Free The Tomb of Horrors by Undead), Keith Francis Strohm - (ebook by Flandrel Page B

reached their destination, they were ushered into a side passage by a
hard-eyed woman with close-cropped hair. After making sure their prisoner was
unharmed, their guide brought them to this room and instructed them to wait.
    The room itself was sumptuously appointed, all out of place
with the dank tunnels of the surrounding sewers. Thick red carpet covered the
floor, and a mahogany desk sat in the center of the chamber. Another high-backed
chair, a match to the ones that both Jhagren and Durgoth sat upon, stood behind
the desk. The pungent scent of cloves filled the room, driving out the acrid
stench of sewage.
    Besides the graceful curves of the polished lantern that lay
upon the desk, Durgoth could make out several jade figurines—nymphs, dancing and
cavorting in typical abandon. A jeweled dagger lay next to the figurines, a
palpable reminder of the violence that brooded behind the room’s elegant
exterior.
    Just as Durgoth’s temper began to fray once more, a figure
strode quietly out of the shadows and took a seat behind the desk. Gray eyes
regarded the cleric coolly from a lupine face, its animal resemblance reinforced
by close-cropped silver hair and a salt-and-pepper goatee. Deep lines radiated
out from the sides of the man’s eyelids almost to the temples, as if he observed
everything with intense scrutiny. His lips drew back in a half-smile, revealing
a set of perfectly white teeth—though Durgoth noted that the man’s apparent good
humor never reached his eyes.
    “Welcome,” his host said after a few more moments of silence.
The man’s voice was low and resonant, with a smooth, cultured accent. “I am the
Guildmaster, though you may call me Reynard. I trust that I have not kept you
waiting too long. I had… pressing matters elsewhere.”
    Without lifting his gaze from the cleric, the man drew
heavily bejeweled hands from the folds of his purple cloak and absently traced
deft fingers across the folds and curves of the jade nymphs. The half-smile
never left his lips.
    For one intolerable moment, Durgoth felt as if he were being
sized up by a predator. Gray eyes bore into his with an almost hypnotic power.
So, Durgoth thought, this is how the rabbit feels before it gives itself to
death. He returned the gaze evenly, a slow smile creeping across his own face.
Let others be cowed by such a display. He had met and destroyed far more
powerful challengers than this ragged gutter-scum who paraded around in the
finery of his betters like a child playing with her mother’s silks.
    As if sensing his resolve, the thief turned his gaze away. Durgoth could see
that the man truly smiled now, and he felt his own anger rise. “Your guild
betrayed me. I don’t deal with betrayal very well, Reynard.”
    “Come now, Durgoth. Oh yes, don’t act so shocked, friend,”
the Guildmaster replied at the look of surprise that flicked across the cleric’s
face, “I take it upon myself to know the name of everyone who travels through my
domain.” He stopped, indicating the room and the sewers beyond with a wave of
his hand. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes, I believe we were talking about
betrayal. It is I who feel betrayed. Does that surprise you?”
    “Surprise me?” Durgoth asked. What in the Nine Hells was this
man raving about? And then it hit him—the attack, the ease in which he and his
group bypassed the Guild’s traps and watch wards, the attitude of the seemingly
crazy Guildmaster—everything led to one inescapable conclusion.
    “You planned this whole damned thing,” Durgoth said.
    Reynard slapped his hands together sharply. “By Zilchus’
Sacred Vault, he’s figured it out,” the thief said with a smile.
    “Why?” the cleric asked. He was tired of being played for a
fool. If Reynard didn’t cease his prattle, Durgoth would show the damned thief
what it was like to antagonize a priest of the Imprisoned One.
    “Simple,” the Guildmaster replied. “You have something I
want—or