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‘Come, Prarg,’ you say urgently. ‘We must hurry from here. I sense more traps nearby.’
Obediently, the captain follows as you make your way speedily along the passageway towards a distant torchlit chamber. Upon reaching this chamber you are brought skidding to a halt by an unexpected sight.
The room is constructed entirely of polished black rock. Revealed in the torchlight is a throne of rough-hewn marble, where rests the skeletal remains of a warrior clad in mouldering furs. Bare bone gleams dully through a clinging mass of muscle and sinew, now shrunken to an iron-hard texture, and upon its skull there is perched a helm of solid gold. Set into the face of this helm is an emerald as large as your fist.
Prarg approaches the throne, tempted by the magnificent emerald, but he halts the moment you warn him that the helm is protected by a magical trap. You sense that a powerful spell of warding encircles the throne; to touch the crown would activate the spell, thereby unleashing a blast of destructive energy. The thought of being blown to atoms serves to dampen Prarg’s curiosity and sheepishly he returns to your side. You give the booby-trapped throne a wide berth and leave the chamber by a smooth-walled tunnel in the far wall. But you have taken no more than a dozen steps when a chill of premonition runs like a trickle of icy cold water down your spine. You halt and reach for your weapon. Then a loud voice booms out, destroying the silence.
‘Welcome, Lone Wolf. Welcome to your tomb!’
Instinctively you know that it is the voice of Warlord Magnaarn.
