she said, and then beckoned the others away from the pit.

Once again the mage made his way forward. Leaning upon his staff, he thrust one hand forward, fist closed, while the words of his spell tumbled forth in a torrent of rhythm and twisted cadence. Phathas whispered the final word of the incantation and opened his fist, palm facing down. Immediately, the area directly above the pit shimmered. Gradually, the energy coalesced into a solid stone block that completely covered the pit.

Kaerion took a tentative step forward. Satisfied that the new stone would hold, he walked forward, head shaking in amazement. For all of the mage’s physical frailty, Kaerion was completely in awe of the amount of power the wizard had at his disposal. Without Phathas’ assistance, the whole expedition might have met a gruesome end long ago. It was a testament to the wizard’s commitment and skill that they had made it this far.

With the others following, the group made its way over the pit and walked another hundred or so feet before the passageway ended abruptly. Confident that this wasn’t simply a dead end, Kaerion asked the others to break up and search for any hidden exits. This time, it was Majandra who spotted the secret door in the north wall of the passage. A quick twist of a loose stone in the wall, and the door swung open, revealing a small antechamber—and another door opposite.

Motioning Majandra up to check on the door, Kaerion drew his sword and was relieved to find that Gerwyth had already fixed an arrow to his bow. The half-elf’s search revealed nothing unusual about this portal. Conveying her discovery with a simple sign, the bard opened the door.

Kaerion could see that the room beyond was simply appointed with tapestries along the walls. As the party moved in for a better look, it soon became clear that the room had been used mainly for storage. Dented urns and chipped vases littered the floor of the room, while four rotting sofas and several garish, throne-like chairs lay in a heap in the room’s center. Motioning for the others to join him, Kaerion moved to a collection of trunks and coffers that lay strewn about a small area of the room.

Within minutes, the entire party had fanned out. Unwilling to turn a blind eye to the potential hidden dangers lurking in this room, Kaerion kept a watchful eye on everyone, even as he opened trunk after trunk—each containing only air.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Landra and another guard investigating one of the coffers, while a third one gazed at the tapestries hanging from the walls. Even from his vantage point, Kaerion could see that the tapestries depicted underwater scenes. Dyed with rich greens and blues, the kelp-covered rocks and coral beds stood out in stark relief to the gray stone of the room’s floor.

He was about to call over to Majandra and enlist the half-elf’s aid in opening another of the trunks when a dull groaning sound filled the room. The floor of the chamber rocked violently, throwing Kaerion to his knees. As the room continued to tremble, several of the others lost their balance as well. Kaerion watched in horror as a few of the coffers tipped on their sides, disgorging asps.

A cry of pain distracted him from the advancing snakes. Looking toward the source of the cry, he saw that the guard investigating the tapestry had grabbed hold of the thick cloth to try and remain upright. The top of the tapestry had torn and, as the material fell to the floor, it transformed into a thick mass of green slime. Kaerion nearly disgorged his morning repast as the guards skin bubbled and melted beneath the viscous slime, adding to the creatures prodigious size.

The hiss of angered snakes brought his attention back to his own danger. Hastily, Kaerion scrambled to his feet and was surprised to find that the floor had stopped shaking. Landra and the remaining guard were hemmed in by a rapidly closing serpentine circle. Without hesitation, Kaerion launched himself at the attacking snakes, calling out to Bredeth for help. The two fighters cut a swath of death in their wake as gleaming swords bit deeply into scales. Though he had little time to spare for the other members of their group, Kaerion could see that Gerwyth, Majandra, and Phathas stood just outside the reach of the now-advancing slime. A moment later, a wave of light and heat burst over the room, as both the mage and the half-elf finished shouting words to their spells.

Kaerion ignored the blast, confident that his three companions had their situation under control. Two asps whipped their head around, striking out at his arm. Both sets of fangs rebounded sharply off of his mail shirt. Thankful that he had taken the time to adjust his armor this morning, Kaerion sent both heads whipping across the room with a single downward slice of his sword.

The next few moments became a rhythmic exchange of sword blows as Bredeth, Kaerion, Landra, and the last guard dispatched the asps with their blades. Silence descended upon the room once the last serpent had been killed. Kaerion looked over to the corner, breathing heavily, and saw that Majandra and Phathas stood near a smoldering lump of green slime. Gerwyth had maneuvered near the stone wall that the tapestry had previously covered. The elf was running his fingers lightly over the area.

“There’s something here,” the ranger said. “I think it’s the outline of a door.” He pressed the stone, and a door swung open. “There’s a passage here! I think we better—”

Kaerion couldn’t make out the rest, as another loud groaning reverberated throughout the room.

“Run!” he shouted, not waiting to see if anyone listened, and bolted for the door. Tripping and stumbling as the floor of the chamber once again trembled, Kaerion made it out of the room behind Majandra and Phathas. They stumbled into a small curved passage. Kaerion turned to help the rest of the group escape the trapped room and let out a relieved sigh as the last of the party emerged from the quaking chamber.

He closed the door and leaned heavily against it while his companions caught their breath. “It… was right… there,” he heard Majandra say through deep lungfuls of air.

“What was there?” Bredeth asked.

The bard held out her hand for a moment while she struggled to regain her composure. Kaerion could see more tears brimming in her almond-shaped eyes. “The warning,” she said at last. “‘Beware of trembling hands’… It was right there for us in the poem. If only I had—”

“Don’t,” Phathas scolded the elf in a sharp tone. “There was no way you could have known what ‘trembling hands’ meant. Remember: despite the help we’re receiving from Acererak’s little riddle, its meanings are intentionally left clouded. We’re not supposed to survive this expedition.”

“I agree,” Kaerion added with a sympathetic squeeze of her shoulder. “You’re being too hard on yourself. And I should know,” he continued with a rueful smile, “I’m an expert on such matters.”

Kaerion was rewarded with a half smile. Gently, he wiped the tears from the bard’s eyes and gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead. “Peace, Majandra. We’re almost finished.”

“Or we will be if you two would stop mooning over each other,” said Gerwyth, who softened his tone with an exaggerated raising of his pointed eyebrows. “Now let’s get moving. We have a job to do.”

The group moved out, this time at a slower pace. Though not injured in the trapped chamber, Phathas had still not quite recovered his breath. As a result, it took the party quite a bit of time to navigate the next set of descending stairs.

The passageway eventually reached a four-way crossroads, and Kaerion soon found himself thankful for the slow pace. Taking one step into the intersection, he turned to check on Phathas’ progress, and the simple maneuver saved his life. The floor beneath his extended foot gave way, opening up into a deep pit. Not quite overbalanced, he hung suspended on the lip of the hole, windmilling his arms before Gerwyth pulled him from the precipice.

Though not quite as imposing as the pit they had traveled over earlier, this obstacle slowed the party’s progress even more. After a brief consultation as to the direction they should move, they decided that Majandra, easily the lightest member of the expedition, would jump over the corner of the trap into the passageway. Bredeth would follow, and the two would function as anchors for a safety line of rope tied to the other, less deft members of the party. All in all, the crossing took several minutes.

Once across, Kaerion paused to light a new torch and surveyed the passageway. Although the tunnel continued off into the darkness, he thought he could see a door at the extreme limit of his vision. Calling the group together, he led the way. As expected, the passage ended in a thick stone door. Used to this procedure by now, Majandra walked toward the door without any prompting and gave it a careful examination.

