by Mark Anthony
As before, the message was signed Talastria and Orannon. Beneath it, an arrow pointed through the archway. They stepped through the opening and into a dim corridor. Artek shivered. It was strange to be retracing the ancient steps of the two lost apprentices. Steeling his will, he started down the corridor. The others followed. After the loftiness of the main avenue, this passage was cramped and forbidding—apparently, it had been a lesser way of Underhall. Dark water dripped down the smooth stone walls and trickled across the floor. Unconsciously, the three humans drew closer together.
When they came to a flight of stairs, an arrow scratched into the wall pointed down. Talastria and Orannon had come this way. Artek led the others down a hundred slimy steps before the corridor leveled out and continued on again through the darkness.
“What are all these strange silvery marks on the wall?” Corin wondered aloud. Though he spoke in a whisper, the sound of his voice hissed uncomfortably around the corridor. No one had an answer for him.
Four more times they came to a flight of steps, each longer than the one before. At the head of every stairway, an arrow indicated that the two apprentices had descended it. Breathless, they reached the bottom of the fifth flight only after Artek had counted five hundred steps. It was there that they finally learned the answer to Corin’s question. Another message was scratched into the hard surface of the wall.
“ ‘We know not what day of our search this is, for all sense of time was lost to us in the arduous battle for the five stairs,’ ” Corin said, reading the ancient inscription. “ ‘Upon every step of every stair waited a fiend of the underworld, conjured by our master’s magic. To gain but a single step, we were forced to slay a slavering fiend. We destroyed a hundred on the first stair, two hundred on the next. Never did we stop—save to rest briefly and restore our magic—until we destroyed the five hundredth fiend on the fifth and final stair. We are both gravely wounded from the ordeal, yet surely only something of the greatest worth could lie beyond such a terrible barrier. It is our belief that the end of our search is near at last. And surely, once we find our master, he will make us whole once more.’ ”
“A fiend on every step,” Beckla echoed with a shudder. “It must have taken the apprentices years to get past these stairs. The silvery marks on the walls must be scars left from the spells they cast to destroy the creatures.”
Artek nodded grimly. “Let’s see what they found at the end of their search.”
It was not much farther. After a hundred paces, the corridor ended in a pair of massive stone doors. Emblazoned on the door were letters of gold. The letters spelled out two words that they all now easily recognized: Talastria and Orannon. The group exchanged uneasy looks, and Artek pushed on the doors. They swung open easily. Beckla held out her hand, and the flickering magelight illuminated the long chamber beyond.
The sides of the chamber were littered with countless fragments of stone. Only after a moment did Artek realize that some of the fragments were shaped like clawed hands, others like leathery wings, and still others like grotesque heads—they were parts of gargoyles. Dozens of them had once lined the chamber, but now they were smashed to bits. At the far end of the room was a dais of dark stone, and on the dais rested two oblong boxes hewn of porphyry. No, not boxes, Artek realized. Sarcophagi.
“It’s a tomb,” Artek said softly as he sensed the truth. “Talastria and Orannon thought they would find their master at the end of the stairs, on the other side of the fiends. Instead, all they found was their own tomb—no doubt created for them by Halaster himself.”
“That’s a cruel joke,” Corin said, aghast.
“On us as well as on them,” Beckla replied glumly. “I doubt a dead apprentice is going to be able to show us a gate out of this hole.”
“Don’t be so hasty,” Muragh replied testily. “There might be something in here that could help us.”
Artek drew in a deep breath. “I suppose it’s worth a try. We came all this way, so we might as well spend a few minutes poking around.”
Together, they stepped into the tomb of the lost apprentices. It was an eerie place. Artek could almost imagine the two wizards, wounded and dying after their battle on the stairs, stumbling into this chamber only to find the two waiting sarcophagi. Did they laugh madly as they laid themselves within their own coffins? Artek did his best to shake the disturbing image from his mind. While Beckla and Corin began poking around in the shattered remains of the stone gargoyles, he headed for the dais at the far end of the chamber.
All at once an icy wind rushed through the tomb. With an ominous boom, the stone doors swung shut. Artek spun on a heel, staring back at Beckla and Corin in surprise. As one, the wizard and the nobleman gasped. A chill danced up Artek’s back.
