The air stank. Damp and fetid, the awful stench filled thesewer tunnels that snaked with labyrinthine complexity beneath Rel Mord. Built of thick, dark stone, the sewers channeled waste and garbage-the unmentionablecastoffs of civilized society-from the city above into the deep-flowing watersof 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.
The moment passed and Durgoth glanced at his companions, noting with a touch of bitterness that among the group that had traveled from the monastery, Jhagren alone appeared serene and unaffected by their dank, oppressive surroundings. Even young Adrys could not match the easy gait and impassive mien of his master, though it was obvious that the apprentice tried valiantly. Only the dull, heavy tread of the golem, walking dutifully behind him, kept the clerics temper from fraying completely. He allowed a rare smile at the thought of his creation. Let the others wonder about the extent of his powers, now. He could command death, and soon, he knew, his Master would give him the power to command life.
Their guide, a rough-voiced human with a small, angular face that resembled a ferret, interrupted the clerics ruminations. “About twentyyards up this passage is a narrow side tunnel that leads into a larger chamber. We can take a few moments to rest there before continuing on.”
“I don’t understand,” Durgoth replied. “We are obviouslybeyond the city gates, and we’ve passed at least four separate ladders thatwould take us up into Rel Mord proper. Why don’t we push on and use the nextladder?”
Truthfully, he was more than annoyed at the delay. The sooner they settled in the city, the sooner they could make final preparations and begin their journey.
“We may be beyond the gates,” the guide spoke in a calmvoice, “but the streets of Rel Mord are patrolled by armed sentinels, and wecan’t risk being spotted as we emerge from the sewers. It would endanger notonly us, but also the Guild’s relationship with the city watch. As long as we donothing overt, the watch commanders can take their bribes in good conscience. And even were we to leave the sewers unnoticed, it would be difficult to travel inconspicuously.” He indicated the hulking golem with a deft finger. “Evencloaked as it is, it would be a risky thing to try and pass off the creature as human. No. There are several passages that will take us into the Poor Quarter. From there, I can take you to a Guild house, where you’ll be hidden until you’reready to leave as a respectable caravan master.”
Durgoth nodded reluctantly at the logic of the thief’s words.“Then lead on, but hurry. I have much more important things to do than skulkaround in a gods-blasted sewer.”
When they entered the chamber, Durgoth was surprised at its elegance. A high-vaulted ceiling arched into darkness beyond the light of their group’s torches, and the walls, almost painfully drab in the sewer tunnels, werealmost garishly ornate, decorated as they were with grinning bas-relief gargoyles and prettily accented stonework. Several passages ran off this chamber, each one beginning with a wide archway. Above the center of each arch, seemingly flying out of the very stone itself, hung the torso of a beautiful winged human. The right hand of each sculpture bore a stone sword, while the left hand lay open, palm up, as if holding something invisible to the eye.
The cleric looked around for a moment, almost enviously. Their guide had said this chamber was used long ago as a way station for the caretakers and guards that once patrolled the sewers, repairing any damage and clearing the tunnels of any creatures that might have taken up residence there. The quality of the stonework spoke volumes as to the skill and wealth of the founders of Rel Mord, and Durgoth could not help but be impressed.
How far they have fallen, he thought as he watched several of his cultists lay down their packs and wipe the muck from their boots. Out of the corner of his eye, the cleric saw Jhagren talking softly with their guide. When the two were finished, the monk made his way silently toward him.
“How long do we rest?” Durgoth asked.
“A few moments only,” Jhagren replied. “Our guide indicatedthat we had perhaps another half hour of travel before we were deep enough in the Poor Quarter to emerge from the sewers.”
“Good,” the cleric nodded. “How are the others holding up?”
The journey by river boat and then overland had taken over a month of hard travel, and even he, nourished by his god and the finest provisions he could purchase, felt the strain of such a trek. His concern, however, was not truly for the welfare of his followers. Let Tharizdun give strength to those who deserved it. He only wished not to be slowed down by those who were undeserving.
“They are tired, blessed one,” replied the monk, “but theyare eager to accompany you on your quest. They will do what it takes to continue.”
“Indeed they will,” the cleric confirmed with a hint ofsteel. He would have replied further, but another voice interrupted him.
“Danger,” it hissed with the cold sibilance of the grave. Ittook a few moments for Durgoth to realize that it was the golem itself that had spoken.
“Where?” the cleric asked, searching for the cause of thealarm.
But it was too late.
The room plunged into total darkness.
“What treachery is this?” Durgoth shouted above the wildcries of his followers.
A moment later another voice answered, “Please, my dearfriend, let us not be too hasty in our pronouncements. This is not treachery. This is merely a renegotiation of terms.”
Durgoth’s blood burned with anger. Was that amusement heheard in the ringing tones of that voice? He was nobody’s plaything, to be usedand made a fool of. Quietly, he reached for his obsidian mace.
“And what if I choose not to renegotiate?” he asked of themysterious voice.
When the reply came, it was yet a different voice. “Thatwould be most… unfortunate.”
“Then here is my reply,” said the cleric.
He touched the tip of his mace and shouted into the darkness. The room filled with a dim bluish light. Durgoth could see figures skulking out of the shadows toward their group.
