Rise of The Runelords Chapter 22: The Bowels of Necromancy's Tomb

With the apprentice who ruled over evocation burnt to cinders, and the Companions still no closer to finding the solutions they need, the search for Runeforged weapons continues. While necromancy is one of the foulest of arts, it's possible what they seek may lie that way... and that whoever rules within the silent tomb may be more amenable to reason than the evoker.

For those who need to catch up, the previous installments are below:

- Chapter 1: Blood and Butterflies
- Chapter 2: Murder and Glass
- Chapter 3: The Sin Pit
- Chapter 4: Tussles in The Tangle
- Chapter 5: The Assault on Thistletop
- Chapter 6: Secrets Behind The Curtain
- Chapter 7: Murders At The Mill
- Chapter 8: Halflings and Ghouls
- Chapter 9: Fox in The Hen House
- Chapter 10: Something Rotten in Magnimar
- Chapter 11: The Crumbling Tower
- Chapter 12: Demonbane
- Chapter 13: Trouble at Turtleback Ferry
- Chapter 14: The Taking of Fort Rannick
- Chapter 15: Water Over The Dam
- Chapter 16: Mad Lovers, And Lost Captains
- Chapter 17: The March of The Giants
- Chapter 18: The Taking of Jorgenfist
- Chapter 19: The Secrets Beneath Sandpoint
- Chapter 20: At The Gates of The Runeforge
- Chapter 21: Storming The Halls of Evocation
- Chapter 22: The Bowels of Necromancy's Tomb

- Chapter 23: The End of Runeforge

- Chapter 24: Preparation For The Final Journey 

- Chapter 25: The Hunger in The Mountains 

- Chapter 26: The Gateway to Xin-Shalast

- Chapter 27: The Path of Temptation

- Chapter 28: The Three-Fold Challenge of Xin-Shalast

- Chapter 29: Crossing The Barrier of Greed

- Chapter 30: The Fall of Karzoug

Ready? Good! Because as the air grows chill, and the Companions turned their steps toward the creeping stench of undeath...

Undying Guardians

Abandon all hope ye who enter here... yep, definitely a graduate level course.

As the Companions left behind the splashing, multicolored fountain, the air around them grew cool as the grave, tainted with the stink of leathery flesh, and ancient preservatives. The taint of the living dead hung in the air, and the symbol on Zhakar's forehead burned brighter in the presence of the foul sorceries. The doors that led further into the chamber were huge, burnished things that looked like they'd been taken from some long-forgotten tomb. Without hesitation, Thok shoved the doors wide, and the Companions entered the halls of necromancy.

Barely had their feet touched the stones, when sarcophagi ground open, and the ancient dead stepped from the walls. The stink of mummies poured forth, wafting over the Companions. Zhakar drew the flametongue, its light bathing the room as he stepped between the diseased guardians and the others. The mummies shuffled and moaned, their heavy fists flailing, slamming against Zhakar's cracking shield. Bostwick dodged aside with the speed born of lightning, smashing the undead creatures with his fists. Thok and Chikara let fly, arrows of freezing cold and sparking lightning burying themselves in the tightly-wrapped horrors. Mirelinda, safe behind her allies, drew forth old scrolls, drawing burning lines in the air, a snake of flame burning the guardians away to nearly nothing.

The fight was over nearly before it had begun, scorched bandages and crumbled skulls littering the corridor. Waiting a moment to be sure they wouldn't rise again, Zhakar stepped forward. Whatever was going to come at them, it would have to get through him to get to the rest of the Companions.

The Dead Work Long

As the Companions penetrated deeper into the lair of the necromancers, they found the whole place in disarray. Huge racks of coffins, all empty, the bodies clearly extracted. Laboratories out of order and falling apart after centuries of use, the discipline of evocation completely absent. While there were other guardians watching over the rooms, most notably a huge construct, and a half-mad surgeon who'd grafted additional arms to himself at some point in the distant past, none of them gave the Companions pause.

Unfortunately, none of them would, or could, answer their questions, either.

