by Mark Anthony
The wizard sloshed more firebrandy into their cups as she went on. “A year ago, I took a job working for a moneylender in the South Ward of Waterdeep. His name was Vermik. He was vile-tongued and foul-tempered, but he paid well, so I put up with him. Vermik came up with a clever scheme. He had me ensorcell all the coins that passed through his shop to seem slightly heavier than they really were. That way he could shave gold dust from them, and no scale would reveal the trick. Though he took only a little from each coin, a great many went through his business every day, and he was making a killing. Until …” Her words trailed off.
“Until what?” Artek asked.
Beckla swallowed hard. “Until I transmogrified him into a green slime.”
Artek choked on his firebrandy. “You what?”
“It was an accident,” the wizard huffed defensively. “I didn’t mean for the spell to go awry. He had a bad headache, and I was trying to help.”
“Like you were trying to help me when you thought my sword was a snake?” Artek replied smartly.
She shot him an annoyed look but otherwise ignored the offending comment. “Anyway, I couldn’t figure out how to change Vermik back. Personally, I think it simply brought his physical appearance in accord with the nature of his soul. Needless to say, his henchmen didn’t appreciate the finer points of irony. In revenge, they came after my head. Because I’m rather partial to it myself, I decided it would be a good idea to look for a hiding place. I planned to lurk for a while in the sewers beneath Waterdeep. Then I stumbled on a way into Undermountain, and I figured there couldn’t be a better hiding place.” She held her arms out in a final gesture. “And here I am. I can’t say that I like living in this pit. But at least I am living.”
“A year is a long time,” Artek noted. “I imagine Vermik has given up the chase by now. You could probably return to the surface.”
“I would if I could,” the wizard replied mournfully. “What I wouldn’t give to breathe real air again—not this wet, moldy stuff that passes for air down here. I’ve heard there’s a well a few levels up that leads to a tavern, but I’ve never been able to find the way there. Of course, the nobles have their own entrances into this hole, but they’re well hidden. Besides, they only open if your blood is bluer than sapphires. Then there are the sewers. According to the rumors, the city’s sewers lead all the way down here. Maybe they do, but once I spent five days slogging through sludge, only to end up right back where I started.”
She let out a forlorn sigh. “But that’s the problem with Undermountain. It’s a whole lot easier to get in than it is to get out, as you’re bound to discover yourself.”
Artek reached into his pocket, fidgeting with the small gold box Melthis had given him.
“I suppose now it’s my turn to tell you what I’m doing here,” he said jovially.
Dimly, he noticed that his words were rather slurred. His tongue seemed oddly thick. He took a deep swig of his firebrandy, hoping that would improve things, then began his story. By the time he finished, Beckla gripped her cup, staring at him in astonishment.
“You were locked in the Pit?” she said incredulously. After a second she burst into a fit of wild laughter. “That must have been terrible!”
“It was absolutely awful,” Artek agreed, snorting with mirth. He tried to bring his cup to his lips, but his hand wouldn’t seem to behave properly. “They served us gruel with live maggots. And that was on good days!”
Beckla let out a howl of glee. She tried to refill Artek’s cup from the purple bottle but missed altogether, spilling dwarven firebrandy on the floor. The volatile liquid quickly evaporated.
“So how are you supposed to find this missing nobleman anyway?” Beckla managed to gasp.
“With this.” Artek pulled out the heart jewel and tossed it to the wizard. She fumbled with the glowing stone and finally managed to clutch it. “But he could be almost anywhere in this labyrinth. Even with the jewel, it could take weeks to find him.” He thrust out his arm, pointing to the magical tattoo, grinning broadly. “And if I don’t get back out in two days, this thing will kill me!”
This statement sent them both into breathless paroxysms of laughter.
“At least I have this,” Artek choked through his mirth. He showed her the golden box. “When I find the nobleman, all I have to do is open this and a magical gate will appear, leading back to the surface.”
Beckla gazed at the box with wide eyes. “Oooh. That’s very nice!” She looked from side to side, then giggled mischievously. “Listen, I have a secret to tell you.”
