It was Gerwyth at last who broke the silence that fell over the 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 drunk on 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 and written in an ancient language. The words lose a great deal in translation—and in the interpretation by dense minds.”
“Peace, Majandra,” Phathas, silent since their entry into the tomb, 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. “It appears that Acererak left a map of sorts for those who would plunder his tomb.”
“But why would anyone do that, Phathas?” Kaerion asked. “Why would 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 the question. The cleric gently closed Joran’s eyes and stood, regarding the assembled group with a grave expression. “It was said of Acererak that he enjoyed 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 an apologetic shrug—“the bards say that death was his greatest opponent, and no one is sure who emerged victorious from that final game.”
Gerwyth’s throaty chuckle sliced through the silence once again. Though still pleasant to hear, Majandra found herself unaccountably irritated by the rangers seeming mirth. “What in all the Nine Hells do you find so funny?” she asked in a voice intended to sting.
The elf merely continued to chuckle, seemingly undisturbed by her discomfort. That thought caused her temper to flare even more, and she was about to send a blistering retort his way when Gerwyth held up his hands in entreaty. “Please, my Lady,” he said as formally as he could between the laughter still present in his voice, “do not wound me further. I was merely thinking that if what Vaxor has said is true, then Acererak built this tomb hoping that foolhardy men and women would come to defile his resting place in search of hidden wealth. If this is a game, then we have played right into his hands.”
That thought sent the anger draining from her like water from a burst dam. With a sinking feeling, she realized that the ranger’s words were true. The tomb wasn’t simply a repository of ancient knowledge ready to be lifted from its hoary grasp. She had been wrong to think so. Rather, the bard and her fellow companions were playing pieces in a vast game whose board had been built by a long-dead wizard. And they had already lost one of their own in pursuit of victory. She looked around at her companions and saw, by the haunted look in their eyes, the same thoughts flash into each of their minds.
Phathas cleared his throat. “There is wisdom in your words, Gerwyth,” the mage said softly, “however bitter the humor that lurks behind them. Yet I believe that courage and cunning and, yes, a fair bit of luck, will see us through. If this is a game, we have been given a glimpse of the rules.” He pointed at the spidery runes inlaid on the mosaic. “So let us gather ourselves for the challenge and proceed. Perhaps we will find, at the end, that our strength and nobility of purpose will be the equal of Acererak’s fiendish traps.”
It was a good speech, Majandra thought—inspiring, impassioned, and with just the right inflections and oratorical nuances. Quickly, the party reformed, and she heard Kaerion’s voice booming out instructions.
“Landra, have your men break out the poles,” he said with that familiar note of authority. “We will follow along the mosaic path, but we must move carefully, lest we fall victim to more pits.”
In a few moments, the company began to follow the winding red path across the length of the chamber. Three times, the guards triggered pit traps with their ten-foot poles, each one opening up to a thirty-foot drop and ending in spiked doom. At last, they drew near the end of the passage. Looming straight before them, set into the smooth stone wall, Majandra could see the leering face of a devil. Whoever had sculpted such a disturbing portrait must have had personal experience with these foul creatures, for every detail of the creature’s face was rendered in horrifying complexity. Two great horns curled out from the top of the beast’s scaled forehead, and its gaping mouth was opened, as if it were roaring its hellish curses upon the world. From this distance, Majandra could see that the sculpture took up almost an entire ten-foot section of wall, and the mouth itself opened to a diameter of almost three feet.
As the party approached the stone face, Majandra saw, somewhere off to her left, an archway covered entirely with a dense mist. In the dim light, the half-elf could see several shadowy forms weaving through the misty veil. She shivered as she drew closer to the bizarre sculpture and wondered if the others had noticed how cold it had become this close to the face. Several guards flanked Phathas, who had walked up in front of the gaping mouth. The mage drew forth a wand of bleached bone and passed it slowly before the face. The stone pulsed red in the wand’s wake.
Phathas nodded once. “There is magic here,” he said simply.
“Well,” Gerwyth said, motioning toward the face and the arch with graceful hands. “It appears we have a choice. The hole inside the mouth could lead to another passageway inside the tomb, or we could walk through the mist and beyond that arch.”
Majandra pulled at her lower lip, watching as the guards conferred among themselves. Bredeth, she noted with interest, had moved closer to the archway and was staring intently at the stonework. “If you believe the words of Acererak,” she said after a few moments, “we should probably take the arch.”
Kaerion threw her a questioning look, his brow knitted in obvious confusion, and the half-elf was reminded once again that not everyone had spent a lifetime perfecting the ability to memorize vast amounts of information.
“‘Go back to the tormentor or through the arch, and the second great hall you’ll discover,’” she quoted.
“As you said, Majandra, the question is whether or not we can trust Acererak’s words,” Vaxor said from his place next to the old mage. “Perhaps the words laid out by the canny wizard are a trap, and we’ll follow them to our doom.”
“Then maybe we should divide into two groups, each covering one of these passages,” said Bredeth, as he drew nearer to the swirling mist inside the archway. “That way we could cover more of the tomb within the same time.”
There was a startled exclamation from the collected guards at this suggestion, and even Majandra found herself reacting instinctively to such a comment. Gerwyth, however, had moved quickly toward the young man, and the bard could see that he laid a companionable hand upon the noble’s shoulder.
“I have traveled many paths in my long life, friend Bredeth,” the ranger said firmly, “and the one thing that I have learned in that time, is that when it comes to exploring underground, never, ever split the party. Down that way lies death and madness—or worse.”
Majandra watched in amazement as the noble, so quick to react to any hint of criticism, shrugged. “It was only a suggestion,” he said mildly.