by Mark Anthony
“But what happened to the others?” Beckla asked, glancing at the broken statues.
“I’m not sure exactly,” Terrathiguss replied. “None of us were. One day we woke up from our stony sleep to find that one of our brethren had cracked and crumbled during our slumber. After that, every time we awoke, we saw that another one or two had fallen to ruin while we were sleeping. I suppose it was simply age. Even enchanted stone can crack with time, and even magical creatures can die.”
“So you’re the last?” Corin asked breathlessly. Caught up in the creature’s tale, he had forgotten his fear.
“I’m afraid so,” the gargoyle said glumly. “I woke when you first entered the tomb, and I hid behind the dais. Now I see that I was the only one to wake. There were three others besides me when last we became stone. All must have crumbled since then.” The gargoyle’s voice turned into a sob. “What a cruel joke that I am the last! I should have attacked you when you entered the tomb. I should have protected my creators. Instead I hid like a coward, and now Talastria and Orannon are no more. I suppose I will crumble, too, now that they are destroyed.”
Beckla tapped her cheek thoughtfully. “I’m not so certain. It seems to me that if you were still under their power, you would have turned back to stone with their destruction. But you’re still flesh. I think that perhaps you are free of them.”
The gargoyle glanced up at Beckla in surprise. “Free?” A look of wonder crossed his doglike face. The green light in his eyes flashed. “Free.” He murmured the word again in amazement.
As the gargoyle contemplated the wizard’s words, Artek drew the others aside.
“So what are we going to do with it?” he asked quietly.
“It’s not an it,” Beckla replied testily. “It’s a him. I’m going to call him Guss.”
“Whatever for?” Artek asked.
“Terrathiguss is too long,” Beckla explained. “And it really doesn’t suit him. He’s much too nice to have that kind of a name.”
Artek shook his head, trying to follow her reasoning. “But why call it—I mean him—anything at all?”
“Because we’re adopting him,” Beckla said crisply.
“Oh, how delightful!” Corin exclaimed happily.
“Are you insane, wizard?” Artek hissed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, he’s a gargoyle. We are not adopting him!”
“Quiet, Ar’talen!” Beckla said crossly. “You’ll hurt his feelings.”
Sputtering, Artek tried to come up with a sensible reply to this madness. Beckla breezed by him, approaching the gargoyle.
“It’s decided, Terrathiguss,” she said cheerfully. “We’re trying to get out of Undermountain, and you’re welcome to come with us. I would like to call you Guss, too—it’s a much nicer name for you. But it’s all up to you, of course.”
The gargoyle leapt to his feet in surprise. “Well, I like Guss just fine,” he gasped, “but do you really mean the rest? You want me to come with you?”
Beckla nodded solemnly. “We do.”
“All of you?” Guss asked. He looked hopefully at Artek.
Artek opened his mouth, but a sharp glance from Beckla made him rethink his reply. “Yes,” he grumbled darkly. “All of us.”
“You might be sorry, you know,” Guss said gravely. “I was created by dark wizards as a creature of destruction. I am evil by nature.”
Beckla smiled. “I rather doubt that.”
The gargoyle grinned back at her, displaying row upon row of sharp teeth. Somehow the expression was more charming than terrible. Artek was forced to admit to himself that Guss did seem friendly. And it couldn’t hurt to have a gargoyle on their side.
“Look at this!” Corin said suddenly.
The nobleman had been rummaging inside one of the stone coffins, and his eager face was covered with dust. He gripped a tattered book in his hand. The others gathered around Corin as he opened the tome. The brittle yellow pages were covered with the same spidery writing as the messages the two apprentices had scratched on the walls.
“I think it’s their diary!” Corin exclaimed excitedly, thumbing through the book.
Artek peered more closely at the tome, but he could not make out the ancient writing. “Can you read it?”
Corin frowned, squinting at the murky text, then shook his head. “It’s written in Thorass, all right. But I’m afraid the ink is too faded to make out more than a word or two. Perhaps I could—wait a minute! What’s this?”
