Keith Strohm - The Tomb of Horrors

His companion was another matter entirely. The gorgeous elven ranger had introduced himself with the grace and charm befitting a royal courtier, his silver tongue lapsing into the most beautifully accented Elvish that she had ever heard, in order to pay her a particularly “adventurous”complement. She had smiled and accepted his words gracefully enough, and she had found herself responding despite everything she knew about such rakish folk. And this line of thinking wasn’t helping her concentrate on the matter at hand atall.

She watched as Vaxor stood, helping Phathas to his feet. The ancient mage wore his power like a cloak. Majandra could almost see the eddies of arcane energy swirling about him. Eyes that were gray as the clouds of a summer storm looked out from a face of harsh angles. Like many wizards, he wore a beard, silvered by time but thick and curling in the heated room. Unlike many of his noble colleagues at the University, who groomed their beards almost obsessively with silvered combs, often weaving the hair into thick braids, Phathas’ beard resembled a wild bird’s nest of tangles and knots.

Majandra’s attention returned to what the wizard was saying.

“For many years,” continued Phathas, “Nyrond was a kingdomdivided against itself. Disgusted by his father’s leadership during the GreyhawkWars, which had left much of the kingdom in debt to foreign powers, Black Prince Sewarndt poisoned the king and, with a cadre of his most trusted advisors, attempted to seize the throne. He would have succeeded if it hadn’t been for thevaliant efforts of the Heironean clergy,” he nodded once toward Vaxor, “and thedecisive leadership of King Lynwerd, who was then Crown Prince of Nyrond.”

“But the Regicide had broken the spirit of the alreadybeleaguered country. Starvation, drought, and the aftermath of the war had scarred Nyrond deeply; civil war nearly killed it. And I fear that the country still suffers from this illness of spirit.”

Phathas paused for a moment, head bowed. Majandra was struck by how fragile the mage seemed. His voice, always rich and resonant, sounded rough around the edges, and his hands, confident hands that were ever ready to wield ancient spells or teach a fledgling spellcaster her first cantrip, shook ever so slightly.

He’s getting old, she thought in amazement, and wondered whyshe hadn’t seen it before. With a shock, she recalled that her own studies withthe mage were nearly two-score years ago. The bard looked at the smooth skin of her hands. Time marches on for us all, she knew, but elven blood slows the pace.

“The situation is intolerable,” continued Vaxor, filling theensuing silence with an orator’s practiced ease, “and there are a number ofloyal Nyrondese, both noble and common, who would see our country restored to its former greatness. Thanks to Phathas’ tireless research, we have anopportunity to do just that.”

The priest crossed his arms and indicated with a nod of his head that Phathas should continue, but to Majandra’s surprise, it was Bredethwho interjected. “We have discovered the location of an ancient tomb, theresting place of the fabled wizard, Acererak. Inside lies a veritable king’sransom of gold and magic, treasure enough to pay off our debts to these foreign kingdoms with some left to fill the country’s coffers once again. Nyrond willrise again from its ashes-” the noble nearly shouted, slapping his hand hardagainst the table-“and she will once more stand among the greatest kingdoms ofthe world.”

Stunned as she was by the ferocity in the man’s tone,Majandra nearly fell from her chair at the sharp bark of laughter that erupted from the man called Kaerion.

“That’s your plan?” asked the broad-shouldered fighter.“You’re going to restore your nation’s glory by pillaging an old wizard’s finalresting place? Why not take to the roads and steal what you need from itinerant travelers? It would be far easier.”

Despite the fighters harsh tone, Majandra’s trained earpicked up a trace of anger and bitterness. The hidden emotions beat a subtle counterpoint to the man’s words, and it took the bard a few moments to realizethat they were not directed at their plan, but right back at the fighter himself.

“Peace my friends,” Phathas spoke, forestalling Bredeth’sheated retort. The noble sat back down in the chair from which he had sprung and closed his mouth sharply-though his golden eyes smoldered.

The old mage directed his gaze at Kaerion. “Rest assured thatAcererak was no benevolent conjurer or kindly sage,” he said. “Rather, he wascompletely and totally devoted to the cause of evil. The treasure buried within his tomb was either stolen, extorted, or gathered from the ranks of slain heroes who died opposing his dark reign.

“All of us,” he gestured to the assembled group, “havethought long and hard about our course of action, and we have committed to seeing it through. Make no mistake; it will not be easy. Legends tell of Acererak’s quest to rob death of its power. It’s probable that he still dwellswithin his tomb in some form, surrounded by every horror his twisted mind can envision. With skill and a fair bit of luck, we may succeed where others before us have failed.”

“Then where do we fit in Phathas?” asked the golden-manedelf, who, up until this point, had remained completely silent. “Your messagesaid nothing about crawling through some decrepit tomb, only that you needed my woodlore.”

Phathas’ answering smile split his face into a canyon oflines. “Exactly correct, my old friend,” the mage responded with obviousaffection. “We’ve crawled through enough dungeons together, haven’t we?”

Majandra dropped her cup at the wizard’s words, spilling thelast few drops of her ale. By the looks she saw on her friends’ faces, shewasn’t the only one surprised to hear that Phathas knew the elf, let alone thatone of the greatest minds at the Royal University had once strapped on gear and braved the dangers of the adventuring life. Kaerion, too, seemed surprised at the revelation-surprised and, she’d have to say, none too pleased. But beforeany of them could voice their thoughts, Phathas spoke again.

“Acereraks tomb lies deep in the Vast Swamp, south of Sunndi.We need you and Kaerion to guide us through that treacherous land. The journey will not be easy or, I’m afraid, terribly swift. We have made arrangements withseveral merchants and will have adequately provisioned wagons and a small team of drovers to help us carry out whatever we can discover in the tomb.”

“Gerwyth, this is crazy,” interjected Kaerion. “The VastSwamp is crawling with humanoid tribes, not to mention the hazards of the swamplands themselves.”

It was Vaxor, however, who responded. “It is said, friendKaerion, that Heironeous favors the bold and punishes the timid I believe that the Valorous One favors this mission, and the resources of my Church are at our disposal.”

The bard watched as Kaerion recoiled at the priest’s words.For a moment, she thought he would get up and strike Vaxor, so great was the anger that flared in his countenance. Instead, he scowled at his companion. “Ger,” the man said, “surely you’re not-”

The ranger held up his hand, cutting off his friend’sentreaty. “I owe you much, Phathas,” he said, “and loath are the elves to turntheir back on those they call friend. Let me have a look at your plans, and I will speak with Kaerion privately. We will deliver our answer to you in the morning.”

“Very well,” the mage nodded and stood. “Come Vaxor. Let usretire to our suite and fill Gerwyth in. We will all assemble in the morning.”

Majandra watched as the three men left the taproom. The elf threw his friend a single glance, but Kaerion simply scowled and downed his ale in a single gulp. Without a word of farewell, he stood up and headed for the door of the inn.