“I shall, my child,” the cleric replied in his most soothing tone, conscious of the other cultists watching this exchange. Gently he laid a hand upon the now-whimpering man’s forehead. Closing his eyes, he whispered a dark prayer to Tharizdun. With a final hiss, the cleric sent the power of his god arcing through the cultist. The man screamed one final time and then lay still, the life burned out of his body.
Durgoth rose and made a simple gesture of blessing on the corpse. Stupidity, he knew, should never be rewarded.
It was Eltanel, emerging from the shadowy length of the passage ahead, who finally broke the ensuing silence. “The way ahead is clear, blessed one,” he said. “I have marked the passage that the Nyrondese party has taken. I recommend that we rest for a bit, or else we risk coming too close to them.”
Durgoth nodded at the man’s report, noting with interest the sweat covering the thief’s dark brow and the small wet circle along the man’s right thigh—no doubt blood. Whatever Eltanel had discovered, his passage through the tomb had not been as easy as he tried to pass off.
Durgoth offered the thief a knowing smile and was about to turn away when Jhagren spoke. “What of Adrys?” the monk asked, not quite hiding his concern. “Did you see any sign of him?”
Durgoth blinked in surprise. In all of their time together, this was the first time he had seen a chink in the monk’s armor of emotional detachment. So, he noted, the man does care for his apprentice. This was useful information—information that could serve as a weapon in the future.
“No, Jhagren,” the thief replied at last. “I did not see any sign of Adrys.”
“Come, my friend,” Durgoth said, offering the monk a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Adrys is a clever lad—and trained very well. He will find his way back to us, and when he returns, I shall reward him greatly for his service.”
Truth be told, Durgoth had been enraged by the pup’s presumptuous actions. The boy had specific instructions yet chose to ignore them. It was only when it became clear that his involvement had caused the death of that cursed Heironean priest that Durgoth had calmed down. The loss of Vaxor weakened the Nyrondese expedition considerably. Adrys may have handed them the key to an easy victory. In light of that fact, it was easy to view the boy in a more charitable light. If only he could pry Adrys out from under the tutelage of that damned monk. He’d make an excellent servant of Tharizdun.
Obviously not reassured by the cleric’s words of encouragement, Jhagren turned without a word and stormed off in silence. It took a great deal of self-control not to blast the impudent monk as he skulked about. It was only the fact that they were so close to their goal that stayed the dark priests hand. When the Dark One was finally free, Jhagren and all his cursed brethren would be crushed beneath his heel.
“Blessed one?” a tentative voice asked interrupting his thoughts.
Durgoth spun to face the owner of the offending voice, irritation scribed in every muscle of his body. “What is it, now?” he asked.
“Pardon the intrusion,” replied a scar-faced cultist, “but the others were wondering what we should do with the body.” He indicated his recently deceased companion who still lay upon the floor, a pool of blood surrounding his body like a scarlet halo.
Durgoth thought a moment before responding. He had no use for the blasted corpse and would just as soon leave it to rot. However, he had no desire to spend any length of time near the soon-to-be-decaying mass of flesh and, if Eltanel was correct, they’d have to spend a good deal of time here before moving on. In another instant, the cleric made his decision.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said to the cultist, who bowed obsequiously before retreating back to the safety of his brethren. Durgoth sent a silent command and was rewarded a few moments later by the hulking presence of his golem. As the construct regarded him with its cold, eyeless sockets, the cleric pointed to the dead body on the stone floor and said simply, “Dispose of this.”
Without a sound, the golem laid a single meaty hand upon the corpse and lifted it up, walking back the way the group had come, following their original path into the tomb. Despite his initial worries that the creature would slow the group down once inside Acererak’s trap-filled lair, the golem had proven exceptionally useful—both in resisting the deadly force of spears, sliding walls, darts, and other nefarious devices meant to kill intruders, and in cowing the rest of the cultists in continuing on when fear would have caused them to retreat.
Once again Durgoth had cause to be grateful for finding the Minthexian Codex. Even now, the codex called out to him, promising power and dark wisdom in its ancient pages. With a start, he realized that it had been several days since he had looked upon its flowing script and hoary symbols. He was surprised at how deeply his mind yearned to wrestle with its secrets once again.
When he looked around, Durgoth was surprised to find himself standing before his own pack, the box that held the codex out in front of him. Dazedly, he called out to Sydra, who sat nearby, concentrating her powers upon a certain nobleman.
“Where are they now?” he asked.
It took a few moments for the sorceress to respond, and when she did, her voice was thick, almost husky, as if she were waking from a deep sleep. “They are in a chapel of some sort. Someone just set off a trap, unleashing a lightning bolt that killed several of their guards. The nobles are conferring as to what they should do next.”
Durgoth smiled at the news. “Excellent. And how is our very own noble?”
The cleric saw a brief frown cross the sorceress’ face. “He resists my presence, blessed one,” Sydra replied. “He is strong, but he cannot break free.”
“That is good,” Durgoth said as he settled in to peruse the vellum pages before him. “I hope that you can maintain control. I have important work for Bredeth.” He looked up from the text. “Important work indeed.”
The pungent tang of electrified air filled the room.
From her position to the left of the altar, Majandra regarded the smoking corpses with tears in her eyes. The lightning bolt had left nothing but charred flesh in its wake. She gave in to the wave of dizziness that swept over her and dropped to her knees with a gut-wrenching sob.
Death. Everything in this gods forsaken tomb stank of death. Every twisted mural and every corrupted holy symbol in this demented chapel reinforced her perception. She felt death worrying at the bright core of her spirit, like a feasting jackal. It was inside of her now, and with every breath she felt as if she were exhaling a bit more of her own life. If she were anywhere else in the Flanaess, she might have prayed. But not here. Not at the site of Acererak’s twisted power. She was afraid of what dark being might hear her plea.
Instead, she let tears flow down her dirt-streaked face, a silent tribute to the two guards who had given their lives in this tomb. Never mind that they were both dragging bags full of gold and silver coins—thousands of them if their quick count was in any way accurate—before the lightning bolt had arced down the center aisle of the chapel, striking them both. The guards would find little use for the riches now.
As Gerwyth and Kaerion ran toward her from either corner of the room, she wondered if any of them would have use for the tomb’s treasure. Majandra knew in her heart that all of the gold in the world wouldn’t make up for the lives lost in this trap-riddled dungeon. Even if they made it out of the tomb with every last bit of treasure, she doubted if the sacrifice would ever be worth it.
Majandra felt strong arms lift her up as a soft voice spoke into her ear. “Peace, little sister,” the soothing words said, though they came to her as if from a distance. Elvish words, her mind registered at last, and then she recognized Gerwyth’s scent, made slightly muskier by the elf’s sweat-laden exertions in the tomb. The odor was pleasant and, more importantly, familiar. She felt her body relaxing, the aching knot of grief in her chest easing. She trembled a few times before gaining control of herself.