“It’s free from any traps I can see,” she said when she had completed her search.

“That’s comforting,” Bredeth said. “What about the traps you can’t see?”

Kaerion could see that the dour noble’s tongue was beginning to erode the bard’s temper. The half-elf’s lips puckered in a sour expression, and Kaerion could almost see the stinging retort forming behind her lips. “If Majandra hasn’t discovered any traps, that’s good enough for me,” Kaerion said simply and opened the door—

Only to find himself staring at a blank wall.

The curses that followed took the form of several different languages, and Kaerion was surprised to hear the old mage mumble something indignant under his breath. It didn’t make any sense. They had been following Acererak’s riddle and it had led them true so far. Perhaps they were supposed to have taken another passage at the intersection. It seemed like the most logical thing to do, but something nagged at the back of his mind.

The others had already started to head back toward the intersection when he called out. “Hey! Didn’t the riddle say something about a false door?” he asked.

As one, the group turned and cast expectant glances at Majandra. Kaerion watched as the bard’s face assumed the slightly distant look he had come to associate with her ability to memorize words and information.

“Yes,” she replied, her voice rising with excitement. “‘If you find the false, you’ll find the true.’ Quick, Gerwyth!” she said in a voice worthy of a battlefield commander. “Take a look at the wall beyond the false door. You have the sharpest eyes among us.”

Kaerion watched as the elf gave Majandra an abbreviated bow and walked toward the dead end. The ranger ran his fingers along the surface for a few minutes, peering deeply at the stonework.

“Sure enough,” he said finally, “there’s a door here.”

The party let out a sigh of relief. Once more the riddle was guiding them true. Quickly they formed up as Majandra declared the door free from traps and pulled it open. The door grated heavily upon the raised stone of the floor, sending deep echoes down the corridor. Despite the chill, Kaerion felt sweat trickling down the small of his back. With an unconscious movement, he shrugged away the discomfort. They were closer than they had ever been to piercing the heart of this devilish crypt.

Shouldering his shield, Kaerion raised a flickering torch and walked through the doorway.

23

Majandra stared at the room in awe. Around her, to the limits of the groups torches, stone columns reached up into the darkness, a forest of stonework as far as the eye could see. The party gathered in a knot by the entrance, their combined breathing echoing softly in the shadowy chamber. It had taken several minutes and the loss of three sword blades to gain entrance to this room, but the half-elf was sure they were heading in the right direction.

This must be the columned hall, she thought, before relaying her surmise to the rest of the group. Around her, she could feel her companions tension like a palpable itch at the base of her neck.

“If this is the chamber Acererak spoke of, then where is the throne?” Bredeth asked from somewhere behind her.

Her response was cut off by the sound of the adamantite door they had walked through only a few minutes ago slamming closed. Majandra spun around at the noise, ready to offer whatever assistance she could, but by the sound of Kaerion’s cursing, she doubted that there was much she could do.

“It’s jammed shut,” Kaerion said, confirming her fears.

It took a few moments for Gerwyth and the mage to investigate the sealed portal. After several attempts, both magical and mundane, at prying the door open, they gave up.

“The door only opens one way,” Phathas informed the group. “It appears that our path has been decided for us.”

Unwilling to waste energy cursing a situation about which she could do nothing, the bard gave the vast hall another look. Bredeth was right. If they had stumbled upon the columned hall, then they should be within bowshot of Acererak’s throne. Majandra shook her head in frustration as the chamber’s shadows defeated even the sensitivity of her half-elven eyes.

Gently, she hummed a succession of notes and sent a trio of bluish-green lights dancing about the hall. Around her, Majandra heard startled exclamations of wonder as her arcane illumination shredded the hall’s stubborn shadows as easily as a vorpal blade cut through bone. Beneath the pulsing glow of her lights, the columned hall’s true scope was revealed. Larger even than the royal throne room in Rel Mord, Acererak’s hall would have dwarfed even the tallest giant. Row upon row of columns rose up into the chamber’s vaulted heights, each one engraved with symbols and decorative stonework set off with colorful accents and bright jewels that would have made a master artisan cry out in pure delight. From where she stood, Majandra could also make out three simple stone doors spaced evenly across the north wall. The farther corners of the room also contained duplicates of the horrifying devil-face that had been carved into the stone of the tomb’s entrance chamber.

But it was the silver throne sitting atop a flawless ebony dais in the center of the southern wall that truly captured her attention. Moving carefully toward the object of her interest, she could see that the throne was composed of the same obsidian as the dais itself. Silver inlay glinted masterfully from every possible angle of the throne, and upon the edge of its back and along its wide armrests, ivory-carved skulls leered back at her.

It was Gerwyth who first saw the crown and scepter lying crosswise on the seat of the throne. Majandra caught sight of the glinting, jewel-encrusted crown after the elf’s exclamation. The others had spread out to search the rest of the room, but she called them back with a shout. “The throne is the key!” she explained as her companions drew closer to the throne.

Phathas waved a single hand before the throne and Majandra was forced to step back at the blast of bright light that pulsated from the crown and scepter. “Magic,” he warned as the group drew closer. Carefully checking the steps up to the dais for traps, the half-elf was relieved to signal that all was clear.

Kaerion and Bredeth had begun to ascend the ebony steps when Majandra heard a muffled curse behind her. Turning, she saw that the last remaining guard, a brown-haired woman named Keeryn, had brushed against one of the hall’s columns as she was approaching the throne, and now hung suspended in the air about ten feet off of the ground. As Majandra rushed to her, the guard floated higher into the air.

“Phathas!” the half-elf called to the mage. “Help!”

By the time the mage, Landra, and Gerwyth joined her, Keeryn had floated nearly thirty feet into the air. By now, the guard’s concerned look had transformed to one of alarm, and Majandra could see the color draining from her face.

“Try and hold on to something!” she called out to the unfortunate woman, but as the guard hastened to obey her, she began to drift toward the far corner of the room.

“She’s heading for the devil mouth!” Landra cried out as Keeryn, clearly frantic now, reached wildly at every column she passed.

“Gerwyth, I need your help!” the half-elf said, trying hard to keep herself beneath the trapped guard, but Keeryn had begun to pick up speed and was only about fifteen feet from the devil’s stone mouth.

To her relief, Majandra saw that the ranger had strung a thin rope to the shaft of one of his arrows and now aimed carefully for the wall near Keeryn. The shaft impacted hard against the thick stone, sending up a sharp cloud of dust as its glowing head bit deeply into the rock. Keeryn was close to the carved stone face when she reached out and grabbed the rope, stopping her forward motion. Majandra’s relief was shortlived, however, as the guard gave a strangled cry. A deep blue glow emanated from the devil face, surrounding the trapped woman. The half-elf watched in horror as the glow deepened, suddenly exploding into cobalt brilliance, and when Majandra could see once more, Keeryn was gone.

Numbness swept over the bard, and a familiar ache that she had come to associate with this evil place. She had little time to reflect on their loss, however, as Bredeth gave a sudden shout. The half-elf looked in his direction, terrified of what she might see. To her relief, both Kaerion and the young noble were still alive—though Bredeth held the gleaming scepter gingerly in his hand. Both of them stood gaping at the throne, which had begun to sink beneath the dais.

“There’s a passageway beneath the throne!” Kaerion shouted.

