Keith Strohm - The Tomb of Horrors

Durgoth called on the golem, knowing that the construct’spower would turn the tide of battle. He felt clearly its answering acknowledgement a few moments before its dark-cloaked mass came running up to the front lines, crashing into the knot of elves that fought with his followers. The warriors stumbled back beneath the ferocity of the golems attack, and one fell to the ground, head split open by the tremendous force behind the monsters closed fist.

The cleric nodded, satisfied, and made his way toward the druids, smiling grimly at what he found there. Sydra had kept both priests off-balance by sending wave after wave of glowing missiles at them. This had allowed Eltanel to position himself for a clear shot with his crossbow. His first bolt struck one of the druids squarely in the back of the neck. Durgoth heard the elf’s spine snap under the force of the blow as the druid fell to theground. As the second priest turned to gape at his fallen companion, Durgoth moved forward and brought his mace down upon the druid’s head. Blood and grayliquid spattered everywhere as the elf’s skull splintered.

Durgoth turned to find the golem lifting two elves by the throat. The construct cast a dark gaze at the cleric before crushing the windpipes of his opponents and casting their bloodied corpses at the remaining two elves, who were still locked in combat with Adrys.

“Help Jhagren!” Durgoth shouted to the golem as he ran pastto aid the young monk. The golem moved quickly to Jhagren’s side, and Durgothcaught a glimpse of the elf striking desperately at the hulking mass of flesh.

Still a few yards away from Adrys, Durgoth watched as the novice dropped to the ground and lashed out with a booted foot at his nearest attacker, tripping the elf. The lad’s second opponent swung his sword downward,hoping to spit the monk as he tried to get back up. Adrys clearly saw the attack and brought his left leg up in a snapping kick that knocked the sword from his attacker’s hand. Durgoth closed in and finished off the elf who had fallen underthe novice’s original attack.

Confident that the monk could defeat his last unarmed opponent, Durgoth turned back to the elf leader. Bruised and bleeding from several gaping wounds, the valiant elf nevertheless continued to fend off both the golem and Jhagren. The cleric was even surprised to see several gashes in the golem’s flesh, where the warrior’s magical sword had managed to penetratethe golem’s defenses.

While that battle continued, Durgoth motioned for Eltanel to take a contingent of cultists and make sure that the archers or any other remnant of the elven patrol did not survive. The thief nodded grimly and took off with several bloodied cultists to carry out his will.

A strangled cry made Durgoth turn back to the elf leader. Jhagren had finally managed to break the elf’s sword arm, and his continuingattacks pushed the warrior into the waiting arms of the golem. The patrol leader struggled valiantly to free himself, but the creatures strength was too much. The elf made a few more feeble attempts before the golem’s inexorable gripcrushed the life out of him. His corpse slid noiselessly to the ground.

Durgoth stood in the center of the road, blood streaming from the cut in his shoulder. He felt lightheaded and more than a little battered. For a few moments, he could hear the short gurgled cries of the wounded as Eltanel and his group administered killing blows, and then a deep silence fell over the forest. The cleric looked around worriedly. It felt as if the silence bore down upon him, as if the forest impaled him with its ancient gaze.

And then, suddenly, he laughed. Softly at first, and then finally in explosive bursts of gut-heaving mirth that echoed wildly across the trade road. He caught several of his followers glancing at him with worried looks on their faces, and for some reason, he found this even funnier. The laughter held on to him for several more moments, until Jhagren moved toward him and stood silently, obviously waiting for his next command. Durgoth wiped tears from his eyes and began to exert control over himself.

“Jhagren,” he spoke between gasps of breath, “gather all ofthe corpses and pile them into the second wagon. Make sure to hide, gather, or erase all signs of this battle. And be quick about it.”

The monk nodded and ran off. Durgoth wiped a final tear from his eye and sent a prayer of thanksgiving to Tharizdun. They had to move quickly now. Once the elves discovered this treachery, they would send out patrols in force. But once free of this blasted place, there would be nothing that could stop him from retrieving the key.

He turned back toward his wagon and made his way through the carnage. The eyes of the dead stared at him accusingly.

He ignored them.

Steel burned with silver fire in the harsh sun as Kaerionraised his blade to meet the descending attack. He cursed as the shock of the blow jarred fever-weakened tendons and muscle. He stepped forward and slightly to the side of his opponent, allowing the attacker’s sword to force his owntoward the ground. At the last moment, he withdrew his blade and spun away, hoping to catch his breath.

Sweat that had only very little to do with the blazing sun overhead streamed down his face, stinging eyes and leaving a sharp salty taste on lips pursed in frustration. He had discarded his normal mail shirt in favor of a lighter armor made from leather, but Kaerion still felt as if he were parading around in a set of full plate. Knees and shoulders protested, and breath came grudgingly, in ragged gasps. It felt as if a giant had him in a deadly bear hug.

Damned convalescence, he thought, all the while keeping a careful eye on his opponent. During the days since they had left the sheltered confines of the Rieuwood Forest, his strength had returned, slowly at first and then with more speed. Walks with Gerwyth, begun so gingerly at first, had turned into long, bone jarring rides, as the ravages of nearly two months of bed rest gave way before the restorative properties of warm spring winds and the rugged beauty of the Sunndi countryside. As the caravan continued on its journey, finally wending down into the humid arms of the Pawluck River Valley and its lush basin of trees and thick green undergrowth, Kaerion had begun his weapons practice in earnest, first privately and then with anyone who cared to test his returning skills. And here it was, just a few days before the expedition would reach the border of the Vast Swamp, and he still wasn’t at his best.

Kaerion grunted and shifted the grip on his sword. His wrists throbbed with an ache he hadn’t felt since his first days of sword training as asquire. He only hoped that his returning strength would be sufficient to protect his companions.

“Pay attention!” Gerwyth shouted, obviously mimicking thetones of an arms master rebuking a nettlesome novice.

A chorus of laughter and catcalls erupted from the knot of guardsmen who had come, with surprising regularity, to these daily training sessions-some to test their mettle against the recovering fighter, but most towatch two masters of the sword polish and hone their own breathtaking skills.

The weary fighter cast the guards a fierce glare, but they continued to jeer, some even offering him advice on his grip or his stance. He scowled again and shook his head. The early formality between the caravan guards and the rest of the expedition had dissolved beneath the tread of many miles and the assault of the elements, replaced now by an easy camaraderie. There were times, however, where he yearned for the quiet distance of those early days.

“Are you finally ready to yield, old man?” Gerwyth called outagain. “I’ll understand if your rather delicate nature gets the better of you.”