Keith Strohm - The Tomb of Horrors

She stared at the door for a few moments, and then back at Bredeth, who also wore an ill-suited look about his face. She sighed once and made a decision. Sketching a quick and none-too-respectful bow at the dour-looking noble, she followed Kaerion out the door.

Curiosity had won.

The air stank. Damp and fetid, the awful stench filled thesewer tunnels that snaked with labyrinthine complexity beneath Rel Mord. Built of thick, dark stone, the sewers channeled waste and garbage-the unmentionablecastoffs of civilized society-from the city above into the deep-flowing watersof the Duntide River. Small ledges in each tunnel allowed passage over the oozing flow of sewage, though even the relatively high ceiling did not make the journey anywhere near comfortable.

Durgoth fought down another gag at the oppressive fumes, cursing silently at the necessity for such a demeaning entrance into the city. A thin layer of slime and moss clung to the slick walls of the passage, and the sound of dripping water echoed everywhere around him. Just for a moment, he heard in the dreadful repeating sound thousands of voices calling out his name in awe and terror. Moss-covered walls became towers and temples, draped with banners proclaiming his majesty and the power of the god he served, and the chill touch of the damp sewer air become the crisp bite of the winter wind whipping hard across the plains and grasslands of Nyrond at his command. This is how one should enter a city such as Rel Mord, the cleric thought, and he vowed to make it so after he had completed his quest.

The moment passed and Durgoth glanced at his companions, noting with a touch of bitterness that among the group that had traveled from the monastery, Jhagren alone appeared serene and unaffected by their dank, oppressive surroundings. Even young Adrys could not match the easy gait and impassive mien of his master, though it was obvious that the apprentice tried valiantly. Only the dull, heavy tread of the golem, walking dutifully behind him, kept the clerics temper from fraying completely. He allowed a rare smile at the thought of his creation. Let the others wonder about the extent of his powers, now. He could command death, and soon, he knew, his Master would give him the power to command life.

Their guide, a rough-voiced human with a small, angular face that resembled a ferret, interrupted the clerics ruminations. “About twentyyards up this passage is a narrow side tunnel that leads into a larger chamber. We can take a few moments to rest there before continuing on.”

“I don’t understand,” Durgoth replied. “We are obviouslybeyond the city gates, and we’ve passed at least four separate ladders thatwould take us up into Rel Mord proper. Why don’t we push on and use the nextladder?”

Truthfully, he was more than annoyed at the delay. The sooner they settled in the city, the sooner they could make final preparations and begin their journey.

“We may be beyond the gates,” the guide spoke in a calmvoice, “but the streets of Rel Mord are patrolled by armed sentinels, and wecan’t risk being spotted as we emerge from the sewers. It would endanger notonly us, but also the Guild’s relationship with the city watch. As long as we donothing overt, the watch commanders can take their bribes in good conscience. And even were we to leave the sewers unnoticed, it would be difficult to travel inconspicuously.” He indicated the hulking golem with a deft finger. “Evencloaked as it is, it would be a risky thing to try and pass off the creature as human. No. There are several passages that will take us into the Poor Quarter. From there, I can take you to a Guild house, where you’ll be hidden until you’reready to leave as a respectable caravan master.”

Durgoth nodded reluctantly at the logic of the thief’s words.“Then lead on, but hurry. I have much more important things to do than skulkaround in a gods-blasted sewer.”

When they entered the chamber, Durgoth was surprised at its elegance. A high-vaulted ceiling arched into darkness beyond the light of their group’s torches, and the walls, almost painfully drab in the sewer tunnels, werealmost garishly ornate, decorated as they were with grinning bas-relief gargoyles and prettily accented stonework. Several passages ran off this chamber, each one beginning with a wide archway. Above the center of each arch, seemingly flying out of the very stone itself, hung the torso of a beautiful winged human. The right hand of each sculpture bore a stone sword, while the left hand lay open, palm up, as if holding something invisible to the eye.

The cleric looked around for a moment, almost enviously. Their guide had said this chamber was used long ago as a way station for the caretakers and guards that once patrolled the sewers, repairing any damage and clearing the tunnels of any creatures that might have taken up residence there. The quality of the stonework spoke volumes as to the skill and wealth of the founders of Rel Mord, and Durgoth could not help but be impressed.

How far they have fallen, he thought as he watched several of his cultists lay down their packs and wipe the muck from their boots. Out of the corner of his eye, the cleric saw Jhagren talking softly with their guide. When the two were finished, the monk made his way silently toward him.

“How long do we rest?” Durgoth asked.

“A few moments only,” Jhagren replied. “Our guide indicatedthat we had perhaps another half hour of travel before we were deep enough in the Poor Quarter to emerge from the sewers.”

“Good,” the cleric nodded. “How are the others holding up?”

The journey by river boat and then overland had taken over a month of hard travel, and even he, nourished by his god and the finest provisions he could purchase, felt the strain of such a trek. His concern, however, was not truly for the welfare of his followers. Let Tharizdun give strength to those who deserved it. He only wished not to be slowed down by those who were undeserving.

“They are tired, blessed one,” replied the monk, “but theyare eager to accompany you on your quest. They will do what it takes to continue.”

“Indeed they will,” the cleric confirmed with a hint ofsteel. He would have replied further, but another voice interrupted him.

“Danger,” it hissed with the cold sibilance of the grave. Ittook a few moments for Durgoth to realize that it was the golem itself that had spoken.

“Where?” the cleric asked, searching for the cause of thealarm.

But it was too late.

The room plunged into total darkness.

“What treachery is this?” Durgoth shouted above the wildcries of his followers.

A moment later another voice answered, “Please, my dearfriend, let us not be too hasty in our pronouncements. This is not treachery. This is merely a renegotiation of terms.”

Durgoth’s blood burned with anger. Was that amusement heheard in the ringing tones of that voice? He was nobody’s plaything, to be usedand made a fool of. Quietly, he reached for his obsidian mace.

“And what if I choose not to renegotiate?” he asked of themysterious voice.

When the reply came, it was yet a different voice. “Thatwould be most… unfortunate.”

“Then here is my reply,” said the cleric.

He touched the tip of his mace and shouted into the darkness. The room filled with a dim bluish light. Durgoth could see figures skulking out of the shadows toward their group.

Suddenly, the air was filled with the hiss of flying crossbow bolts. Two cultists fell to the stone floor immediately, bolts imbedded in the center of their chests, while a third clutched his leg in obvious agony. Durgoth shrank back for a moment, expecting the sting of metal, but Jhagren Syn sprang into action. Soundlessly, the monk stepped to Durgoth’s side, his hands movingblindingly fast. Three bolts to the left clattered harmlessly to the floor, while the fourth, which sped right for Durgoth’s throat, split in two beneaththe knife edge blow of Jhagren’s calloused hand.