Wiping the burgeoning tears from her eyes, Majandra walked toward them, wondering just how many of them would have to die before they reached their goal.

Durgoth watched the Nyrondese from the shadows of the stair’s landing, a cruel smile playing upon his face. The fools had no idea how close they were to their doom—not even that overly perceptive elf. Only Bredeth, their unwilling accomplice, seemed to sense the presence of his party. The young fool kept glancing behind him, peering into the darkness. Having witnessed the power of the link forged into being between the nobleman and Durgoth’s pet sorcerer, he didn’t doubt that the pitiful man could in fact detect their presence. He was confident, however, in Sydra’s ability to silence the man’s tongue.

Beside him, wrapped in deep shadows like a cloak, Eltanel observed their enemies with a practiced eye. “Should we attack now, blessed one?” the thief asked, his voice barely a whisper. “They are completely unaware of us. It wouldn’t take much for us to kill them now.”

Durgoth shook his head, belatedly realizing that the thief could see his reaction. “No, Eltanel,” he whispered. “I need them alive just a little while longer.”

Which was a shame, he thought, for the thief had been correct. Ever since the Nyrondese had dropped into the passage beneath the throne, they had given little thought to their own protection. Durgoth and his followers had been only tens of feet away when that damned bard had scooped up a large cylindrical key from the steps leading farther down.

Now, the fools stood before a set of imposing doors over twenty feet high. Even from here Durgoth could see that the portal was composed entirely of silver, catching the torchlight and sending shimmering waves of illumination cascading throughout the room. Beyond that door, however, the cleric could sense a brooding presence. It beat against his mind even now, threatening to rip away thought and sanity in a wave of darkness. Durgoth steeled himself against its power, recalling a defensive spell, and managed a small smile as the pressure in his head receded.

A cry of pain from the assembled Nyrondese drew his attention. The fire-haired bard stood to the left of her oafish warrior, who had fallen to his knees. In the fighter’s right hand, Durgoth could see the cylindrical key, still glowing from whatever spell had activated when he had pressed it to the door.

“I’m all right,” he heard the man say as he rose unsteadily to his feet, “but I don’t think this is the right key.”

“Perhaps we should use the first key we found in the preparation room?” This came from the elf.

The bard shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said.

Durgoth ground his teeth in frustration. It was impossible to imagine how these fools had managed to penetrate so far into the tomb. He watched the assembled Nyrondese as they debated their next course of action, and he was almost as surprised as they when Bredeth gave a cry of anger and swung his blade at the door. The door gave out a sonorous peal when the sword rebounded off its face.

And then it began to bleed. At first, the deep crimson liquid trickled from the spot of contact, but it soon increased its flow until a steady stream of blood shot out from the door. Durgoth watched as the party recovered from its initial shock, but it soon became clear that, despite their efforts to staunch the bizarre wound, the blood would continue to stream out of the door. Already, it covered the steps and pooled thinly around the cleric’s feet.

They were arguing now, heatedly trying to determine their next move. This time, Durgoth found himself fighting the urge to order an attack, but he needed them to bypass the tomb’s remaining traps and summon the presence of Acererak. Once that had been accomplished, he would kill each one of them with impunity.

“Enough, all of you!” shouted the bard, and to Durgoth’s great surprise, they all listened. “I think I’ve found out how to bypass this door,” she said. “Acererak’s riddle speaks of the throne that’s key and keyed. Well, we know that the throne itself was keyed. Bredeth used the scepter to unlock the passage beneath it.” She cast a grateful glance at the young noble. “What if the scepter is also the key for this door?”

“You speak wisdom,” the decrepit mage responded, turning to the rest of the group. Durgoth, still hiding in the shadows, shook his head. A part of him longed to snap the patronizing nobleman’s brittle neck. Only a few more minutes, he thought, and I can rid myself of all of them.

“What side of the scepter did you use to unlock the throne?” the wizard asked.

“The side with the silver knob,” the young man responded.

The mage nodded and took the scepter from the bard. Durgoth watched as the old man placed the implement’s gold ball against a depression in the doors. There was a moment of complete silence. The stream of blood slowed to a trickle and finally stopped.

Durgoth watched with barely contained excitement as the doors swung silently open. He crept to the back of the passage where the remainder of his followers waited expectantly. In a short while, his quest would be complete. Years of patient struggle and endless plotting would finally pay off.

And the killing would begin.

24

Kaerion entered the imposing chamber with his sword drawn, ready for an attack—and nearly dropped the weapon as a bright wave of illumination assaulted his eyes. Blinking hard to adjust his vision, he called out a warning to the rest of the party. They entered slowly, cautious of the dangers that might lay hidden in this room.

Unlike the halls within the rest of the tomb, this square chamber contained elaborately crafted gold sconces spaced regularly along the walls. A bright yellow flame burned hotly within each of the gilded holders. Like the ceiling in the foyer from whence the party had come, polished silver covered the roof of this room, reflecting and magnifying the light from each sconce so intensely that it took Kaerion a few moments to realize that the flames burned with an unearthly power. They neither flickered nor reacted to the passage of the party in any way.

A few more steps carried him into the center of the chamber. What he saw nearly took his breath away. Kaerion stood, not upon the familiar gray stone that had made up most of the tomb, but on top of a floor composed of a semi-precious material—agate from the look of it—crafted and polished to gleaming perfection. A granite sarcophagus rested on the floor against the far wall, and even from his position Kaerion could see the slant and whorl of ancient glyphs inscribed about its surface. In front of the burial mound stood an oversized bronze urn. The unmistakable flash of gold filigree caught his eye as the object’s decorative swirls reflected the light. Kaerion watched warily as a thin stream of bluish-gray smoke issued forth from a vent near the urn’s brass stopper.

“Will you look at that,” a voice from behind him said. Kaerion looked at the speaker and was surprised to find himself regarding Landra. The guard captain had moved forward with the rest of the party and stopped in the chamber’s center. She gazed intently at the two massive iron chests that sat to either side of the sarcophagus.

“This must be Acererak’s treasury,” Landra said in a hushed voice. If this were any other place at any other time, Kaerion might have smiled. This was the first time he had seen the veteran awed by anything.

“Be careful about what you touch,” Phathas wheezed. “I don’t think we’ve reached the heart of this tomb yet.”

Concerned but mindful of the mage’s pride, Kaerion watched as the old wizard walked unsteadily toward the sarcophagus and lifted his staff above its granite lid Phathas muttered a few words and then took a step back, a look of surprise stamped clearly upon his wizened face. “Nothing!” the mage exclaimed.

“There are no spells on the sarcophagus?” Gerwyth asked as he walked gracefully up to the man.

“No. I mean that I felt nothing,” the mage explained in a tone so exasperated that Kaerion winced in sympathy for his friend’s innocent question. “My spell didn’t work!” Phathas began to cast another spell. Again nothing happened. “It appears that something is interfering with my magic,” the old man said. “What about you Majandra?”

It only took a few moments for the bard to determine that she too was affected by this strange occurrence. “Well,” she said in a tone so similar to Phathas’ earlier exclamation that Kaerion had to fight off the urge to smile, “whatever wards are blocking our magic don’t seem to be affecting the tomb itself.” The bard pointed to the wall sconces.

“Shouldn’t we open the sarcophagus?” Bredeth asked. “It might be Acererak’s final resting place.”

“No,” Kaerion found himself saying. “Acererak is close, but he isn’t here.”