Artek leaned dizzily closer. “What is it?”
She bit her lip, then smiled crookedly, speaking in an exaggerated whisper. “I know where he is. Your lost lord. He’s not far. I could take you right to him.”
Artek sat up straight. Instantly the giddiness drained from him. That was the advantage of dwarven firebrandy, and the reason it was such a rare and expensive commodity. Its highly intoxicating effects ceased the moment one wished them to. He stared at her, his black eyes deadly serious.
“You know where Lord Corin Silvertor is?”
The wizard’s face quickly grew solemn as she too willed away the effects of the firebrandy.
“I do.”
Artek bore into her with his black eyes. He could see her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat, but she did not look away. Thief’s instinct warned him that she was not telling him everything. But she was not lying. Of that he was certain. She did indeed know where to find the lost lord.
“Take me to him,” he said intently.
“Take me with you,” she replied in an even voice.
For a silent moment the two gazed at each other. Then a reluctant smile spread across Artek’s face; this time, it was not from the firebrandy.
“It looks like we have a deal, wizard.”
Beckla beamed brightly in reply. She stood, gripping her wizard’s staff. “All right, thief,” she said crisply. “Let’s go rescue us a nobleman.”
Outcasts
Artek and Beckla came to a halt before a high basalt archway shaped like a gaping mouth. Whether the maw was open in laughter or a scream was impossible to tell. Green mold clung to the stony lips, and black water dripped from jagged teeth. Distant sounds drifted through the archway: grunts, snarls, and high-pitched howls. They were almost like the noises of animals. Almost, but not quite. Beyond the mouth lay darkness.
“This archway marks the border of the territory of the Outcasts,” Beckla whispered. A faint blue radiance bathed her face, emanating from the wisp of magelight hovering on the end of her staff.
“The Outcasts?” Artek asked quietly. The oppressive silence seemed a living thing. It did not like the intrusion of their words. “Who are they?”
Beckla shook her head grimly. “What are they might be a more appropriate question.”
Artek gazed at her in puzzlement. Quietly, the wizard explained her cryptic words.
“I think they were people once,” she began. “But they were shunned by the world above and driven down beneath the city. I suppose it was because they were different. They were the city’s malformed, its ill, its mad.” She shook her head ruefully. “I don’t know why people are so terrified of those who aren’t exactly the same as everyone else. But they are. They fear difference, and hate it. I imagine that was what drove the Outcasts down. It wasn’t their fault they were different, but it still made them pariahs. I think that over the years, one by one, the unwanted of Waterdeep retreated down into the sewers beneath the city, and many eventually found their way into the halls of Undermountain.”
Beckla gazed thoughtfully into the darkness with her deep brown eyes. “There’s a whole world down here beneath the city,” she murmured. “One that those who walk the daylit streets above have no idea even exists.”
Artek let out a grunt. He knew well what it was like to be despised simply because he was not like others. Would the Magisters have been so deaf to his claims of innocence
had orcish blood not run in his veins? He could feel sympathy for the Outcasts, for those who had chosen to live in the dark below rather than be feared in the light above.
“So it’s these Outcasts who have Lord Corin Silvertor?” he asked finally.
Beckla nodded, confirming his guess. “They’re holding him prisoner deep in their territory.”
“Well, I don’t suppose a ragtag band of misfits will give us much trouble,” Artek said gruffly.
At this, Beckla shook her head fiercely. “You don’t understand, Artek. The Outcasts are not what they used to be. Anyone scorned by the world above is welcomed among them. But they hate those who are whole—those like us. And over the years that hatred has … changed them.”
A chill snaked down Artek’s back. “Changed them?” he asked slowly. “How?”
She gripped her staff with white-knuckled hands. “I think their hatred melded with some dark magic that lingers in these corridors even now, so long after Halaster created them. The very stones exude an evil enchantment like a foul odor. The Outcasts fled the world above because they were perceived as monsters. And over time, down here in the darkness, they have become just that. The atmosphere of Undermountain has twisted them. I’ve never laid eyes on any of the Outcasts myself—few who do so survive. But according to the stories, they’re not human anymore.” Beckla could not suppress a shiver.
