Majandra’s attention returned to what the wizard was saying.
“For many years,” continued Phathas, “Nyrond was a kingdom divided against itself. Disgusted by his father’s leadership during the Greyhawk Wars, 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 the valiant efforts of the Heironean clergy,” he nodded once toward Vaxor, “and the decisive leadership of King Lynwerd, who was then Crown Prince of Nyrond.”
“But the Regicide had broken the spirit of the already beleaguered 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 why she hadn’t seen it before. With a shock, she recalled that her own studies with the 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 the ensuing silence with an orator’s practiced ease, “and there are a number of loyal Nyrondese, both noble and common, who would see our country restored to its former greatness. Thanks to Phathas’ tireless research, we have an opportunity 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 Bredeth who interjected. “We have discovered the location of an ancient tomb, the resting place of the fabled wizard, Acererak. Inside lies a veritable king’s ransom 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 will rise again from its ashes—” the noble nearly shouted, slapping his hand hard against the table—“and she will once more stand among the greatest kingdoms of the 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 final resting 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 ear picked 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 realize that they were not directed at their plan, but right back at the fighter himself.
“Peace my friends,” Phathas spoke, forestalling Bredeth’s heated 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 that Acererak was no benevolent conjurer or kindly sage,” he said. “Rather, he was completely 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, “have thought 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 dwells within 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-maned elf, who, up until this point, had remained completely silent. “Your message said nothing about crawling through some decrepit tomb, only that you needed my woodlore.”
Phathas’ answering smile split his face into a canyon of lines. “Exactly correct, my old friend,” the mage responded with obvious affection. “We’ve crawled through enough dungeons together, haven’t we?”
Majandra dropped her cup at the wizard’s words, spilling the last few drops of her ale. By the looks she saw on her friends’ faces, she wasn’t the only one surprised to hear that Phathas knew the elf, let alone that one 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 before any of them could voice their thoughts, Phathas spoke again.
“Acererak’s 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 with several 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 Vast Swamp is crawling with humanoid tribes, not to mention the hazards of the swamplands themselves.”
It was Vaxor, however, who responded. “It is said, friend Kaerion, 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’s entreaty. “I owe you much, Phathas,” he said, “and loath are the elves to turn their 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 us retire 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.
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.
4
The air stank. Damp and fetid, the awful stench filled the sewer tunnels that snaked with labyrinthine complexity beneath Rel Mord. Built of thick, dark stone, the sewers channeled waste and garbage—the unmentionable castoffs of civilized society—from the city above into the deep-flowing waters of 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.