The others looked at him, but he merely shrugged. He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. He could feel the evil wizard’s presence like a canker in his mind. He’d felt it before—briefly, when they had first entered the Vast Swamp. There, however, it had been merely a trickle of premonition. Here, close to the heart of Acererak’s damned crypt, the force of it nearly made him ill. He hadn’t felt such things since Dorakaa—and the implications of that were almost more terrifying than the palpable sense of Acererak’s presence.

“Anyway,” Majandra said, interrupting his thoughts, “with the wards in this room counteracting our magic, it’s too dangerous to go fooling about with things. We might activate a trap we have no power to overcome.” Kaerion watched as the half-elf’s gaze raked the room. “Besides,” she continued, “there is still more to Acererak’s riddle, and I think that something is in this room. It’s—”

“The statues,” Gerwyth finished, sounding very pleased with himself. Kaerion sighed as his friend pointed to the hulking iron statues that guarded each corner of the room. The metal figures stood over eight feet tall, and each wielded a vicious-looking black iron weapon. Turning to face Majandra, the ranger composed his features in a mock imitation of the half-elf. “‘The iron men of visage grim do more than meets the viewer’s eyes,’” he intoned ominously, and then stuck his tongue out at the bard. “And you thought no one ever listened to what you had to say.”

Majandra offered the elf her most dazzling smile, and Kaerion found himself once more feeling uncomfortably jealous. Concentrate on the matter at hand, he chided himself. “Let’s spread out and search those statues,” he said to the rest of the group. “And be careful not to spring any traps!”

It took a short while for the group to examine each of the statues. Only one, the image of a hulking fighter wielding a spike-studded mace, looked different enough to warrant further investigation. After carefully checking it for traps, Majandra signaled to Kaerion, Gerwyth, and Bredeth. The three of them each grabbed a portion of the statue and pushed. Within moments, they all heard a loud scraping sound as the mass of black iron moved slowly backward, revealing a chute that spiraled down into darkness.

Kaerion clapped his two assistants on the shoulders heartily as they rested from their recent exertions. Though the elf offered him his usual smirk, Kaerion could see that something was troubling Bredeth. The young noble’s face was twisted into a grimace. “What bothers you, Bredeth?” he asked. For a moment, Kaerion didn’t think that the nobleman would answer, but eventually the man’s face composed itself.

“N-nothing, Kaerion,” Bredeth said. “I… I think I might have twisted something in my back.”

Kaerion nodded. He didn’t quite believe the young man, but he wasn’t willing to pry. Whatever troubled the nobleman, he’d share it when he was ready. Kaerion’s experience had taught him that lesson.

“Well, then,” Kaerion said, “I’ll go down first. When I signal that everything is safe, I want the rest of you to come down slowly. Is that clear?”

There was no dissent as the fighter sheathed his sword and crawled feet first into the stone shaft. Before he slipped down into the darkness, he gave Majandra a crooked smile. The bard smiled in return and said nothing—but Kaerion heard everything he needed to hear in that silence.

With a final wave of his hand, he slid down the chute.

The stone door sank noiselessly into the floor, revealing a dust-filled room beyond.

“Congratulate yourselves while you can,” Durgoth said, feeling a frisson of anticipation work its way up his spine as the Nyrondese slapped each other heartily on the back. After a few unsuccessful attempts at opening the door, Majandra had tried the first key—successfully. That woman was as intelligent as she was beautiful. Briefly, he remembered catching sight of her in Sydra’s scrying, and he also remembered what he had planned for her.

Durgoth pushed his excitement away and concentrated on following the Nyrondese silently. At his command, the sorcereress had cloaked all of them with an invisibility spell. Though he couldn’t see them, he knew that his followers lurked somewhere behind him, ready to attack when the time was right.

He entered the chamber protected by the sinking door just a few moments after his enemies. The nearness of Acererak’s spirit nearly crushed his mind. The protective wards he had woven like a castle wall around him were fraying and ready to split.

Swirling dust caught his attention as the Nyrondese party fanned out to explore the room. Within moments the dust had formed into the semblance of a man and approached the tomb’s defilers. Looking at the creature through senses that were stretched to their breaking point beneath the dark wizard’s metaphysical assault, it was clear that the mystic construct offered no real danger. The true presence of Acererak lingered somewhere within this room, cleverly hidden.

Phathas too must have realized this, for the mage commanded the rest of his party to ignore the insubstantial creature. Instead, he ordered the bard to place a cylindrical key within the indentation that marked the center of this high-peaked vault Durgoth watched as the fiery-haired half-elf carefully inserted the key and turned it three times. The floor trembled mightily.

Durgoth watched in amazement as the south section of the room rose into the air, disgorging centuries of dust and powdered stone. He fell back quickly as his enemies each backed away from the moving floor. When the dust cleared, he could see a vault, composed entirely of silver, now filled the latter half of the room. Beyond that door he could sense Acererak’s spirit rising in power, eager to be set free upon the world once again.

After a brief hesitation, the elf walked up to the door, grabbed the inset ring in the vault’s center, and pulled. The vault door swung open slowly, revealing a veritable king’s ransom in treasure. The glitter of gems, jewelry, and countless thousands of coins mesmerized the eye as light entered the vault’s interior for the first time in innumerable centuries. Durgoth nearly jumped as he heard a slow whistle of appreciation behind him. He cast an angry glance at his followers, knowing that they couldn’t see him, but wishing that he could kill them all now. Thankfully, the Nyrondese were engrossed in their own examination of Acererak’s burial vault and hadn’t detected them—yet.

His anger dissipated as he watched Bredeth jerk violently forward, like a rag doll responding to the commands of a cruel owner. The prophecy had been explicit about the steps needed to summon Acererak and retrieve the key. Durgoth had made sure that Sydra knew what she needed to have Bredeth do once they had stumbled upon the wizard’s crypt.

Durgoth smiled as the noble’s companions called out to him. Heedless of their cries, the young man reached out and touched the top of a small skull that lay in the back of the tomb. Durgoth fell to his knees as he felt Acererak’s spirit respond to the touch and phase into this plane of existence. Waves of dark energy filled the room, and the last of Durgoth’s spiritual defenses crumbled.

“Now!” he shouted to his followers—and watched calmly as their shimmering forms winked into existence moments before they reached the confused knot of Nyrondese nobles.

The battle had begun.

Kaerion spun at the sound of the unfamiliar voice, hastily raising his shield as shadowy figures appeared out of nowhere. Among them, he recognized the familiar shape of a red-cloaked man, moving with unearthly speed toward him. Anger warred with disbelief. Their attackers from Rel Mord had returned. But how?

He didn’t have time to answer. The robed figure leapt the remaining few feet between them and aimed a vicious kick at Kaerion’s head. Kaerion brought up his shield, blocking the kick, but the force of the blow knocked his shield a few inches to the left, offering the monk’s follow-through punch no resistance. Kaerion rolled with the blow, letting some of its force dissipate as his momentum carried him toward the vault’s far wall.

The monk continued forward, pressing the attack. Though Kaerion was armored and relatively unhurt, he still had difficulty parrying the flurry of kicks and strikes the pock-faced man was delivering. Desperately, he ducked beneath a roundhouse kick and sliced viciously with his sword. Obviously surprised by the maneuver, his opponent didn’t quite dance out of the way in time. Kaerion’s blade cut deeply into the man’s calf.

