Keith Strohm - The Tomb of Horrors

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 thewalls 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 grazinglazily amid a midsummer’s sun, a pack of wolves gazing fiercely from between thetrees 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 ofthe 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 paintingscaught and reflected the party’s light as rich in tone and color as the day theyhad 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 throughchest 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.

Majandra heard Joran’s cry and Kaerion’s subsequent curse asif 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 constructedpassage, 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 inhorses, 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 andamazed 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-almostintrospective. 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 uponthe 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 finalblessings upon the dead man, speeding his journey into Heironeous’ arms, butthe 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.

“Go back to the tormentor or through the arch,

and the second great hall you’ll discover.

Shun green if you can, but night’s good color

is for those of great valor.

If shades of red stand for blood, the wise

will not need sacrifice aught but a loop of

magical metal-you’re well along your march.

“Two pits along the way will be found to lead

to a fortuitous fall, so check the wall.

These keys and those are most important of all,

and beware of trembling hands and what will maul.

If you find the false, you find the true,

and into the columned hall you’ll come,

and there the throne that’s key and keyed.

“The iron men of visage grim do more

than meets the viewer’s eye.

You’ve left and left and found my Tomb,

and now your soul will die.”

It was Gerwyth at last who broke the silence that fell overthe 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 drunkon 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 andwritten in an ancient language. The words lose a great deal in translation-andin the interpretation by dense minds.”

“Peace, Majandra,” Phathas, silent since their entry into thetomb, 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. “Itappears that Acererak left a map of sorts for those who would plunder his tomb.”

“But why would anyone do that, Phathas?” Kaerion asked. “Whywould 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 thequestion. The cleric gently closed Joran’s eyes and stood, regarding theassembled group with a grave expression. “It was said of Acererak that heenjoyed 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 anapologetic shrug-“the bards say that death was his greatest opponent, and no oneis sure who emerged victorious from that final game.”