Keith Strohm - The Tomb of Horrors

The fire-haired beauty turned suddenly and smiled, as if greeting a friend, but Durgoth could see no one else nearby. “What manner oftrickery is this?” he asked Sydra.

The sorceress stepped forward and gazed into the bowl. She spoke a single command, and a gray cloud shimmered near the image of the half-elf, but no figure resolved. “I do not understand, blessed one,” Sydra saidafter a moment of tense concentration. “Something is blocking the effects of myspell, but only in a localized area.” She closed her eyes again, and sweatbeaded on her forehead. “It is not a spell, blessed one, but whatever it is, itholds great power. I can feel it working against me.”

“I am not interested in your feelings, Sydra,” the clericsnapped. “I am interested in finding out exactly what this power is and who it’sprotecting.”

Swallowing hard, the sorceress closed her eyes and cast another spell. Durgoth ran his fingers through his hair in agitation. They couldn’t afford to be surprised by anything else on this mission. Success wascritical. He watched a few moments as Sydra continued her spell, then he turned to Jhagren. The monk had stood silently throughout this scrying. Perhaps he could shed some light on the situation.

Before Durgoth could open his mouth, Sydra screamed and threw her hands up to her temples. The scrying bowl exploded, sending silver shards and splatters of scalding blood across the room. Durgoth raised his own hands instinctively as the crimson rain poured down upon him.

Heavy footsteps came pounding down the hallway soon after, and the cleric could hear the frantic questions of his followers as they gathered beyond the closed door. He ignored the pain of his burns and turned to leave, only to find Jhagren quietly opening the door to address the concerned cultists beyond. Durgoth noted with irritation that the monk had avoided the burning spray and moved with complete calm. Left with nothing else to do, Durgoth surveyed the damage.

Sydra lay in the center of the room, covered in blood and the remains of the silver bowl. It was difficult to tell how much blood was her own and how much was the remains of her scrying medium. Durgoth felt little compunction to find out. The brazier underneath the bowl had somehow managed to remain upright, but the fire in it had been extinguished by the bowl’s contents,which ran steaming down its sides.

So, Durgoth thought bitterly, there yet remains another mystery to be solved. Deep in his heart he knew that these obstacles were merely tests by which the Dark One measured the strength and the commitment of his servants. He would not be found wanting.

Slowly, he walked to the door of the room and opened it, sure of his next move. They would leave tomorrow on the trail of their enemies, and there would be nothing in this world that could stand in Durgoth’s way.

Kaerion slowed his horse to a trot as he neared the line of wagons that stretched before him. Even from this distance he could hear the hum of activity coming from the caravan. Drovers and teamsters exhorted their beasts of burden with sharp cracks of leather whips and equally sharp tongues. Occasionally, he heard the strains of their frank and good-natured banter, which still managed to bring color to his cheeks at its most outrageous points.

The weather had warmed a bit, offering the travelers a respite from the continuous assault of winter, and Kaerion was surprised to note the number of offerings left to Fharlanghn and his divine children before the caravan had started its journey for the day. Even so, the wind still carried a bite, and steam rose off the flanks of his stallion.

Earlier in the day, the expedition had passed the remains of the bandit-razed wagon. Both Gerwyth and Kaerion had decided to take a complement of caravan guards and patrol the area around their vulnerable wagons. Thankfully, there had been no sign of bandits or other dangers in the surrounding plain, and Kaerion made his way back to report the good news.

He slowed the stallion to a walk as he caught up with the caravan, weaving his mount expertly through the press of supply wagons, oxen, and teamsters. The horse snorted once and pranced forward, obviously disappointed that their morning exertions were over so soon. Kaerion smiled at this display of spirit and patted the stallion’s neck.

“There’ll be time enough for running free on this journey, ehJaxer?” he said, addressing the horse by name. “No sense spoiling it by riskinga broken leg on this gods-cursed snow.”

Despite himself, Kaerion couldn’t help his smile from turningbittersweet. Jaxer was a fine stallion with a long, powerful stride and a heart that was a match for any warrior, but thoughts of his qualities only invited comparisons to another steed-Kaerion’s own war-horse, dead these ten long years,killed by the same cowardice that had shattered everything he had held sacred. Memories of the golden-maned stallion came unbidden to his mind, echoes of its grace and power, the almost total union of mind and body that allowed both steed and rider to anticipate the needs and movements of the other. All of it was gone now, lost like so much else.

“I thought druids and elves were the only folk crazy enoughto talk to their mounts,” a familiar voice broke through Kaerion’s gloomyruminations. He looked up to see Majandra flashing the dazzling light of her smile at him.

“How goes the patrols?” she asked as she drew closer.

“Uneventful, thank the gods and anyone else who is willing tolisten,” Kaerion replied. “There was no sign of the bandits anywhere within aleague of our caravan. Whoever or whatever attacked the wagon has moved on.”

“That is good news,” the half-elf said, “though I fearBredeth will be disappointed.”

Kaerion was about to answer, but was surprised into silence when Jaxer bucked wildly. He grabbed the reins hard and fought for control of the stallion. Searing pain shot through his left thigh and he gasped with the force of it, nearly unseating himself in the process.

“Kaerion, what’s wrong?” Majandra asked, but he could spareno attention to the bard’s worried question. Every ounce of his skill andexperience was turned toward gaining control of his mount.

The pain in Kaerion’s thigh intensified, and he cried out.The distraction was enough to give Jaxer his head. The stallion reared up on his hind legs, sending its hapless rider tumbling to the ground.

Kaerion hit the snow-packed ground hard, knocking all of the wind from his lungs. He lay there doubled up, gasping for breath. Majandra started to run toward him and then stopped, her eyes wide with wonder. Dazed, it took the fighter a few moments to focus on the source of the half-elf’samazement. What he saw filled him with horror.

The contents of his saddlebag lay strewn about the snow-including Galadorn’s jeweled scabbard, which had rolled free from thethick, oily cloth that hid its presence from the rest of the expedition. Worse, the precious stones adorning the scabbard each pulsed with an intense light, the first signs of true life he had seen from the blade in over a decade.

Kaerion wanted to reach out and grab the sword, return it to its humble wrappings and hide it away again, but his body would not respond. He heard Majandra say something, but the words slowed and elongated, as if they were spoken underwater, and Kaerion could not make them out.

He tried to turn his gaze to the bard, but the pulsating light of the scabbard drew his attention like a lodestone. The incandescent stones grew brighter with each rhythmic pulse, until he was sure that he looked upon a collection of fallen stars. The surrounding snow absorbed the illumination, magnifying it until it shone brighter than the sun. The pure white of the stones burned his eyes, searing through thoughts and memories like a fiery blade. He was lost in a landscape of diamond brilliance. Lost and alone.