Kaerion would have pressed his sudden advantage, but he stumbled as an explosive wave of frost-chilled air enveloped the room. At the same time, needles of hot fire stabbed into his brain. He tried to close himself off to the agony, to find a center of focus in the maelstrom of pain, but he was unsuccessful. The fetid presence of Acererak pressed in on him. He could feel the corruption that was the ancient wizard’s spirit surrounding him—a miasma of pollution and evil that sucked the air from his lungs. He knew that Bredeth’s hasty actions had somehow summoned the creature back from beyond the grave.

Kaerion forced open eyes that he did not remember closing, trying to blink away the pain-wrought tears that threatened to blind him. He scanned the immediate area for his opponent, wondering why the monk hadn’t finished him off when he had the chance. He found the man standing completely still, gazing up above Kaerion’s right shoulder. Carefully, lest it prove some trick, Kaerion looked in the same direction.

Bands of ice pressed round his heart at what he saw.

Behind him, floating idly in the air, a bleached white skull, a terrifying intelligence alight in its ruby eyes, gazed upon the scene of battle. The skull’s eyes pulsed with an unearthly glow, and Kaerion saw the wicked delight shining in their depths. This perception was heightened by the row of diamonds inset into the creature’s jaw, forming an array of teeth that were exposed in such a way as to resemble a cruel smile.

From the waves of pure evil that flowed from this thing, Kaerion knew that the skull must be the focal point for Acererak’s spirit It continued to survey the battle that still raged around it. As if searching for something, Kaerion thought, but what?

Dimly, Kaerion saw Majandra, Gerwyth, and Landra battling a hulking figure that lashed out with large, misshapen fists. Kaerion cried out as he saw, in the light of the party’s torches, that they battled nothing less than a golem. Its disfigured mass made each of them look like a small child in comparison. Gerwyth ducked underneath a powerful swing and sliced the creature’s chest twice with his gleaming short swords, while the light of Majandra’s spells slammed into its puckered flesh. Landra aimed a devastating blow at the monster’s neck that might have had an effect if the golem hadn’t knocked the blade aside as if it were a gnat and launched the veteran against the wall.

He had to do something, but trapped between the awful presence of the skull and the coiled power of the monk, Kaerion felt a moment of indecisiveness. If he attacked the skull, surely the monk would strike at his back. Yet, he couldn’t allow the demi-lich to perpetrate whatever foul plan it had in mind. And where in the Nine Hells was Bredeth? Kaerion hadn’t seen the nobleman since he had ignored the party’s warnings and touched the skull. Wherever he was, Kaerion thought angrily, he’d better appear soon. His companions couldn’t stand against that golem too much longer without some aid.

Just then, he felt a warning tingle flash down his back. Turning slightly, he saw that the skull had fixed its gaze upon Phathas, who was currently unleashing spell after spell, with surprising speed, at the blond-haired sorceress who had attacked them in Rel Mord.

“Phathas, look out!” Kaerion shouted, and had to duck as the monk sprang back into action.

Without turning his back upon his arcane adversary, Phathas looked in the fighter’s direction. The mage held one hand forward, summoning blue-tinged energy that streaked toward the sorceress, while he raised his staff in the air with his other hand and shouted a single word. A bubble of white force cocooned around the ancient mage. Kaerion winced as he saw a ray of pure darkness shoot out from the ruby eye of Acererak’s skull. The two opposing forces met with an explosion that rocked the room. Looking past his opponent, Kaerion watched in horror as the mage’s shield collapsed under the assault. To his relief, however, the mage emerged unscathed.

“The skull, Kaerion!” Phathas shouted. “You must destroy the skull! It’s the key to Acererak’s power!”

Kaerion nodded in understanding. He feinted high with his sword and then reversed the attack, stabbing at the monk’s thigh. Quicker than a tiger, the man jumped back, offering Kaerion an opening.

Time slowed as the fighter placed both hands upon the hilt of his sword and, turning hard along his center, using the movement of his hips to add force to the blow, brought his blade down along the side of Acererak’s skull.

The blade shattered, exploding into a host of small metal needles that shot across the room.

Kaerion fell back, weaponless except for the familiar weight of Galadorn, which he could not draw. The monk moved forward, a cruel smile upon his face. “Let’s see how good you are without your little weapons,” he challenged.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kaerion saw Phathas raise his staff, ready to come to his aid. The mage stumbled forward, however, a look of surprise and pain upon his face, before he fell to the ground with a sword lodged in his back. Kaerion cried out as he saw Bredeth, a look of horror drawn across his noble features, bend down and pick up the sword that he had just plunged into the back of his own companion. Bloodied sword now raised in the air, the nobleman screamed once and brought his other hand to his head.

“Get out of my mind!” he shouted fiercely.

Kaerion couldn’t see any more as he thrust his shield up to block two kicks that would have surely connected with his head. Concentrating, mostly unsuccessfully, on avoiding the blows that rained down upon him, it wasn’t until he heard another scream, this time coming from Majandra, that he spared a glance from his opponent.

And stopped dead in his tracks.

The bard stood transfixed by a black beam, a look of agony upon her face. Within moments, her body began to dissolve. Kaerion shouted once and then sprang into action, hoping to get past his red-robed opponent. A palm strike to his neck blasted all feeling from his body. Kaerion’s limbs would no longer obey him. He was forced to watch in horror as the black beam consumed Majandra.

In moments, there was nothing left of her at all.

“No!” Kaerion screamed, a wave of despair washing over him. It had happened again. He had failed, and people who he cared about had died. The rest of his friends were dying even now, and he couldn’t do anything about it.

Some protector, a voice in his head whispered. Anger, fear, and grief threatened to overwhelm him, but the voice offered release. You know where there is safety, it said in a honeyed tone. You know where you can find peace.

Images flashed through his head: A dark hole, covered in shadow—the slime-covered wall of a dungeon. Darkness called out to him, wanted to wrap him in its arms. He could feel the pain easing as it drew near. He wanted to go to it—to lose himself in its endless embrace.

Yes, the voice said. Here there is freedom from your burdens. You can forget your pain.

Another image appeared suddenly, this one of a red-haired woman whose nose had the tiniest dusting of freckles. She smiled.

And Kaerion knew with sudden clarity that there were things he didn’t want to forget. Ever. Majandra had taught him how to live again. In the shelter of her arms, he had relearned the power of forgiveness and trust. And he saw now that pain and grief could be gifts, their presence a reminder of exactly how precious are the things that we have lost.

No. He didn’t want to forget his pain at all.

Shaking his head, Kaerion ignored the voice. It’s dulcet tones transforming into shrieks of fury at his actions. He tried to pull back from the hole and the darkness that flowed out of it like burnt molasses, but he couldn’t The comforting embrace became bands of iron that closed about his arms and chest.

He felt as if he were falling from a great height. Above him, he could see the image of Majandra, growing more and more distant. Helpless, still reeling from his loss, Kaerion uttered words he hadn’t spoken in over ten years.

“Heironeous!” he shouted into the darkness. “Help me!”

His world exploded into light.

25

Vision, nightmare, or reality—Kaerion couldn’t decide. He sat on a high-backed chair, its carefully carved frame forming a canopy over his head, and stared in wonder at the familiar interior of the temple. On both sides of him stood the comforting mass of statues, weapons raised high, while a long aisle stretched out before him, leading out toward what he knew to be the richly appointed narthex.

