by Mark Anthony
“How in the Abyss did I do this blasted thieving stuff for so long?” he groaned to himself.
He didn’t know. But he only had to do this one last job, and then he could give it up forever.
Shaking the vertigo from his head, he gazed around, his darkvision piercing the gloom. He was in the center of a large circular chamber, clinging to the side of some sort of irregular stone pillar. Had he not managed to catch himself, he would now be lying on the floor over forty feet below, gruesomely wounded or—more likely—dead. Craning his neck, he gazed upward. He could just make out the trapdoor through which he had fallen, perhaps twenty feet above. It was still open, but utterly out of reach. Not that it mattered. His goal lay in the opposite direction—deeper into Undermountain.
A peculiar odor hung in the air, sharp and metallic, like the scent of the air before a storm. The smell troubled him, though he was not certain why. The hair on the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably. However, there was nothing to do but start climbing. He glimpsed two stone doors on opposite sides of the chamber, both closed. Hoping that one of them might lead to his quarry, he felt for crevices and protrusions and started inching his way down the pillar.
He had gone no more than five feet when the lightning struck. Two blue-white bolts of brilliant energy rent the darkness asunder. Each sizzled hotly as it struck one of the shut doorways, then crackled around the chamber, ricocheting wildly off the stone walls. A searing bolt passed inches from Artek’s face. He cringed against the scant protection of the pillar.
Only it wasn’t a pillar at all, he saw now in the blazing illumination. It was a gigantic statue hewn of seamless, dark red stone. At the moment, Artek clung to the shallow ridge just above its right shoulder blade. The statue’s neck ended in a jagged stump, for the head had been knocked off long ago. But the torso and legs were muscled and powerful, like those of a god. The figure’s hands—from which several of the fingers had been snapped off—were outstretched in a commanding gesture. It was from these that the two bolts of energy had emanated.
After a few terrifying seconds, the lightning bolts burned themselves out in hisses of sulfur. Artek blinked, but all he could see were purple afterimages. The lightning had temporarily blinded his darkvision. At last the dull red shapes of the statue and walls came back into focus. With a sigh, he started down once more.
Two more lightning bolts arced from the statue’s hands to strike the doors and careen around the chamber.
Clinging to the statue’s back, Artek narrowly ducked one of the jagged arcs of energy as it crackled past. This time when the lightning dissipated he remained still, staring into the darkness while he counted his heartbeats. He made it to a hundred before the blue-white bolts struck again.
Artek swallowed hard. This did not look good. Even assuming he could make it to the statue’s feet without being struck by the magical lightning, the interval between strikes gave him just over a minute to dash to one of the chamber’s doors. This would be more than enough—provided the door was not locked. However, if it was, and he could not pick the lock in time, he would be standing directly in the path of the lightning when it leapt from the statue’s outstretched hands again.
As if on cue, once more searing bolts of magic bounced around the chamber before vanishing. Artek racked his brain, but he could not see a surefire way around this trap. Had he been thwarted in his mission already? If so, he was rustier than he had feared. Think, Artek, he told himself urgently. You’ve got to think! It was no use. His mind was a blank. With a groan of frustration, he smacked his forehead against the hard stone of the statue.
He noticed two things. First, this idiotic action hurt. Second, it resulted in a hollow echo deep inside the statue.
Artek jerked his head back, staring at the statue in astonishment. Quickly, he began running his hands across its smooth stone surface. It had to be here somewhere. Then his fingers brushed a small, slightly raised circle in the center of the statue’s back. That was it. He mashed the circle with his thumb. There was a grating noise, and he was nearly thrown off the statue as a small, circular door opened between its shoulder blades.
“Now this adds new meaning to the term back door,” Artek quipped with a satisfied grin.
He scrambled through just as lightning sizzled around the chamber again. Pulling the door shut, he sealed himself safely inside the statue. After a long moment his eyes adjusted. He stood at the top of a narrow spiral staircase. Descending the steps, he coiled deeper and deeper, soon certain that he must be far below the statue. Still the stairs plunged downward. At last they ended in an iron door. It was not locked. Tensing himself in readiness, Artek pushed open the portal.
