Keith Strohm - The Tomb of Horrors

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What choice do I have?” he replied.

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

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

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

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

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