He was alone—or at least it appeared that there was no one else in the temple. The deep recesses of the chamber held pools of shadow, though these didn’t give off a sense of evil. Kaerion breathed deeply, feeling as if a great knot had been released within his chest. In fact, Kaerion realized with a start that he no longer felt the oppressive weight of Acererak’s presence.

But there was more to this feeling than merely an absence of evil. Separated for so long from his constant connection with Heironeous, it took him a few moments to recognize the power of his god. It was like that moment in Rel Mord when Vaxor banished the demon, except the presence was less concentrated and more pervasive. It was everywhere, flowing through each stone and marble block of the temple. The very air hummed with the strength of it, and Kaerion wondered how he could have missed such a Presence when he first arrived here—wherever “here” was.

“Ahh, I was wondering when you’d get around to noticing me,” a light voice said from somewhere behind him.

Kaerion whipped around, startled by the intrusion, only to find himself looming over a young boy. Piercing blue eyes gazed into his. Kaerion’s knees trembled as he recognized the familiar face. Standing before him with a cherubic smile upon his face was the object of his nightmares these past ten years—the boy he had betrayed in the dungeons of Dorakaa.

“W-who are you?” he asked, surprised to hear his voice sound so firm. Nothing was making any sense.

The boy’s smile faded, replaced by an expression of purest innocence. “Why, you called upon me,” he replied, closing the distance between them.

Kaerion shook his head in disbelief. This wasn’t possible. “You… you can’t be him.”

“And who are you to tell me who I can and cannot be?” the boy said harshly.

Kaerion could feel the hint of power beneath the child’s treble, like the sense of a storm’s raging power moments before it unleashes its fury. He would have cast down his eyes in shame, but the boy—god, really, Kaerion thought with wonder—stood right before him, not releasing his gaze.

“Where am I?” Kaerion asked, not wishing the moment of silence to stretch on further.

“You are where you need to be,” the boy said with maddening vagueness.

“But my friends,” Kaerion replied, unwilling to abandon them even now, “they need my help.”

The boy-god smiled “Loyalty is a noble trait,” he said. “Fear not, for if you return to your companions, not a single moment of time will have passed.”

Kaerion nodded, a little unnerved by the boy’s use of the word if. “Then what do you want of me? Why am I here?”

The boy said nothing, still gazing at him with those bright piercing eyes. “Why did you not call on me sooner?” the god asked, all trace of levity gone from his face. Kaerion could hear sadness and a slight tinge of reproach in the child’s voice.

This time, Kaerion did hang his head in shame. “I betrayed you—the child—in Dorakaa,” he explained. “I let fear for my life take precedence over the protection of the weak and innocent.” Familiar emotions churned within Kaerion’s heart. This time, he did not retreat from them. “I failed you,” he said finally. “I was not worthy to call upon your name.”

“And you are now?” the boy asked in a chilling tone.

Kaerion had no response. Cautiously, he raised his head to meet the god’s gaze once more. To his surprise, the boy was smiling. “I want you to watch something, Kaerion—if you have the strength.” With a wave of his tiny hand, the air before Kaerion’s face shimmered, gradually resolving into an image.

It was the very heart of his nightmare. A young boy lay tied to an altar, while demonic figures cavorted around him. With a muffled curse, Kaerion realized that he could see himself in the image, emaciated and dirty, kneeling a few feet from the altar. He fought down a wave of nausea as he watched his kneeling figure decline the demons’ offer to exchange his life for the boy’s. Tears were streaming down his face by the time the demons were finished with their sacrifice.

But Kaerion did not look away. He relived every second of that event, recalled every sight, sound, and emotion, both through the god’s power and the strength of his own memory. Still, he found the courage to experience it all again.

He watched as the demons dragged his sobbing body from the room, but the image continued. He stared in horror as the boy’s bloodied carcass writhed and undulated on the altar. Shredded muscle and puckered flesh joined. The boy’s body elongated. Broken bones knitted together. Kaerion’s horror grew as the boy’s hands twisted into claws, and scales grew upon his flesh like thick moss upon a swamp rock. Wings sprouted from the creature’s back, and it raised itself off the altar with a single thrust of its new appendages.

Kaerion looked at Heironeous’ avatar in disbelief. “What—?” He couldn’t continue.

The avatar nodded once at Kaerion’s confusion. “Yes, you see it now. There never was any innocent boy in Dorakaa. You were tricked. Even in Iuz’s seat of power I protected you. His servants couldn’t kill you unless you gave yourself to them freely.”

“But even if it was an illusion, I thought it was real,” Kaerion protested. “I still believed that either the boy or I would die. I chose to live.”

“No,” the avatar persisted. “You sensed something was wrong, and even though you were half mad, you wouldn’t let Iuz triumph. Remember?”

“No,” Kaerion said. “No! It was my fault. Mine!”

“Remember,” the avatar said, and this time it was not a question. The god’s word exploded in Kaerion’s mind, and Kaerion did remember. It was a thing almost completely forgotten, a recollection buried deep within the hole that was Dorakaa. He had sensed something wrong, but his guilt at his own weakness had hidden this from him.

“If I didn’t fail you, then why have I not sensed you these past years?” Kaerion did not know whether to shout or cry. He was a tangle of emotions, both new and old.

“My son,” the avatar said in a child’s kind voice, “you thought that you escaped Dorakaa, but you have carried that dungeon within you these many years, refusing to be free of it. I could not reach you until you called out to me for help.”

“But the curse,” Kaerion said, indicating his sheathed holy sword. “Why did you torment me with Galadorn’s presence?”

The avatar smiled once more. “You know the strength and power of that sword. Galadorn chooses its own wielder, and not even I will command it otherwise.” At Kaerion’s blank expression, the avatar continued, “I never cursed you with its presence. Had I truly condemned you, I would have tried to persuade it to choose someone else. Fortunately—” the boy’s voice began to deepen, word by word—“the sword simply refused to leave your side.”

Kaerion would not have believed it if Galadorn hadn’t pulsed with energy at that moment. All of this was too much to comprehend. He needed time to think things through.

“Time is what we do not have,” the avatar said, responding to his thoughts. Kaerion turned at the deep, resonating bass of the god’s voice. Gone was the wide-eyed, innocent boy. He had been replaced by a muscular warrior in pure, golden plate armor. The man’s face was handsome, and nobility and strength flowed from every pore.

“Will you serve me?” the Arch Paladin said, holding a gleaming silver sword over Kaerion’s head. Without thinking, Kaerion dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his face. In a voice far sturdier than he would have thought possible, he accepted the yoke of Heironeous once again.

“Then rise, Kaerion, known as the Whitehart, best and brightest of my champions,” the avatar’s voice thundered throughout the temple and, Kaerion suspected, beyond the planes, “and carry my justice to the world!”

Kaerion stood, surrounded by a nimbus of pure white light. The nimbus intensified, expanding to fill the temple.

And beyond.

The light faded. In its place Kaerion saw a calloused palm, fingers hooked like claws, heading straight for his throat. He backed away furiously, tripping over a mound of gold coins. The avatar had been correct. No time had passed at all—which meant that he was still too late to save Majandra. The ache in his heart throbbed at that realization, yet he felt something else burning within his chest—the power of Heironeous.