An empty corridor stretched beyond.
Glancing around, he saw no sign of sharp iron spikes, trapdoors, or lightning-shooting statues. He drew in a deep breath. Maybe he could actually relax for a second.
From a pocket in his black leather breeches, he pulled out the crystalline heart jewel. The sapphire light that pulsed in its center, though still dim, was brighter than it had been before. So Lord Corin Silvertor was still alive, and closer now, if some distance away. Holding the heart jewel out before him, Artek started cautiously down the corridor.
Soon he found himself amid a maze of dank passageways and shadow-filled halls. High archways opened to the right and left. Corridors doubled back on themselves or ended abruptly in blank walls. Some stairwells led to nowhere, while others delved deeper into the oppressive dark. It was not at all difficult to believe that this place had been constructed by a mad wizard. There seemed no reason or plan to the vast labyrinth, unless it was to lead those who wandered its ways inexorably downward.
As he went, Artek kept his eye on the heart jewel. A dozen times the light flickered and dimmed, and he retraced his steps until the blue gem began to glow more strongly once again. Then he would try his luck down another passageway or tunnel. It was hardly an elegant method, but it worked. Gradually the glimmer in the center of the heart jewel grew brighter. Slowly but steadily, he worked his way closer to the missing nobleman.
He wasn’t certain exactly when he first noticed the sounds drifting in the musty air. At first they hovered on the edge of consciousness, filling him with a vague and nameless unease. Finally they resolved themselves into distant yet distinct noises: an echoing boom like that of a slamming door, the grinding of unknown machinery, and high, wordless cries that were either screams of agony or inhuman howls of bloodlust. Though the sounds were faint and far off, they were not enough so for Artek’s comfort. One thing was certain—he was not alone in the maze.
Half-remembered stories drifted to mind, tales told to him as a child by his father, of the lightless warrens of the Garug-Mal. In turn, Artek’s father, Arturg, had learned the stories from his own father. His name had been Arthaug, and he had been a high chief among the orcs who lived beneath the Graypeak Mountains. From time to time, the orcs had raided human settlements at the foot of the mountains, capturing men and women and bringing them back to the orc warrens to work as slaves, digging and tunneling. It was upon one of these human women that Arthaug had sired Arturg.
Not long after this, Arthaug was deposed in an overthrow engineered by a rival orcish chief. Arthaug was forced to flee the warrens of the Garug-Mal, and he took young Arturg with him. Arthaug plotted for the day he would return to the Graypeak Mountains and become high chief of the Garug-Mal again. However, he died in exile—slain in a duel with highwaymen—without ever again laying eyes on the tunnels of his homeland. After his death, his half-orc son was left to fend for himself.
Fully grown at the age of ten, Arturg was brutish in appearance. However, he could pass for a human man, at least in dim light. Remembering the power of the brigands who had killed his father, he made his way in the overworld as a rogue, though he never managed to rise far above petty theft. His companion was a human witch named Siraia, who died giving birth to Artek.
Arturg raised Artek alone, teaching his son a
ll that he knew of stealth and stealing. When Artek was seven, Arturg was caught robbing a rich merchant in Elturel. There he was beheaded, and with him died the dream of Arthaug. For Artek considered himself human, and he had no desire to return to the Graypeak mountains to claim rulership of the Garug-Mal.
Yet it was not so easy for Artek to escape his inhuman legacy. Darkly handsome as he was, others still sometimes glimpsed the orcish blood that ran in his veins. And though, in time, he far surpassed Arturg in skill and success, he was still a thief, just like his father. In the end, his attempt to escape his heritage had been an utter failure, landing him in the prison of the Magisters. He had been stupid to think that he could ever change. He would not make that mistake again.
“This is what I am,” he growled under his breath.
Gripping the hilt of his saber, he prowled down the dusky corridors of Undermountain, forcing the old stories from his head. He had a nobleman to find.