The nobleman flipped back to the page that had caught his eye. It displayed a map showing twisting halls joining myriad chambers. “I think this is the great avenue of Underhall we were in before,” Corin said, pointing to a broad passage.
“What’s this?” Beckla asked, pointing to a chamber with an X marked inside it and a line of text scrawled beneath it.
Corin studied the words for a moment. “I think I can make this out,” he murmured, then nodded. “Yes. ‘To the lair of our sister Arcturia.’ ”
Artek looked up in interest. “Their sister? What does that mean?”
Muragh bounced up and down in his hands. “Are you an idiot?” the skull piped up urgently. “Who else could be the sister of Talastria and Orannon besides—”
“Another apprentice,” Artek finished in amazement. He rubbed the top of the skull with his knuckles. “Good thinking, Muragh. Especially for someone who doesn’t have a brain.”
“Thanks,” the skull huffed in annoyance, squirming but unable to escape Artek’s grip.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Beckla demanded, hopping off the dais. “Let’s go find this Arcturia.”
At first, Guss was reluctant to step outside the door of the ancient tomb, fearing he would turn to stone. But Beckla gripped his clawed hand and coaxed him through the portal. Finally he crossed the threshold, then cringed, eyes clenched shut, waiting for doom to fall upon him. Nothing happened. When he opened his glowing green eyes and looked down at his hands, they were still scaly flesh. He looked up at Beckla in wonder, then gave her a toothy grin.
Following the map, they made their way back up the five sets of stairs and down the broad, dusty boulevard hewn by the Melairkyn dwarves. Turning down a side passage, they wended their way through a maze of corridors until at last they came to the chamber marked on the map. There was nothing inside the small stone room but a round pool of dark water.
“Don’t tell me this was a wild goblin chase,” Artek said glumly.
Beckla cautiously approached the pool, held out her hands, and spoke several words of magic. The dark water suddenly shone with a radiant blue light. Beckla nodded in satisfaction, then withdrew her hands, and the light faded.
“The pool is enchanted,” she said, turning to the others. “While I can’t be entirely certain, I think it’s a gate.”
“Either that or it will transform us into two-headed slime worms,” Artek said. “We probably ought to do a few tests before we jump in.”
“For once I agree with you, Ar’talen.” The wizard started back toward the others. As she did, her boot heel skidded on the damp stones beside the pool. She reached out to balance herself, but it was too late. With a cry, Beckla fell backward into the dark surface of the pool.
The others rushed to the edge of the pool. Artek peered into the murky depths. “I can’t see her!” he said frantically.
“And you won’t, no matter how hard you look,” Muragh replied, his reedy voice grim. “Not if this really is a gate.”
“But where has it taken her?” Corin asked, wringing his hands.
Artek made a decision. “There’s only one way to find out.”
The nobleman’s eyes went wide. He started to back away from the pool. “Oh, no. You don’t intend to—”
“Grab him, Guss!” Artek shouted.
The gargoyle caught the squirming lord in his stony arms. “Got him, Artek,” Guss grinned. “Ready?”
Artek gave a sharp nod. “As I’ll ever be.” He tightened his grip on Muragh. “L
et’s go.”
Together they leapt into the pool.
Chill water closed over their heads, and they plunged down through freezing darkness. A brilliant light appeared below and grew rapidly into a silvery rectangle. Together they fell through the glowing gate. Artek’s senses were abruptly turned on their sides as he found himself not falling through the portal like a trapdoor, but rather stepping through it, as if walking past a sheer curtain of cool silk and into a shining room beyond.
“Greetings, wanderers,” said a shimmering voice. “Welcome to my abode.”
For a moment Artek was utterly disoriented. At last he blinked and saw that he and the others indeed stood in some sort of chamber, but he could make out few details. Everything was washed in glowing silver light. Then the light dimmed as a figure stood before them, and they all gasped.