With a cry born of grief and triumph, Kaerion unsheathed the blade that had lain quiescent for a decade. Galadorn burst into life with an explosion of white heat. The runes running along its blue-steel length flared with coruscating energy. Raising the sword high, Kaerion called on the protection of Heironeous. The blade sang with power.

At last, we are reunited! it shouted within Kaerion’s mind, sending forth a burst of energy that knocked the monk from his feet. Already, Kaerion could feel the blade’s holy might pushing back Acererak’s dark presence.

I ask your forgiveness, Galadorn, for denying you so long, Kaerion said to the sword.

There is nothing to forgive, came the reply. It took a few moments for Kaerion to realize that the sword’s voice in his mind seemed … different somehow. He had little time to think about such oddities, however, for he felt the righteous anger of his god rising within him. Acererak’s skull had turned from the battle and now regarded the paladin with a deadly gaze. Black energy shot out from the demi-lich’s eye—only to be swept away by a single cut from his holy sword.

The skull’s presence throbbed like a cancerous blight to his god-enhanced senses. Everything inside Kaerion screamed for the abomination’s destruction. Breathing deeply, he charged the demi-lich.

“Heironeous lend me strength!” he shouted as he drew nearer.

Slowly at first, and then with increasing speed, he felt the Arch Paladin’s power filling him—white and hot and potent. Every fiber of Kaerion’s being drank in the holy energy, until his bones vibrated with the strength of it.

The paladin swung his sword with a cry, barely able to contain the divine fury that swelled within him. There was a moment of resistance—and then Galadorn struck the demi-lich. Heironeous’ power rushed out of him. Fueled and magnified by the holy sword, it detonated against the skull, causing it to explode in a hail of powder and dust. The roiling darkness of Acererak’s spirit fled with an unearthly shriek.

“No, you fool!” he heard a voice shout from somewhere near the vault’s door.

There was no time to explore the source of that voice. Glancing at his companions, Kaerion could see that the golem had almost vanquished them. Landra stood before it, bruised and bleeding, barely able to hold up her sword, while Bredeth charged in and out of the creature’s reach, slicing at it like a hunting dog might worry the heels of a giant boar.

Gerwyth had retreated a few steps and was firing arrows repeatedly at the monster. Several had managed to pierce its flesh, but it was nowhere close to being hurt. Kaerion ran forward, eager to bring Galadorn to bear on the situation, and was surprised to hear a soft whispering sound coming from the elf’s bow. He recognized the familiar lilt of Elvish, but, not being fluent in that language, he could not understand what it was saying. He had heard Gerwyth speaking to the weapon in battle before, but had never dreamed it was sentient.

Galadorn’s influence must be allowing me to overhear it, he thought.

The golem reached out a meaty hand to grab at Landra just as Kaerion swung his blade at the monster. The force of his blow cut deeply into the creature’s flesh. Kaerion heard the crack of bones as Galadorn cleaved through its shoulder, nearly severing the golem’s arm from its body. Through it all, he could hear the blade’s triumphant song ringing in his head.

Another arrow struck the golem, lodging in the constructs throat, but that did not slow down its counterattack. Hastily, Kaerion slid to the creature’s left, raising his shield to block the forearm that threatened to snap the bones in his chest. The paladin grunted under the impact as his shield bent awkwardly around his arm. He was about to throw the useless instrument to the ground when Galadorn shouted, Kaerion, behind you!

Kaerion turned but was not quick enough to dodge the attack. He screamed in agony as a black-clad figure thrust a blade deep into his back. Kaerion cursed at his own stupidity. He had completely forgotten about the thief that had stolen some of Phathas’ maps during the attack on the inn.

You are badly wounded, his sword declared—somewhat unnecessarily, for Kaerion could feel that the damage was extensive. The thief’s blade had sliced through his kidney and probably punctured his stomach.

I will heal you, Kaerion’s holy sword said, and the paladin could indeed feel his wounds knitting together. Strength once more flowed into his arms. Kaerion threw himself back, unwilling to remain flanked a second longer.

But you’ve never been able to do that before, he said to Galadorn. This is new.

Indeed, was the blades only reply—and suddenly Kaerion realized what was different about the sword’s voice.

Vaxor? He asked. Is that you?

We are here, came the reply. Thank you for your gift.

A movement off to his right stopped his next question. There, rising up from a pool of blood, was Phathas. The mage’s breath came heavy and labored, but he struggled to his feet. “Kill the cleric,” he wheezed, and pointed at a balding figure who held a black object in one hand. “Let the others handle the thief.”

“What of the golem?” Kaerion asked.

“Leave… to me,” was all the mage said. Kaerion was taken aback at the fierceness of his tone. “Do it!”

Shaking his head, he moved away from the deadly construct and searched the room for signs of the thief.

“Remember me, my friend,” the mage said softly, moments before he lunged at the golem. Before the monsters muscled arms could enclose him in its deadly embrace, he took his staff and broke it in half. Eldritch energy exploded from the item with concussive force. The power from the staff’s destruction beat against Galadorn’s wards, but the sword’s protective magic held.

Kaerion ran toward the evil cleric, but before he could reach him, a red robed figure blocked his path. “This ends here,” Kaerion growled at the monk, who merely nodded in response. The paladin lashed out with a diagonal slice of his holy sword—and barely saved the blade from flying from his hand as his opponent delivered a spinning kick that struck the weapon. His effort to hold the blade securely left an opening for the monk to strike, and strike he did. Two vicious open hand blows struck Kaerion in the face, one nearly smashing the cartilage in his throat. Reeling, Kaerion could not raise his battered shield in time to block the monk’s snapping kick—which knocked him to his knees.

He strikes like the wind, Kaerion said to the presence lurking within his blade. If I don’t wound him soon, this battle will be over.

The response from Galadorn was instantaneous. The sword glowed brighter for just a moment, and Kaerion felt his blood quicken as holy power increased his own mortal reflexes beyond their natural speed. He rose to his feet just as the monk launched a blinding flurry of blows—and Kaerion managed to avoid every one of them. The fourth time he blocked the monk’s knife-edged hand attack, he had the satisfaction of watching his opponent’s eyes widen in surprise.

Not wishing to delay the battle any longer, Kaerion launched his own offensive, his holy sword weaving a trail of purest energy as he struck out at the monk. His first strike missed as the red-robed man danced nimbly out of the way, but his second stroke caught his opponent across the ribs. Galadorn flared in response as the monk’s blood spilled on to the floor.

Sensing victory, Kaerion closed the distance and thrust forward with his blade. The monk stumbled in his attempt to avoid the attack and, summoning the power of Heironeous once again, Kaerion brought his sword down and to the side for a swift, killing blow. Energy flared along the blade’s length in response to the white-hot power that flowed through him. The monk leapt to avoid the strike, but he could not evade Kaerion’s attack. Righteous anger and grief strengthened the paladin’s sword arm.

“For Majandra!” he shouted as his blade pierced the monk’s chest. Blinding light erupted from the weapon, as Kaerion felt the powerful release of god-energy. When the light dissipated, he could only see bits of his opponent’s body scattered across the room.

Durgoth watched in horror as the paladin’s blade disintegrated Jhagren’s body. In any other situation, he would have felt a wave of satisfaction at the monk’s demise.

But not now.

With the demi-lich’s skull destroyed and his own construct defeated by the mage’s cursed heroics, the cleric knew that the careful plans he had spent years building were falling down around him. He knew that his mistake had been in trusting in the skills of others. Even now, he could see Eltanel slinking into the shadows, and he had no doubt that the damned thief was in the process of skulking back to Rel Mord.

