Ricard crept down the dimly-lit corridor, Ragnar at his back. He could hardly believe they were here, in this ancient Nord ruin that had likely not heard the footsteps of living men in thousands of years. His bow was at the ready, a fine Elven arrow held to the string, all his senses alert. Living men may not have trod here since long before he was born, but he had no doubts they would discover plenty of the undead. This was just the sort of place to be crawling with draugr, and lots of plunder to be taken as well.
It had been the merest chance that had put them onto it, as he and his questing companion had been trekking through the mountains in search of a cave where a group of bandits were supposedly holding some townsman hostage. They'd found the cave, and the bandits (who were now no longer in need of any of the loot they'd amassed, Divines be praised). But if that withered corpse they'd found in a cell near the innermost reach of the cavern complex was who they feared it was, they would not be claiming the reward for the safe return of Goodman Ursteg.
It was while he and Ragnar were enjoying some of the spoils of their victory (a sizzling haunch of goat and a couple of bottles of superior wine) in the bandit chief's private quarters, that Ricard had discovered the chief's personal journal. Not all professional criminals were illiterate brutes, and this one (now lying in a heap with the rest of his band down one of the cave complex's corridors, stripped of their valuables) seemed to have been something of a scholar.
A page in the journal showed a map with the location of Mordendaal, which according to the late chief's notes was an ancient Nord ruin cut off from access to man since an earthquake had collapsed the main entrance leading to it thousands of years before. Yet this bandit chief, it seemed, had learned of another possible way inside. From his wide (now two years long) experience of questing, Ricard knew that most ruins had multiple exits – though frequently only one entrance. The exits could not be opened from the outside, or in most cases even be seen until they'd been opened from within.
After he and Ragnar had sobered up Ricard had pocketed the journal and they'd traveled to the spot marked. To his surprise, they found the ancient carved stone door, half-covered in moss, exactly where the map had indicated. And some 30 paces away, also as indicated, had been the hidden switch to open it from the outside. The lever had been broken off in ages past, but by tying the handle of his war hammer to the stub with leather strips and using his full strength, Ragnar had gotten it to move.
The door had opened on a barren, dusty corridor – and ominously, had closed behind them as soon as they had stepped inside. At the end of the corridor a hallway led in both directions through a labyrinth of catacombs. Ricard declared they would go to the left, as he knew that the collapsed main entrance to the tomb complex was on their right.
Soon they found themselves fighting draugr on every side. Usually no more than 2 or 3 out of 10 corpses would arise at their approach, though. The pair of seasoned warriors had no trouble defeating the stiff, recently-revived undead guardians. Most of those they returned to unmoving status were lightly armed with ancient Nord war axes or bows, arms scarcely worth carrying as their market value was negligible. But a few had items of jewelry, and most of the urns they encountered held at least a few pieces of gold.
After more than an hour of this, Ricard was getting impatient for the Big Payoff. Somewhere in this barrow complex they were going to find the chamber where the important people were buried, the ones with the valuable grave goods. The Dwarven armor he was wearing now had been looted from just such a tomb – and he hoped that this one, possibly un-robbed since its original closing, might yield ebony.
At last they came to a portentous-looking set of carved double doors. "This is probably it," Ricard murmured to Ragnar. "Are you ready?" His Nord companion gave him an evil grin, longsword at the ready. "Are they ready for us?" he replied. As they entered the room, the two bold adventurers slackened their pace. The chamber was… enormous. And on either side of a broad three-tiered dais, reaching back into the dimmest recesses of the room, the walls were lined with vertical sarcophagi like so many oblong tiles.
Crack! Crack! Crack! As the men stepped further into the room the covers shattered, releasing their occupants. Men and women, well-armored though sparsely fleshed, stepped forth to do their final duty in defense of this tomb. Ragnar, true Nord that he was, went into a battle frenzy. "Victory or Sovngarde!" he bellowed, and swept out his Orcish longsword as he ran to meet the enemy.
The draugr in his path fell swiftly at first, surprised by the sheer force of Ragnar's onslaught. But eventually he slowed, as more and more draugr emerged from their tombs and gathered around him. Ricard leapt up atop a table on which treasure was strewn, and began picking their enemies off with his bow. He was a crack shot, and most he hit fell and did not get up again. But there were so many of them!