Excuse us, sir? Could you... roll initiative? Yeah, that's what the last guy said, too.

It was after another contingent of mummies fell beneath their scything blades and flying arrows that Zordlan noticed something out of the ordinary... a hidden door in a stone wall. Running his slender fingers through the gaps, he found a switch that opened a pitch black hallway. Ducking inside, exchanging his flaming sword for the wickedly curved pick on his other hip, Zhakar ducked into the narrow confines, and pressed open the door at the far end.

What he found was a small room, with a pair of dead bodies on stone tables, and a work bench covered in tools. A figure in a black robe hunched over them, not even bothering to turn toward them. Zhakar called to him in the common tongue, attempting to open a dialogue, but the man didn't respond. Zordlan raised his voice in the language of fallen Thassilon, but still, the figure didn't reply. After a moment it set down the long blade it was cutting with, lifted a staff from the floor, and struck it twice upon the ground. From the space just before the door a dark shape formed, and a huge, floating corpse with its ribs in a spiked cage blocked the room. Its devourer summoned, the lich blocked the doorway with a wall of force, and returned to its work.

The Gloves Come Off

The floating undead horror had one chance, and it laid its hand upon Zhakar's breast, attempting to pull his essence from him. Enraged, his eyes filled with light, and he struck at the creature. The sheer ferocity as his pick sank into its chest, snapping apart the bones, sent it hissing, and when he unleashed his blinding beam of radiance, the creature howled in agony. Its face blackened, its attacks turned aside by the whirling pick, the devourer stumbled back, its head splintering against the wall of invisible force as Zhakar rammed his pick through its teeth, smashing its skull apart.

The wall flickered, and faded as the Companions stepped into the room. The lich turned, its hollow sockets regarding them. It spoke, and though few of the Companions knew what it said, it did not sound pleased.

Roll initiative? Yeah, I guess that's a choice you can make.

Taking to the air, the lich began a deep incantation, interrupted by a scream as Zhakar unleashed another beam of radiance, searing into its bones and ripping at its garments. Unfurling his wings, he leaped to the attack, roaring with a sound that didn't come from a mortal throat. Thok drew and fired, arrows flying into the lich, the magic in them burning into its body. Chikara unlimbered her ax, readying to fly into the melee. But before the Companions could overwhelm it, the necromancer tore at a sigil on the ceiling, and wraiths bled in through the gap. Raking at the Companions, hungry for their life essences, these undead monsters sought to turn the tide of the battle.

It was too little too late. As Thok howled, fending off a shadowy figure, Chikara laid about her with her ax, and Zordlan desperately sought to avoid the creature's touch, Zhakar burst forth, bathing the room in energy. The wraiths withered under the onslaught, and the lich snarled, driven back. Weakened, the wraiths fell away to smoke beneath the Companions' blows, and with a last blow, the lich ceased moving, its body crumbling.

They had very little time, though. Moving quickly, Zordlan found a nearly invisible seam in the floor, containing only an ancient stone sarcophagi. Filled with power, and covered in protections, it pulsed with negative energy... they had found the phylactery.

Keeping the others back, Zhakar rushed into the cellar, and brought his pick down onto the stone. Though it pulsed with dark magic, trying to protect itself, he hammered the sarcophagus again and again, digging deep grooves through its ancient exterior. Then, just as the lich was attempting to force itself back into the world, the stone gave way, and the phylactery crumbled in on itself.

Zhakar flew back into the room with the others, and they looked around at one another. Anger, exhaustion, and frustration were writ large on their faces. They were no closer to finding what they sought, and everyone who could tell them seemed more interested in killing them than in listening to them.

"Enough," Zhakar said, sliding his pick back into his belt. The Companions looked at one another, confused. Thok simply nodded.

"The spirit within speaks," he said. "This wicked place shall know peace no longer."

Next Time on Table Talk!

What else lurks within the Runeforge? Will they find the Runeforged weapons, or will they die trying? How many more wizards will find their graves? Find out on the next installment of Table Talk!

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