And Sydra, whose sorcerous powers were quite formidable, now found herself battling for her life against the very pup she had so recently controlled. The young nobleman was bloodied and bruised, but he attacked the sorceress with near-mindless intensity. A powerful bolt of lightning arced toward the man from Sydra’s outstretched hand. To Durgoth’s surprise, the fool didn’t even try to avoid it. The blast caught him full in the chest, but he simply stumbled forward and thrust his sword through Sydra’s throat, only to collapse himself a moment later.

Durgoth cursed this turn of events. He could feel the paladin advancing, the force of Heironeous’ power drawing closer to strike at him like a storm of bees. With a wave of his hand, Durgoth sent a column of flame roaring down from the ceding to strike at the damnable fighter.

“Burn, you damned lackey of a cowardly god!” he shouted.

But the paladin didn’t burn.

Instead, the holy fighter raised his god-powered sword and advanced. The flames passed harmlessly over him. Durgoth could almost hear the triumphant song of the holy sword as it deflected his spell.

He knew there was no hope of escape. Instead of filling him with fear, the realization crystallized the cleric’s resolve. He may have failed to release his Master, but there was still something he could do.

Raising the Minthexian Codex above his head, Durgoth began the words to the ancient book’s most powerful spell, a ritual that would completely annihilate a large area around the tomb. He would die, but he would take these cursed nobles with him. Power built within him like a raging river. He bent his will toward it, controlling and directing the roiling force of Nothingness as the paladin drew closer.

Durgoth was about to utter the words to release the spell and destroy his enemies when he felt a sudden shift within the Nothingness. The codex, his source of power these many years, flared once with purplish incandescence—and then disappeared. Unbelievably, he felt the raging energy he had recently summoned slough off like a riverbed whose water was diverted. No longer a conduit of a vengeful god, Durgoth was simply an empty channel, bereft of any power. As the paladin advanced, blade burning with holy fury, Durgoth Shem knew he had paid the price for his failure.

Tharizdun had abandoned him.

“Who are you?” he shrieked at the man before him.

The paladin hesitated only a moment before replying. “I am Kaerion Whitehart, servant of Heironeous,” he said. “I condemn you in the name of the Valorous One. May you spend eternity chained before His Throne.”

The man swung his holy sword.

White-hot light exploded into Durgoth’s vision. He drew back, trying to avoid the fiery incandescence. It grew brighter, knifing into his brain, laying bare the dark places of his soul. He screamed once in agony—

And then surrendered to the light.

Kaerion slumped to the ground.

He felt, in the wake of the god’s anger, a bone-deep weariness. The last of his tears spilled to the blood-spattered ground as physical and emotional exhaustion took their toll. The treasure of several kingdoms lay strewn around him, gold and platinum coins gleaming in the range of Galadorn’s ever-present light. The sight did little to cheer him. They had won, succeeded in their quest, but at what cost?

He was conscious of Gerwyth and Landra, the only other survivors of their expedition, gathering up the bodies of the dead. Memories of his companions filled his mind. Phathas, Bredeth, Majandra—all of them were gone. Silently, Kaerion lifted them up in prayer to Heironeous. He felt an answering pulse from Galadorn and knew that the Arch Paladin watched over them.

A shout from Gerwyth brought Kaerion struggling to his feet. Bruised muscles protested the action, but he managed to ignore them. “What is it, Ger?” he asked as he walked to where the elf stood, holding something in his hand.

He watched as his friend regarded him with a searching look. Kaerion felt, rather than saw, Gerwyth’s uncertainty, and realized that the ranger had never known him before he had left Heironeous’ service. He smiled gently at his friend. “It’s all right Ger,” he said. “We have much to talk about you and I.”

The elf regarded him for a moment more. “Perhaps more than you think, Kaer. Look.” Cupped in the palm of his hand was a multi-faceted diamond, one of the ones that had been set inside Acererak’s skull, Kaerion realized with a start. The heart of the stone gave off a soft red glow and, for a brief moment, Kaerion heard the whispered chord of harpstrings.

“Do you think—?” Gerwyth began, but Kaerion quickly cut him off.

“I’m not sure,” the paladin said, his voice rough with emotion. He dared not voice the thought he knew his friend was entertaining. A glowing diamond could mean anything. It could simply be a precious stone imbued with magic, or perhaps even the last refuge of Acererak’s essence. But Kaerion’s newly restored senses and his heart told him otherwise. Hope rose with him. If some part of Majandra was somehow still alive, he would move the heavens and all of the planes to bring her back to him. Gently, he took the glowing diamond from the elf and wrapped it in cloth before placing it in one of his pouches.

A groan from the corner of the vault brought both of the companions running. There, in a pile of coins and other jewelry, lay Bredeth. The young man’s body was broken, his legs twisted at an unnatural angle. Long angry burns covered most of his exposed skin, and his face was a mass of blistered and bubbling flesh. He coughed once and gazed upon Kaerion out of the wreck of one eye.

“S-sorry, Kaerion. I… tried to resist,” Bredeth gurgled, “but th-they captured me, and—” a fit of coughing brought a spray of blood to his lips.

Kaerion knelt down and gently pushed a clump of tangled, burnt hair away from Bredeth’s mangled face. There was so much sorrow, so much regret in life, the paladin thought. Images of Vaxor, the clerics body also horribly violated, superimposed itself upon his vision. And yet, he knew that the gods were there to help and support the mortals who toiled beneath life’s hard yoke. The last few months had taught him many things. There was beauty and joy in living—however fragile. And he would be there, armed with the power of Heironeous, to protect it.

“No one blames you, Bredeth,” Kaerion replied at last. “Without you, we would not have been able to defeat the cowards who attacked us.”

The nobleman drew in a rattling breath. “I… I saw Adrys…and the thief. They… they crept into… the shadows… and fled. Tried to… to stop them—” Another cough shook the noble’s twisted body. “But…couldn’t.”

Kaerion felt the muscles in his face harden. “Do not worry yourself on that account, Bredeth,” he said. “There will be a reckoning, and nothing will protect them from Heironeous’ justice.”

Bredeth gasped as a shudder wracked his frame, and Kaerion saw him glance wildly out of the corner of his eyes. Death was upon him, and the man knew it. He groaned and tried to turn his head. “The vault… ?” he managed to force out his question between wheezing breaths.

“It is secure,” Kaerion said “Your country shall have its treasure. I will deliver it personally, and because the Arch Paladin has moved me, I will offer Nyrond my service as well.”

A peaceful smile stole over Bredeth’s features, smoothing the burns that crisscrossed his face. “That is good,” he wheezed, and then closed his eyes.

Kaerion felt Gerwyth’s hand upon his shoulder and knew by the strength of the elf’s grip that he had heard the paladin’s promise to the dying noble and would honor it alongside him. Courage and sacrifice had broken Acererak’s dark power. These were ideals the world needed in no small measure—ideals that Kaerion would embody in the name of Heironeous. Turning to look at Gerwyth, he could think of no greater companion with which to carry out this mission.

With a final glance at his friend, Kaerion placed a hand upon Bredeth’s chest and blessed the man’s spirit as it journeyed to the realm of the Valorous One. The power of his god filled the once shadowy room with the scent of roses.

The tomb of horrors had claimed its final victim.