Following the gleaming heart jewel, he passed through an open archway into a long, high-ceilinged room. Immediately his nose wrinkled in disgust. A vile odor hung thickly on the air. Something crunched beneath his boot. Kneeling, he peered at the object. It was a thin, papery tube, almost like a sheath of some sort. Examining it more closely, he saw dull green scales embedded in its surface. Alarm stirred in his chest. He had a bad feeling about this place. Hastily he tossed down the sheath.
It came from behind, a rhythmic whirring sound, along with a rasping hiss.
Artek spun on a heel. In the air before him hovered a brilliant green snake, leathery wings sprouting from its back flapping rapidly to keep the creature aloft. Crimson light gleamed in its dull reptilian eyes, and the thing opened its mouth, baring long fangs.
He dodged barely in time to avoid the stream of vitriol that sprayed from the snake’s mouth. The black liquid struck the wall behind him, smoking and sizzling as it burned deep pits into the hard rock. Artek stared at the melting stone in shock.
There was another whirring noise to his left. He jerked his head around to see a second winged snake dart toward him through the air. The flapping sound grew louder, and dry hisses echoed all around. A dozen sinuous shapes drifted out of the shadows. Artek could only watch in horror as he was surrounded by flying snakes.
His hand crept toward the hilt of his saber, though he knew it would do him no good. The creatures closed in, their bodies coiling and uncoiling menacingly. The snake’s venom had burned easily through solid stone. Artek could only imagine what it would do to living flesh. Even as he watched, the flying snakes opened gaping mouths, baring their hollow fangs, ready to spray.
“Duck!” a voice shouted.
Such was his terror that Artek did not even question the command. He dropped to the floor, curling into a tight ball. A fraction of a second later, a ball of blazing fire struck the flock of snakes just above his head. A blast of furnacelike air hit him. The creatures hissed and writhed as they were burnt to crisps, and the fireball dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. The blackened husks of the flying snakes dropped to the floor and did not move.
Artek uncoiled himself cautiously. Ashes drifted from the backs of his hands where the hair had been singed away, but he was otherwise unhurt. He clambered to his feet, then looked up to see a woman walking toward him.
Even if she had not just conjured a fireball, he would have mistaken her for nothing other than a wizard. A ball of blue light glowed on the end of the intricately carved staff she gripped, and myriad pouches, feathers, and bones hung from the leather belt around her hips. She was tall—a good head taller than Artek was—and sleek, with close-cropped brown hair. Her too-square jaw and crooked nose precluded prettiness, but there was something warmly compelling about her deep brown eyes. Her clothes were better suited to a young prince out hunting than a wizard or a woman—worn leather breeches, a full white shirt, and a gray vest. However, the garb was dirt-smudged and threadbare, as if she had been wearing it for a long time.
Artek gazed curiously at his mysterious rescuer as she halted a few paces away.
“I suppose that I should thank you for your help,” he said cautiously.
“I suppose that you should,” she said with a slightly smug expression.
“But in a place such as this,” he went on pointedly, “it might be better to first ask how it was that you came upon me at just the right moment.”
She shrugged her broad shoulders. “That was easy enough. I was following you, of course. I have been for nearly an hour now.”
Artek frowned dubiously at this. “Call me a skeptic, but I’m not exactly a beginner in matters of stealth. And my ears are really rather good. I think I would have heard if you were following me.”
“Not if I had cast a spell of silence around myself,” she countered with a crooked smirk.
Despite himself, Artek laughed. He doffed an imaginary hat and bowed low, conceding his defeat.
Her brown eyes flashed with mirth. “The truth is, I don’t run into many other people down here,” she went on. “And monsters make for dreadfully dull conversation partners before you have to kill them. It gets a little lonely. So when I saw you from a distance, I decided to cloak myself in silence and follow.” She eyed the burnt remains of the flying snakes. “And it’s a good thing I did. Fine company you would be if you had been melted into a puddle of black slime.”
With a shudder, Artek agreed.
“By the way,” the wizard added, “my name is Beckla Shadesar.”
Artek held his breath a moment. “I’m Artek Ar’talen,” he said finally.