“What is it?” he whispered, clutching Muragh tightly.
“I think you’d better turn back around, Artek,” Beckla gulped.
Dread rising in his throat, Artek did as the wizard suggested. His heart froze. Even as he watched, the heavy stone lid that covered one sarcophagus slid to the side and fell to the dais with a crash. A moment later, the lid atop the other stone coffin followed suit. A dry, musty odor drifted on the air: the scent of ancient decay. Then, with majestic and malevolent slowness, a form rose out of each sarcophagus. Tattered robes of black cloth fluttered around withered forms, parchmentlike skin peeled from gaunt faces, and gold bracelets clinked coldly on shriveled arms.
“By all the blackest gods,” Artek murmured in a mixture of awe and terror. “They’re still alive!”
“No,” Muragh countered weakly. “Not alive.”
Crimson flames flared into being in the hollow pits of their eyes as Talastria and Orannon reached out their undead hands toward the defilers of their tomb.
Beauty Perilous
“Run …”
Artek tried to shout the word, but it escaped his lips only as a strangled whisper. Fear radiated from the far end of the tomb in thick, choking waves. He tried to back away from the dais, but his legs betrayed him. Against his will, he fell to his knees, bowing to the dread majesty rising before him. Behind him, Beckla and Corin did the same.
Icy wind shrieked through the ancient chamber. Crimson mist poured down the steps of the dark dais, filling the air with a bloody miasma. Trailing tattered funereal garb and yellowed wisps of dried flesh, the long-dead wizards climbed from their sarcophagi. They stood before the stone coffins, orbless eyes blazing, pointing accusing fingers at the humans. Two keening voices rose in shrill chorus.
Defilers! Trespassers! Foolishly have ye dared to transgress upon our domain!
The words pierced Artek’s skull, flaying his mind. He clutched his hands to his ears, but he could not shut out the deafening shrieks.
Accursed breathing ones! Our guardians may be no more, but still ye shall not profane our tomb. Ye shall pay for this violation with your throbbing hearts!
The undead apprentices stretched out their leathery hands, and scarlet energy crackled on the tips of their clawlike fingers. Artek grunted in fear as he felt a tugging deep in his chest. With stiff, terrible slowness, the mummified wizards took a lurching step forward. They reached their ragged arms out still further, hands blazing with fell magic.
Artek screamed in pain. He threw his head back, arching his spine. His heart leapt wildly, straining against the inside of his rib cage, as if at any moment it would burst from his chest and hurtle through the air to the waiting hand of Talastria or Orannon. A moment later, Beckla and Corin echoed his cry, writhing as their own beating hearts were called by the dread wizards.
The undead horrors continued to hobble forward, until they stood upon the very edge of the dais. The nearer they came, the more the pressure in Artek’s chest increased. He gnashed his teeth in agony as a trickle of dark blood oozed from his nose. He could not breathe. So this is how it ends, he thought dimly. Dying at the hands of the dead. He might have laughed at the irony of it, but when he opened his mouth, he could only scream.
> The wizards grinned evilly, empty eye sockets blazing. A little closer, and their dire magic would be strong enough to rip the beating hearts from the chests of their defilers. Together, Talastria and Orannon took one more stiff step forward.
Numb and dried as they were, their feet did not sense the stone step beneath them. The two undead wizards lurched forward at the unexpected drop. Their brittle feet crumbled upon striking the top step of the dais. Withered arms shot out as the apprentices fought to preserve their precarious balance. The sudden motion caused ancient sinews to snap like old bowstrings. Talastria and Orannon let out a terrible, soul-rending shriek, and then, like grisly puppets with their strings slashed, they pitched forward. Their desiccated bodies struck the sharp stone steps and burst asunder. Disarticulated bones rolled down the steps, crumbling as they went.
By the time the remains of the two wizards reached the floor before the dais, all that was left were shards and scraps. For a moment, scarlet sparks of magic sizzled around the crumbled remnants of the gruesome mummies, but these, too, were soon extinguished. Yellow dust settled to the floor. After ten centuries, Talastria and Orannon were truly dead.