Artek stared at her in grisly astonishment. “So why wouldn’t they just kill Lord Silvertor?” he asked. “From the description I got, Silvertor is young and handsome. If what you’ve said about the Outcasts is true, they would loathe him.”
“Yes, they would,” the wizard agreed solemnly. “But you don’t know the whole story. The Outcasts don’t kill those who intrude upon their territory.” Revulsion choked her voice. “Instead they twist their bodies and minds, turning the intruders into Outcasts like themselves.”
This time it was Artek who shivered. It was a horrible image. “How do you know all this, Beckla?”
The wizard flashed a wan smile in his direction. “I have my ways.”
He frowned at this enigmatic answer, and she let out a soft laugh.
“Actually, it’s no mystery,” she explained. “I’m not the only one hiding out down here. And rumors tend to travel pretty swiftly through these dreary tunnels.”
Artek nodded, temporarily satisfied with her answer. An uneasy feeling gathered in his stomach. He glanced down at the dark ink tattoo on his arm; the arrow was now halfway between sun and moon. Already six hours had passed. He didn’t like the idea of meeting up with the Outcasts, but he had little choice. If he wanted to live, he had to venture into their territory.
He shot the wizard a questioning look. “Are you certain you still want to come with me, Beckla?”
“That little golden box of yours might be the only way I’m ever going to get out of here.” She crossed her arms, fixing him with an even gaze.
“You could just kill me and take it, you know.”
Her lips parted in a crooked grin. “If I was going to do that, wouldn’t I have done it by now?”
Despite his fear, he let out a laugh. “I suppose so.”
Together, they stepped through the archway’s gaping mouth.
While elsewhere the dank air of Undermountain had been oppressive, here it was downright menacing. As they went, the darkness parted sluggishly before Beckla’s flickering ball of magelight and closed turgidly behind them, like oily water in the wake of a ship. Artek found himself taking shallow breaths; he was reluctant to draw the noxious atmosphere into his lungs, as if once inside his body it might fester, filling him with its dark disease. He knew that they were not welcome here.
The two walked down a twisting tunnel; its walls were strangely curved and ridged. A dark, glistening mucus covered them, dripping onto the floor, which was nauseatingly soft and spongy under their feet. In all, the tunnel seemed as if it had not been hewn of stone, but was alive. Artek felt as if they had been swallowed by a gigantic creature, and were now moving down its long, sinuous esophagus. Hot bile rose in his own throat. He tried to force the queasy image from his mind, but had little success.
They had gone only a short way when the moist tunnel divided. They paused, and Artek pulled the heart jewel out of his pocket. The blue light glimmering in the center was stronger now. He moved a few paces down the right-hand passageway. The gem flickered. He retraced his steps, then padded down the left-hand tunnel. The glow inside the heart jewel steadied and strengthened.
“This way,” Artek whispered.
Beckla followed after him, and the two moved down the slime-covered passage. Before long the tunnel forked again, and again. Each time Artek used the glowing heart jewel to determine which way they should take. Soon they found themselves in a labyrinth of networking tunnels, branching and rejoining countless times in a chaotically braided pattern. Artek began to wonder if they could ever find their way back out if they needed to. He did not voice his fear.
A distant thrum vibrated in the air. It was so low that they felt it more than they heard it, reverberating beneath their feet, almost like the sound of a beating heart. Otherwise, the winding tunnels were utterly silent. The grunts and howls that had drifted out of the mouth-arch had ceased. The quiet was even more disturbing.
“Where are the Outcasts?” Artek hissed when the silence became almost unbearable.
Beckla bit her lip nervously. “I don’t know. But I almost wish they would just show themselves. I don’t think facing them could be any more horrible than wondering and waiting.”