She gaped at him in open surprise. “You’re Artek the Knife?” Hastily she checked the pouches hanging at her belt, counting to make certain they were all still there, and regarded him suspiciously. “You know, I think you once swindled my old employer out of a casket full of emeralds.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Artek replied dryly.
“So have you come down here to steal things?”
He shook his head slowly. “No.”
To his surprise she nodded, as if she actually believed him.
“So why are you down here in Undermountain?” he asked carefully.
Her lips parted in a wry smile. “I think both of our tales might wait until we’ve had a bit of refreshment,” she said in lieu of an answer. “I have a bottle of something I’ve been saving just for a special occasion like this.”
Artek hesitated, glancing at the tattoo on his forearm. By the position of the sun in relation to the arrow, several hours had passed. However, he supposed a few moments of rest would do more good than harm. Besides, he was curious to hear the wizard’s story.
“Lead the way, Beckla Shadesar,” he said with a gracious gesture.
Artek followed the wizard through a door in the far end of the hall into a dusty corridor beyond. As they turned a corner, Beckla suddenly cried out in alarm.
“Artek, look out! It’s on you!”
The wizard reached out her hands and shouted a word of magic. Blue energy crackled from her fingertips, striking Artek’s side. He let out a howl of pain, dancing around in a circle, swatting at his hindquarters.
“That’s not a snake,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “That’s the scabbard for my sword!”
The wizard affected a sheepish look. “Oops.”
Artek glared at her. “You nearly set my rump on fire, and all you can say is oops?”
She crossed her arms. “Well, I’m sorry,” she countered petulantly. “Sometimes I make mistakes. I’m only human, you know. I suppose you’re not?”
Artek grunted. She couldn’t know how close to the mark her question had hit. “I think I definitely need that drink now,” he muttered.
It wasn’t far. At the end of a dim corridor was an iron door. Beckla waved her staff, and the door glowed briefly, then swung open of its own volition.
“It’s not much,” Beckla said cheerfully, “but I call it home.”
She wasn’t joking. Beyond the
door was a cramped and dingy stone chamber. It was decorated with flotsam and jetsam scavenged from the ancient tunnels and halls: worm-eaten furniture, threadbare tapestries, and dusty shelves overflowing with moldering books and scrolls. Beckla motioned for Artek to enter and then followed, closing the door behind them. She waved her staff, and the portal locked with an audible click.
“It keeps the wandering creatures out,” she explained. “Otherwise, I’d never get a wink of sleep.”
They sat on a pile of musty cushions, and Beckla rummaged in a nearby chest. “I have some food, if you want it,” she said. “It isn’t great stuff, but considering that it’s conjured out of thin air with a spell, I really can’t complain.” Then she held aloft a purple glass bottle. “Now this is the real thing. Dwarven firebrandy. I found it on some dead adventurers a while back. I think we’ll get more use out of it than they did.”
Beckla grabbed two clay cups, blew the dust and spiders out, and filled them with the clear firebrandy. She handed one to Artek. They clanked the cups together, and the wizard downed her drink in one gulp. With a bemused smile, Artek followed suit. Instantly a delicious warmth spread outward from his stomach. Until now, his magically restored body had still felt slightly strange and alien, as if it weren’t really his own. But the firebrandy melted his tense muscles, leaving him feeling extremely comfortable. Beckla refilled their cups.
“So are you ever going to tell me what you’re doing down here?” he asked amiably. He sipped his firebrandy. Suddenly, his mission did not seem quite so urgent.
Beckla giggled, slurping from her own cup. “Actually, there isn’t that much to tell. It isn’t all that easy to make a living as a wizard these days. And I’ve taken some jobs I’m not proud of to make ends meet.” She sighed deeply, leaning back on the grubby cushions. “I have dreams, of course. Someday I want to have my own tower, and a personal laboratory so I can perform experiments, and devise amazing new spells that no one has ever seen before. I’d be one of the most famous wizards in all of Faerûn.” She shook her head ruefully. “But a tower and a laboratory cost gold—lots of it. And, unfortunately, that’s one thing I haven’t figured out how to conjure yet.”