She was beautiful. Her skin was as green and radiant as emeralds, and long hair tumbled about her shoulders in waves of polished jet. She wore a pale, diaphanous shift that seemed to accentuate the lushness of her smooth body rather than conceal it. Blue wings—as fine as those of a dragonfly—fluttered gently behind her. Eyes as bright as the sun shone from her delicate, nymphlike face.
Finally, Artek found his tongue. “Arcturia?” he murmured in wonder.
Her laughter was like clear water on crystal. “Indeed, I am Arcturia,” she said in her bell-like voice. “And who else had you expected to find beyond the gate?”
Artek turned to glance at the portal behind them. It looked like a polished silver mirror hung within the carved stone archway, reflecting not this room, but rather the chamber with the dark pool. Even as Artek watched, the portal flashed, and the image changed, showing a shadowed hallway. After a few moments the silvery door flashed again. Once more the image shifted, now displaying a vast throne room.
“Many gates lead to this one,” Arcturia said in answer to his look of wonder. “But that need concern you no longer, for now you have found me. Come—you must be thirsty, hungry, and tired. I will take you each to a place where you may find rest and peace.”
Rest and peace. The words echoed deliciously in Artek’s mind. Suddenly he could think of nothing else. It was exactly what they needed, but could they truly find it with one of Halaster’s apprentices?
Arcturia reached out a slender hand toward Corin, whose eyes seemed to glaze over as he looked upon her with a rapt expression of joy. She smiled and led the nobleman away into the silvery light. He did not resist. Soon she came back to lead Beckla and Guss away in turn. They did not resist either, and Artek found he could only watch them be taken away. He could not move, and he was not sure if he even wanted to.
At last she came for Artek. She slipped her cool fingers into his. Come, her voice whispered gently in his mind, though her ruby lips moved only to smile.
Muragh jerked in the crook of Artek’s arm. “I don’t like this,” the skull hissed through yellowed teeth. His few wisps of rotted hair waved in agitation. “She’s a little too friendly, if you ask me. Something is wrong here.”
However, the skull’s urgent words were no more than a dull buzz in Artek’s ears. As if in a dream, he seemed to float forward, following the green-skinned maiden.
“Artek, don’t do this!” Muragh cried out. “Listen to me, I know what—”
Utterly unnoticed, the skull slipped from Artek’s arm, clattering to the floor and rolling away. With an absent smile, Artek followed after Arcturia.
As they proceeded, he caught brief glimpses of the others. Corin sat in a velvet chair at the end of a long dining table laden with pewter platters, crystal bowls, and goblets of beaten gold. His grimy clothes had been replaced by new finery of blue silk trimmed with silver braid, and his golden hair was neatly drawn back from his powdered face by a cloth ribbon. Two servants in elegant kneecoats waited upon him, heaping his plate with steaming delicacies and filling his cup with crimson wine. The nobleman sighed happily, then dug ravenously into the rich feast laid out before him.
Artek wondered if that was what life was like in House Silvertor. Then the scene passed by, and thoughts of the nobleman drifted from his mind. A moment later he glimpsed Guss. The gargoyle sat upon a greensward, surrounded by wildflowers. Bathed in the warm light of an unseen sun, Guss leaned contentedly against an oak tree. He plucked a purple flower and held it beneath his muzzle, closing his eyes in bliss as he breathed deeply.
Artek thought he should call out to Guss in greeting, but Arcturia gently pulled him onward, and he quickly forgot about the gargoyle. They passed an archway through which Artek glimpsed a dim chamber. He could see Beckla standing before a wooden workbench. Her face was intent as she ground colored powders with mortar and pestle, and combined glittering potions in glass beakers. She held a crucible over a candle’s flame, and glowing blue smoke billowed out to her evident satisfaction. It seemed that she was researching a powerful new spell.
At last Arcturia brought him to a halt in front of a wooden door. Again her voice whispered in his mind, though her lips did not move. Beyond this door you will find all that you desire, Artek. Open it …
The emerald-skinned woman seemed to fade away into the silvery light, leaving Artek alone. He gripped the brass doorknob. For a moment he hesitated, but it was as if he could not control his hand. A force was pulling him from the other side of the door. He opened it and stepped through.