There was nothing to do but keep moving. The tunnel opened up before them, and they found themselves in a smooth-walled chamber. Glossy shapes were embedded in the wall, livid and throbbing, like huge organs. Sickened, they hurried across the squelching floor and moved through a circular opening in the far wall.
Artek glanced at the heart jewel in his hand. The light in the center was so bright they hardly needed Beckla’s magelight. The glow pulsed steadily, echoing the lost lord’s heart. Silvertor was still alive. And by the rapid rate of his pulse, Artek guessed he was terribly afraid—as well he should be in this place. But the nobleman was close now, Artek was sure.
They rounded a sharp bend, then skidded to an abrupt halt. Something was embedded in the tunnel wall, something alive. It writhed beneath a translucent sheath of tough mucus, like an insect inside a chrysalis. In dread fascination, Artek and Beckla approached.
It was a person. For a moment, Artek thought it might be Lord Silvertor, but as they drew near, he saw that this was not so. It was a woman, some other prisoner of the Outcasts. She struggled vainly against the viscous bonds that held her within the wall. Her eyes bulged when she saw them, and she pressed her face against the clear sheath that covered her, stretching it. She opened her mouth, screaming. No sound came out, but Artek could understand her words by the movements of her lips. Help me, she was screaming. Please, by all the gods, help me.
“We’ve got to cut her free!” Beckla cried.
Artek reached for the saber at his hip. In horror, he froze. It was too late.
Slick tendrils snaked out of the wall and plunged into the woman’s body. They pulsed like veins, pumping her full of dark fluids. She screamed, convulsing violently. All at once she fell still. As Artek and Beckla watched in revulsion, her body began to change. Her skin dissolved, revealing glistening muscles and organs beneath. As if of their own volition, her body parts began to undulate, rearranging themselves into hideous and alien new shapes. The woman twitched and shuddered. She was still alive, but she was transforming into something else.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Artek gasped, feeling sick. He grabbed Beckla’s arm. “We have to go!”
The wizard nodded jerkily and stumbled after him. They careened down the tunnel, passing more prisoners embedded in the moist, fleshy walls. All were in the process of being transformed; all were beyond hope.
The tunnel opened into another chamber, one
with pink walls and a ribbed ceiling. Thick green liquid bubbled in a pool in the center of the room. A caustic stench hung in the air, burning their eyes and noses. The jewel in Artek’s hand flared brilliantly.
“He’s got to be here!” he gasped, gagging on the stinging air. He spun around, searching the slime-covered walls.
“There!” Beckla choked, pointing.
They rushed to the far side of the chamber. A body was embedded in the wall, struggling beneath a taut, fibrous sheath. Artek peered through the covering, dreading what he would see. He glimpsed a young man with a pale face, golden hair, and terrified blue eyes. It was the lost lord—Corin Silvertor.
“I think he’s all right,” Artek uttered in relief. “It looks like the transformation hasn’t begun.”
“Then we’ve got to get him out,” Beckla replied urgently. “And fast!”
Artek drew his saber and slashed at the glistening sheath. It was tougher than he would have guessed. He pushed harder, until at last the tip of the blade penetrated the membrane. Clear yellow fluid oozed out. Clenching his jaw to keep from gagging, Artek slid the saber down, cutting open a large slit, and more ichor spilled out.
“Give me a hand!” he cried.
Together, he and the wizard reached into the slit, grabbing hold of Silvertor. They strained backward. At first there was resistance, but then, with a sucking sound, the young man slid through the opening in a gush of thick fluid. At the same moment, livid tendrils sprang out of the wall, searching blindly for living flesh into which they could pump their vile secretions. Clutching the lord, Artek and Beckla fell to the floor, hastily rolling out of reach of the waving tentacles.
Breathing hard, they climbed to their feet, pulling Silvertor up with them. The young man wobbled precariously, then managed to stand with their assistance. Foul-smelling ichor dripped from his once-fine clothes of blue velvet and ruffled white silk. With trembling hands, he wiped the slime from his face. Even as Artek’s swarthy looks denoted his orcish blood, so too the young man’s fine, elegant features indicated his noble heritage.
