As Kaerion, still gasping for breath, stumbled toward his own companions, who now stared dumbfounded halfway up the path, he wondered why the bullywugs hadn’t attacked. Surely there was no way that the four of them, wounded and exhausted as they were, could prevail in the face of such overwhelming odds.
Then, as the sun peeked over the horizon, Kaerion caught a glint of reflection from somewhere behind him. He turned and surveyed the scene. In the distance, along one of the flat-topped hills, he could make out a strange formation. Black rocks erupted like daggers from the top of the hill, forming the shape of a grinning skull.
Suddenly, Kaerion knew why the bullywugs refused to move any closer, knew why the entire plain before them lay silent and brooding beneath the newly risen sun. Kaerion shuddered at his discovery. He and his companions were safe for the moment.
They had found it.
Before them, marked with a gruesome symbol, lay Acererak’s unholy resting place—the Tomb of Horrors.
Part 3
18
A ragged shout went up from the assembled guards. Majandra turned from the supply inventory she was taking—her fifth since they had arrived at the supposed site of Acererak’s tomb nearly three days ago—and sent a prayer to any god listening. She looked at the knot of guards scrambling with picks and shovels. It was clear they had found the collapsed remains of yet another tunnel. She only hoped this one would actually lead into the tomb.
Over the course of the last three days, they had found four such collapsed tunnels. After hours of backbreaking labor, they had unearthed each one and sent a contingent of guards into them. Three had proven to be useless, ending in walls of solid rock. The fourth had led to an ancient metal door and a trap so cleverly constructed that it had nearly killed three of the guards when huge sections of the tunnel crashed down upon them. Only the quick work of the remaining guards and a judicious use of Phathas’ magic had freed them quickly enough for Vaxor to call upon the healing power of Heironeous and save the wounded men.
Nor was it only their expedition that had suffered the sting of the cruel traps protecting the ancient tomb. During the course of their excavation, the guards had uncovered fragments of armor, bits of bone, even the cracked and shattered remains of almost whole skeletons—all of it a grim testament to the devilishly cunning construction of the tomb’s protection. Not for the first time, Majandra found herself wondering how many enterprising souls had braved the horrors of the Vast Swamp, only to die here at the doorstep of Acererak’s tomb.
These were truly dark thoughts, she realized, for one so close to completing a quest that had occupied much of her time these past three years. And yet, she found most of her thoughts taking dark turns ever since Kaerion and Gerwyth had set out in search of Bredeth.
“Worried, child?” asked a voice from somewhere close behind her.
Majandra jumped with surprise before recognizing Vaxor’s deep baritone. Turning, she saw that the cleric had walked up while she had been deep in thought. He now stood there solicitously, his deep-set eyes searching yet compassionate as they seemed to look through her. Often, when confronted by full-blooded humans who insisted on classifying her as young—and therefore the target of patronizing discourses on life—the half-elf fought the urge to point out that she was, in all likelihood, as old, if not older, than they.
Somehow, the urge never manifested itself when she spoke with Vaxor. Nor did it do so now. Something in the man’s demeanor would have made any such statement seem crass and petty. Instead, she swallowed and said, “They have been gone nearly five days, Vaxor, and even Phathas’ attempts at scrying have not revealed anything. Of course I’m worried.”
The cleric placed a battle-roughened hand upon her shoulder. “I understand your concern, but Gerwyth is as skilled a ranger as ever I’ve seen. He has led us safely through danger countless times. If anything, I’d worry about those bullywugs. They are probably still trying to find out what army has swept through their tribal lands.”
In spite of everything, Majandra found herself smiling. What Vaxor said was most likely true. Yet for all of his comforting words, he had not mentioned Kaerion, and it was clear to the bard’s trained ear that the omission was deliberate. Despite all they had gone through these past several months, the fallen paladin stood as a barrier between Majandra and the cleric, as if Vaxor’s obvious distaste for Kaerion had now somehow extended to a part of her. She should have been angry at the priest’s uncompromising righteousness, his unyielding judgment. Instead, Majandra found herself profoundly saddened. That a good and noble man such as Vaxor should be so blinded by his own fanaticism was a cause for sorrow, not fury.
Her smile fading, the bard returned Vaxor’s steady gaze. The two stood in tense silence until the cursing shouts of several guards broke the deadlock. It was Landra, however, all cool efficiency and control, who actually approached the gruff Heironean priest.
“The men say the rock in the collapsed tunnel is too hard for them to break through with their tools,” the guard captain reported. “They’ll need some help, preferably of the arcane kind.”
“At once,” was all that Vaxor said, before hurrying off to find Phathas. As Majandra watched the cleric go, she couldn’t help but see Landra’s face twist into a grimace.
“Bit of an old lemon, if you ask me,” the weathered fighter said conspiratorially. “That man could use the largest wineskin this side of the Glorioles. Do him some good.” And then she, too, turned and walked back toward her charges. This time, Majandra’s face split into a wide grin, her spirits truly lifted.
Moments later, the bard watched as Phathas walked slowly up to the small passage the guards had cleared in the collapsed tunnel. Quietly, the sweat-soaked men and women assembled behind the mage as he raised thin arms above his head. Silence filled the camp as the old man’s dexterous hands wove complex patterns in the air. Again, the half-elf watched her former master with pride and not a little awe. Even bent by age and the weight of his long life, Phathas’ consummate skill was apparent in every gesture and motion. Here was a wizard who had dedicated his life to the pursuit of knowledge and the mastery of arcane forces—forces that gathered even now at his fingertips.
Majandra watched as the spell neared its completion. The hair at the base of her neck prickled with the strength of the latent power Phathas had summoned With a final flourish and several short commands in the elusive and subtle language of magic, the wizard extended one fist sharply before him.
Nothing happened.
And then the world exploded in a cloud of dust and rock as large volumes of dirt and stone were obliterated. Another round of cheers rose up from the guards when the gentle wind blew the haze of detritus away, revealing the smooth worked stone of a passageway leading deeper into the hill. Cheers soon turned to cries of dismay, however, as a blast of fetid air erupted from the passageway, causing everyone in the assembly to fall to their knees retching. Even from her relatively safe vantage point among the supply rafts, Majandra gagged as the stench of corruption wafted toward her. If there was ever any doubt that something dark and evil inhabited the ancient tomb, it was put to rest by the foul odor emanating from the newly unearthed tunnel.