The hall erupted into spontaneous murmurs, as the once-miserable cultists writhed in holy fervor. Durgoth accepted their adoration and gave back twice more to great Tharizdun. Gently, almost as if he were congratulating his own child, the cleric placed his hand upon the construct’s shoulder.
“Good,” he replied to his latest triumph. “That is very good indeed.”
His power spent, Durgoth turned from the golem and regarded his flock. Men and women, grievously injured by their own hands, were sprawled in clumps before him, muscle and bone exposed to the air where they had sawed off limbs and flesh as a gruesome offering to their god. One of them reached out a bloodied stump and tried to touch the clerics robe. Durgoth curled his lips reflexively and kicked out at the offending cultist—angered by the woman’s audacity. His person was inviolate, a precept he drilled into his followers’ heads from the moment they arrived at the monastery.
He watched the mewling cultists for a few moments more. Their ecstatic cries reminded him of the pitiful moans of jhapeth addicts, men and women who had long-since given away their humanity, losing themselves in the seductive comfort of that narcotic root. Like the jhapeth-lost, these cultists represented the castoffs and dregs of the Flanaess, fugitives that he had welcomed in Tharizdun’s name.
And now they would be the instruments of the Dark One’s freedom.
He called Jhagren over with an absent wave of his hand, quietly satisfied at the monk’s quick response. Behind him, Durgoth could feel the presence of the golem looming in the shadows. If his pock-faced advisor felt any discomfort at the constructs presence, the red-robed man didn’t show it. He simply bowed once as he approached and regarded Durgoth with his usual even expression. The cleric smiled, but waited a few moments before speaking. For all the mystery that surrounded this man, he knew that it was tied closely with the Scarlet Brotherhood. Perhaps Jhagren felt that he could steal the codex and deliver it to the Order in Hesuel Ilshar, or perhaps he was simply a spy. Either way, Durgoth enjoyed testing the man’s patience.
“What do you say, Jhagren? It appears that our lord has truly blessed us.”
Jhagren nodded impassively. “Indeed, we have been blessed Durgoth.”
“Now, my friend,” Durgoth said, in that slightly superior tone that he knew must make the monk yearn to send his hand striking at the soft cartilage of his throat, “it is time to prepare for our journey. Tharizdun has granted us a great boon this day, but we will still need support for our expedition.”
“Yes, blessed one,” Jhagren replied. “The tomb we seek lies many weeks to the south, beyond the kingdom of Sunndi. I have already contacted some associates of mine. We shall meet them in the Nyrondese city of Rel Mord, and from there we will strike out for the Vast Swamp.”
“Good,” Durgoth said. “Will we have difficulty remaining inconspicuous in the city?” He motioned, indicating the golem behind him.
“No, blessed one. The companions who will accompany us on our journey know several, shall we say ‘less-traveled’, ways into Rel Mord. And, like any large city, there is no dearth of innkeepers who are willing to look the other way as long as they have enough gold coins to distract them.”
The cleric nodded, confident that the always-efficient monk had everything in order. “Excellent,” he replied. “Then I leave you to find what able-bodied help you can to load our boats for travel. We leave in two days’ time.”
He gestured once, knowing that the golem would follow him out as he left the room. Durgoth had done some research on his own. The tomb they sought was none other than Acererak’s, an ancient wizard who, it was said, had sought to conquer even death. Legends surrounded Acererak’s tomb, rumors and old tales of magic and treasure beyond the imagination. And danger. Those heroes who set out after Acererak’s legacy never returned.
Durgoth smiled.
There would be plenty of opportunities to make sure Jhagren met with an accident. And then the world would be his.
3
Rel Mord sat like a giant fist in the vast grasslands of northern Nyrond. Beyond its fortified wall, the marble spires of the Royal Palace soared into the afternoon sky, but even its exquisite craftsmanship could not disguise the crenellated barbicans and manned towers visible even from outside the city. Other stone structures, less lofty perhaps but no less imposing, proudly thrust their own elaborate heights skyward, like the teeth of some great dragon. The swift-moving Duntide River lay at the city’s feet, a jeweled serpent whose sun-dappled scales burned bright beneath the noonday light. Everywhere the sound of life thrummed, strong and sure.
Despite the press of bodies milling about the stone-fortified gatehouse guarding one of the three entrances to the city, Gerwyth hummed a lively elven song. Kaerion looked over at his companion, wishing, not for the first time, that he could share in his friend’s high spirits. But a sense of unease had stolen over him these past few days, and it had grown steadier as they approached the capital.
If Rel Mord was the martial and political heart of the country, Nyrond itself was an aging soldier. Roads that had once crisscrossed rolling plains and gentle hills, connecting and supporting cities, towns, and hamlets, lay damaged and in disrepair, their earthen lengths scarred with deep ruts and pocked with wheel-snapping ditches and holes. Or they stood uncared for, allowed to run wild with bracken and the thorned scrub vines that grew as wild as the almost endless grass fields. What’s more, the village folk were withdrawn, sullen. Farm doors remained closed to strangers, and merchants refused to trade, no matter how heavy the purse before them.
Kaerion had noted all of this and voiced his unease to Gerwyth. The ranger had just shrugged and proclaimed the ways of humans too inscrutable to his elven sensibilities. The rest of the journey had taken place in silence, as Kaerion’s distress grew.
Now, the two stood amid a crowd of wagons and people, waiting for their turn to enter Rel Mord. The rank stench of unwashed bodies and animal dung burned in Kaerion’s nostrils, and he tried to ignore the rising shouts of squabbling traders and farmers as they all pressed forward, eager to enter the city. He wondered how his friend’s trained senses could handle such a miserable assault, and was just about to ask when a large weight slammed into his side, nearly toppling him over.
With a grunt, he disentangled himself from the net of arms and feet that surrounded him and came face to face with a red-faced bull of a man who stared back at him with an unpleasantly furrowed brow. The man’s eyes were drawn together sharply and his mouth seemed frozen in a permanent frown.
“My apologies,” Kaerion began in his friendliest tone, “I did not mean to stand in the place that you intended to fall into.” He gave the unpleasant man a hard look, at odds with his congenial tone.
Though broad of shoulder and thick of limb, the offending man still did not have Kaerion’s mass. At first it seemed as if he might actually growl something back, but he took another look at the fighter’s well-tended mail and leather scabbard and hastily grumbled an unintelligible phrase before scampering off into the crowds.
Kaerion felt a slender hand rest upon his shoulder.
“Easy, Kaer,” Gerwyth said in a soothing tone. “No sense traveling all the way to Rel Mord only to spend time in the city prison.”
Kaerion exhaled through his nose before replying, “Gods, you know how much I hate large cities!”
In truth, it wasn’t the unending crowds and lack of privacy that was really bothering him. The wineskins had run out quickly, and he was afflicted with a throbbing head that never seemed to leave him. His nights, never the refuge they were for other people, were now filled with nightmares. If anything positive could be said for this city, it was that he could soon find himself in the taproom of some inn, cradling a blessed mug of ale. Maybe even two.