Suddenly, the air was filled with the hiss of flying crossbow bolts. Two cultists fell to the stone floor immediately, bolts imbedded in the center of their chests, while a third clutched his leg in obvious agony. Durgoth shrank back for a moment, expecting the sting of metal, but Jhagren Syn sprang into action. Soundlessly, the monk stepped to Durgoth’s side, his hands movingblindingly fast. Three bolts to the left clattered harmlessly to the floor, while the fourth, which sped right for Durgoth’s throat, split in two beneaththe knife edge blow of Jhagren’s calloused hand.
The cleric was stunned for only the briefest of moments before he turned to the golem. “Defend me!” he shouted at the mass of flesh andmuscle. Without a word, the creature stepped in front of Durgoth, ready to meet the advancing figures.
He turned to give orders to Jhagren, but the monk was already gone, carrying the fight to their attackers. Durgoth spotted the man rolling to his feet amid three opponents. The monk was a red blur, spinning, kicking and punching. When he was through, two men lay dead on the floor, and the last one clutched at the red ruin of his throat, unaware that he was already dead. Durgoth watched as the monk opened his hand, dropped the shattered cartilage to the floor, and then rushed forward to meet more attackers.
Another deadly hiss brought his attention back to the fight at hand. Five crossbow bolts hit the golem in the chest with a meaty thunk. The creature ignored them and reached out with a thickly-muscled arm to slap away the short sword of a thief. Another swipe of its arm struck the attacker squarely, and Durgoth could hear a sharp snap as the man’s bones broke beneaththe blow. The thief crumpled into a pulpy heap on the ground.
That nuisance taken care of, the cleric scanned the room for bowmen. Sure enough, he spotted five figures hastily reloading their crossbows on a ledge in the northern section of the room. With a vicious smile, he focused his will and began to chant in a deep-throated voice. He twisted his arm up in a swift motion and then finished the words to his prayer. A beam of pure darkness shot from his hands, consuming all light in its path. When the beam struck the bowmen on the ledge, they screamed and began to tremble. Durgoth watched in satisfaction as the darkness consumed their flesh from the inside out, until nothing living was left on that ledge.
The sounds of battle and the cries of the wounded filled the wide chamber. Jhagren and Adrys continued to strike blow after blow against the treacherous thieves, and Durgoth noted the pile of bodies they had left in their wake. The slightest whisper of sound alerted him to the presence of a cloaked figure approaching from behind. He cursed once and spun, trying to avoid the inevitable attack, but it was too late. He cried out as a dagger plunged deeply into his side. Blindly, he struck out with his fist and felt it strike the would-be-assassin with a satisfying crunch. Swiftly, the cleric grabbed his obsidian mace and swung it hard at his attacker, hoping to take advantage of the thief’s surprise at being struck. His opponent, however, was far faster. Thethief ducked beneath the whistling mace and drew his own sword. The two opponents circled each other warily, though Durgoth spared an occasional glance at the golem, hoping to maneuver his attacker within reach of the creature’sgrasp.
His opponent attacked left. Durgoth allowed himself to be drawn in by this obvious feint, blocking hastily with his mace. When the thief drew a second dagger and struck at his right side, the cleric stepped easily aside and kicked his attacker with a heavy boot. The man doubled over only for a moment, but it was enough time to bring his own mace crashing down on his opponent’s head. The thief’s skull cracked open like an egg. Gray matter andblood spilled out on the floor.
Durgoth turned from his defeated opponent and surveyed the scene. The battle was clearly over. Jhagren and his apprentice were moving quickly through the center of the chamber, scanning the shadows for any more opponents, and the golem had just cracked the back of his last attacker.
Silence descended upon the room. Dead bodies littered the floor, and the ground was slick with pooling blood. Several of his followers were among the corpses, but he noted with some satisfaction that most of those who journeyed with him from the Fellreev forest were still alive.
It wasn’t until Jhagren shouted, however, that Durgoth notedthe single figure slinking away toward the shadowy recesses of a side passage. He turned toward the retreating figure, one hand on the onyx-wrought symbol of his faith, and spoke the words of another prayer. He shuddered once as the divine energy of his god poured forth from him.
The figure froze in place.
As Durgoth approached, he noticed the fine weave of the thief’s cloak and the jewelry on hand and ear. This was no simple gutter snakeor cutpurse, but someone of substance in the Thieves’ Guild. Someone they coulduse. He motioned the golem forward and commanded it to hold the helpless human. The creature reached out and grabbed the thief by the neck.
Secure in the knowledge that their prisoner could not escape, the cleric released the thief from the bonds of his spell. The man struggled briefly, but stopped when the golem tightened its grip around his throat. The thief stared bug-eyed at his captor.
“So, my dear friend,” Durgoth said to the terrifiedman, “I think it’s time we continued our conversation.”
“W-what do you want from me?” the thief managed to gurgle.
The cleric smiled and sent out a quick prayer of thanksgiving to Tharizdun, for even compressed by the crushing grip of his golem, he could hear the familiar tones of the voice that first spoke to them in this chamber.
“Why,” replied Durgoth in an overly sweet tone, “I want totake you up on your offer. Let’s renegotiate our terms, shall we?”