Artek slumped forward as the near-fatal magic released his heart. He clutched his chest, drawing in deep, ragged gulps of air. Gradually the wild throbbing of his heart slowed to a more steady pace. Turning his head, he saw Beckla and Corin pull themselves to their knees. The wizard wiped the blood from her lips with the back of her hand. Corin was hunched over, retching, but then he managed to straighten himself, his blue eyes wide in his pale face.
Muragh had rolled a short distance away. “Well, I guess that will teach you to respect the dead,” the skull said in a slightly smug tone.
Artek did not even bother to reply, having had more than enough of dead things for the moment. Stumbling to his feet, he moved to help Beckla and Corin up. All were rattled by the experience, but no one seemed gravely injured.
“Now what?” Beckla asked hoarsely after recovering some of her composure.
Artek straightened his leather jerkin, then ran a hand through his short black hair. He gazed around the ancient tomb. “I can’t say that I really care to hang around this place any longer than we have to, but I suppose we should look around. Talastria and Orannon may be dead for good, but there still could be something here that might help us.”
“Very well,” Corin agreed weakly. “But if any more corpses pop out of coffins, we’re leaving.”
For once the nobleman received no argument.
Carefully they began to search the tomb, examining the walls and poking through the broken statuary. They had been searching for only a few moments when a sound drifted on the air: a low grunting interspersed with high-pitched squeaks and damp snorts. Artek froze.
“Do you hear that?” he hissed to the others.
Beckla nodded. “It sounds like some sort of animal,” she whispered back.
Corin stared at them in alarm. “I really think we ought to be going now,” he gulped.
Artek shook his head grimly. “Not without knowing what’s likely to be following us when we do.” He cocked his head, listening. There it was again: a grunting, shuddering sound from the far end of the tomb. Steeling his will, Artek pulled the dagger from his boot and stealthily made his way toward the stone dais. The animal sounds grew louder. Whatever the thing was, it was definitely lurking behind the dais.
Clutching his dagger, Artek soundlessly ascended the steps. He moved carefully between the two stone sarcophagi and cautiously peered over the back edge of the dais. The sniffling sound reached his ears clearly now. Something gray, scaly, and muscular crouched in the shadows behind the dais. Artek’s darkvision adjusted to the murk, and his jaw dropped in surprise. He backed away, hurrying down the steps, and returned to the others.
“It’s a gargoyle,” he whispered.
Beckla glanced at the shattered remains of the bestial stone statues that littered the tomb. “A gargoyle?” she asked in confusion. “Like these?”
Artek nodded darkly. “Only it’s alive.”
Corin clutched a hand to his mouth. “Alive?” he gasped through his fingers. “But what’s it doing?”
Artek frowned in puzzlement. “I’m not entirely sure. But I think that it’s … crying.”
Beckla and Corin traded startled looks. “Crying?” they echoed as one.
“Maybe you’d better come look for yourselves,” Artek told the others. “I can’t be certain, but I don’t think it’s too dangerous. If it was, it probably would have attacked us by now.”
Beckla was game to try, but Corin had to be tugged along forcefully.
“Hey!” Muragh piped up. “Don’t forget me!”
“I should be so lucky,” Artek grumbled, picking up the enchanted skull.
Keeping close together, they ascended the dais and peered over the back edge. Beckla held out her hand. Blue magelight drove away the shadows, revealing the creature below.
In the light, Artek saw that it was indeed a gargoyle. The creature huddled on the floor with its back turned toward them. Its scaly hide was rough and gray as stone, and rocklike muscles knotted its powerful frame. Stubby bat wings protruded from its broad back, and onyx horns sprang from its knobby head. The gargoyle’s gigantic shoulders shook as it grunted and sniffled.
“The poor thing,” Beckla sighed.
Artek and Corin stared at her. “The poor thing?” Artek repeated in disbelief.
The wizard glared at him. “It’s sad,” she replied in annoyance.
At the sound of their voices, the gargoyle let out a snort and looked up. Both Artek and Corin jumped back, but Beckla did not so much as flinch. Somehow the creature’s doglike face was more endearing than frightful. Sorrow shone in its glowing green eyes.