He saw Ragnar fall, knocked out from a blow that had sent his helmet flying. Now all the glowing eyes turned to him, and Ricard began firing faster. Could he stop them all before they reached him and tore him down from his perch? All of the sarcophagi around the room were empty now, their inhabitants having awoken and joined the battle. Once Ragnar was down they ignored him, and there were half a dozen now moving in their deliberate pace, clustered in a group and heading Ricard's way.
Ricard was a Breton, and like all of his race he had a natural affinity for magic. It was the mer blood, so they said; though he hadn't noticed it granting a longer lifespan. His own lifespan, which ought to have gone on for another 50 years or so, looked likely to be terminating in the next few minutes if he didn't do something fast.
Slinging his bow behind him for a moment, Ricard hurled Chain Lightning. It had taken him years of practice with lesser Destruction spells to be able to cast this one. The clustered draugr were hit hard, the bolt of lightning crashing into the one in the lead and then leaping from her to the next until all six of them had been struck. It didn't kill any of them, but knocked them back for a moment. He resumed his arrow barrage, bringing three of them down for good.
The remaining three were much closer now, and in desperation Ricard produced a scroll he'd been hoarding. Using a scroll in the heat of battle was always a bit of trick, but they could have powerful effects. He unleashed its fury squarely in the middle of the group, and the three draugr found themselves on fire. The conflagration would burn for 30 seconds only, but he prayed to the Divines it would be long enough.
Behind the burning draugr, with a painful groan, Ragnar arose from where he'd been out cold on the stone floor and got to his feet. He had an unbelievable headache, and his vision was blurred. He had the presence of mind to reach for a healing potion, and moments later he found himself sharp and ready for action.
Just then the fire died, and the three draugr standing between Ragnar and Ricard staggered onward. They were not what you might call canny adversaries, though they were certainly dogged. Ricard made eye contact with Ragnar, relief evident that his friend and partner was neither dead nor permanently disabled. Giving a piratical grin and not bothering to find his helmet, the Nord warrior charged his undead enemies with blade swinging.
Two of them went down, taken from behind and already close to being finished by the flames. The third was pierced in quick succession by two of Ricard's arrows. He had only a few left in his quiver, and was looking forward to retrieving some almost as much as he was looking forward to the treasures he expected this tomb would yield. The companions looked at each other across the fallen corpses of their enemies, grinning from ear to ear. Ricard was about to congratulate Ragnar on his timely revival when both of them heard a loud crack.
Inside his massive stone sarcophagus, Kahluthkrii's eyes popped open in an instant. They were glowing red. His mind, sleeping these thousands of years, took a few moments to orient itself. He was lying in a stone box, he was… ah, now he remembered. He was dead. There had been an accident, a mishap… somehow he was here entombed, waiting for the moment to arise again. And the moment was now!
Ricard looked behind and up, toward the very top of the dais, where a magnificently-carved stone sarcophagus sat in a position of honor. The lid of that sarcophagus had been violently thrust aside, and a figure was rising from within it. This must be the Big Guy, the one whose mortal remains had occasioned the building of this entire barrow. The one with the good loot! He wasn't worried. He and Ragnar had met Deathlords before. They were no match for his Breton skill and cunning combined with Ragnar's Nord muscle.
Ricard hopped down from atop the table, slapped his partner on the arm by way of congratulation for the job they'd just done, then stalked beside him as they approached the top level and the creature who had just climbed down out of his not-so-final resting place. Huh, he didn't look much like a Deathlord. Instead of the familiar horned helmet and ebony armor, this draugr was clad in a suit of armor that seemed to be made up of overlapping bony plates. His face was obscured by a gleaming blue metal mask.
Ricard fired several arrows, but they appeared to have no effect – bouncing off of that scaly-looking armor. Realizing his quiver was nearly empty the Breton decided to try a magical attack, instead. He fired Lightning at their strange enemy, but again the attack seemed to slide away without touching him.
Ricard drew his blade, an Elven short sword, as he and Ragnar closed the distance to their mysterious foe. The creature gave a raucous Shout, and in an instant their weapons flew from their hands to lie on the floor of the room two tiers and some 30 feet below. The two hesitated, wondering what the hell to do next. With a glance at each other they turned as one and began a hasty retreat. The scale-clad figure followed them at a leisurely pace, and when they had nearly reached the room's exit he Shouted once again – hurling them forcibly against the stone walls and knocking them cold.