“What’s wrong with you?” the gargoyle growled in a gravelly voice. “Why are you just standing there? Aren’t you terrified of me?”
Trembling, Corin opened his mouth to speak, but Beckla elbowed him sharply in the side. The nobleman’s mouth promptly snapped shut.
“No, we’re not,” the wizard answered seriously.
The gargoyle let out a dejected sigh, wings drooping. “I was afraid of that. Not that I’m surprised—I never was any good at guarding the tomb. Now I’m the last, and an utter failure.” The gargoyle sniffed, wiping the dampness from its scaly cheeks with a clawed hand.
“Corin,” Beckla asked, “do you have a handkerchief?”
“Of course,” the nobleman replied in confusion. He pulled a slime-covered silk cloth from the pocket of his velvet coat. “But what do you—?”
Beckla snatched the handkerchief from his hand, then hopped down from the dais. She held the cloth out toward the gargoyle. “Here,” she said gently.
The gargoyle stared at her in surprise, then hesitantly accepted the handkerchief. The creature lifted the grubby cloth to its long muzzle, then let out a trumpeting snort. When it was finished, it politely offered the dripping handkerchief back to Corin.
The nobleman accepted it reluctantly, looking vaguely queasy.
Artek watched all this with growing fascination. He crouched on the edge of the dais and eyed the gargoyle critically. “Excuse me,” he said carefully, “but I was always led to believe that gargoyles were terrible and ferocious creatures—stone statues given magical life for the sole purpose of maiming and killing.”
“They are,” the gargoyle agreed.
Artek scratched his stubbly chin. “Well, no offense intended, but you don’t exactly fit the bill.”
More tears welled up in the creature’s glowing green eyes. “I know,” it said forlornly.
“Now look what you’ve done, Ar’talen,” Beckla scolded him. “You’ve made him cry again.”
Artek shook his head in astonishment. He was having a hard time dealing with this. He gave the gargoyle a questioning look. “All right, then maybe you should tell us exactly what you are doing here, ah …”
“Terrathiguss,” the crea
ture finished. “Terrathiguss the Gargoyle.”
“Well, at least your name is somewhat frightening,” Artek acknowledged.
“Do you really think so?” Terrathiguss asked. “Not much else about me is.” Muscled limbs flexing easily, the gargoyle climbed onto the dais and gazed around the tomb at the shattered remnants of the other stone gargoyles. “I don’t know what went wrong. We were all created at the same time. Talastria and Orannon made us, you see. They used their dying energy to conjure us into being, and ordered us to keep guard over their tomb. But I was the last one they made.” The gargoyle shook its head ruefully. “And somehow I was different.”
“Different?” Artek asked.
The gargoyle nodded solemnly. “Do you mind if I sit?” Startled by the creature’s manners, Artek could only nod. With a clawed hand, Terrathiguss fastidiously dusted off a corner of one of the sarcophagi. Then the creature perched neatly on the stone coffin.
“For a thousand years, my brethren and I stood guard over this tomb,” Terrathiguss went on in his gruff yet oddly warm voice. “Oh, it wasn’t as boring as you might imagine, for we spent most of that time in stone form. Time passes very quickly for us when we stand as statues. I suppose it’s rather like sleeping for a living creature, though I can only guess.” The gargoyle shrugged its massive shoulders. “Anyway, we became flesh only when interlopers entered the tomb. And then we promptly tore the defilers to shreds.”
Terrathiguss shook his head sadly. “At least, my brethren tore the defilers to shreds. At first I joined them, but before long I realized that it wasn’t the same for me as for the other gargoyles. They seemed to truly enjoy rending hapless adventurers limb from limb. They would laugh loudly, and always fought over who got to eviscerate the last screaming victim. During the first century or two, I tried killing a few adventurers myself. But I only felt sorry for them, and I dispatched them as quickly and painlessly as I could.” The gargoyle rested its knobby chin on a clawed hand. “As time went on, I took to just hiding behind the dais and letting the others do all the work. My brethren never seemed to notice. They were always too busy having fun.”