“Father!” a clear voice cried. “You’re home!”
A small form raced across the cozy, firelit room and flew into his arms. It all seemed so familiar. Artek found himself lifting the dark-haired boy into the air.
“You’re getting big, Arneth!” he said. He was not sure how he knew the boy’s name, but he was certain that the boy knew him.
“Yes, I am,” the boy replied seriously. “What did you bring me?”
Artek reached into his pocket and pulled out a brown paper packet, though he could not remember putting it there. “I hope this will do.”
Arneth took the packet and opened it. “Candy!” he exclaimed happily. “Thank you, Father!” The boy dashed away with his new treasure.
A pretty woman in a green dress set a steaming bowl down on a wooden table. She looked up and smiled, her sun-gold eyes glowing. “Your supper is ready, Artek.”
Artek caught the woman in his arms and held her tightly. He felt lucky to have this warm home, bright son, and beautiful wife. It was all he had ever wanted in life. Why question things? He was going to enjoy it to the fullest. He glanced at the door through which Arneth had disappeared, then grinned broadly.
“It’s not stew I’m hungry for,” he said wickedly, squeezing the woman tight.
She laughed, filling the air with a tinkling sound, like the ringing of a crystal bell. “Very well, husband,” she said. “But there is something I must do first. Wait just a moment, and I will return.”
She pushed him gently into a chair, brushed a soft finger against his lips, and disappeared through the door he had entered. Artek leaned back, sighing contentedly, dreaming of the pleasure that was to come.
“Artek!” a distant voice said. “Artek, pick me up! Please!”
The voice was so faint and hazy that he thought he had imagined it. He started to slip into his daydreams once more, but something nudged his foot. He looked down in surprise to see a skull on the floor, its jaw working frantically. For a moment he stared at the thing in amazement, but soon found himself bending down to pick it up.
“Artek!” The skull hopped madly in his hands. “It’s me! Muragh! Wake up, you fool!”
Memory flooded back into Artek’s mind. “Muragh,” he gasped in surprise. “What are we doing here? Where are the others?”
“They’re trapped in illusions, just like you are,” the skull said urgently. “And let me tell you, rolling all the way here to warn you was not easy. You’re all in terrible danger!”
“Danger?” Artek asked. “What do you mean? And what’s all this about illusions?”
“Look through m
y eyes,” the skull said. “Then you’ll understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not alive—illusions don’t work on me,” Muragh explained hastily. “There’s a crack in the back of my skull. If you look through it, you can see out of the holes in my eye sockets. The magic in my skull will filter out the illusions you perceive. Hurry!”
Artek still found himself unable to think clearly. He lifted the skull and, squinting, peered through the crack in the back of Muragh’s cranium.
Artek stood in shock. Still gazing through the skull, he looked all around. No longer was he in a warm, firelit chamber. It was a room, all right, but the walls were covered with mold. There was no fireplace, no door in the wall through which Arneth had run. There was a table and chair, but both were rickety and worm-eaten. The chill truth crashed over him in a wave, and a pang of loss clutched his heart. It was an illusion—the house, the fire, Arneth, all of it. All of it, perhaps, except the woman.
“You said we were in danger, Muragh,” he whispered intently.
“Arcturia isn’t what she seems,” the skull replied. “She plans to use you and the others as subjects for her experiments.”
“Experiments?”
“Yes! I heard her talking to herself after she left you here. She plans to—”
The skull was interrupted by a clear voice from outside the door. “Here I come, husband,” the voice purred. “I hope that you are ready.”
Artek stared at Muragh in terror as the door began to open.
The Black Dart
The beautiful woman with sun-gold eyes stepped through the door, her green dress swishing softly. Artek smiled nervously, folding his hands behind his head and trying to lean back casually in the chair. Something sharp dug into the small of his back, and he grimaced in pain.
A faint shadow touched her smooth brow. “Is something wrong, my love?”
He forced a smile. “No, dearest. Only a passing sadness that you were away. But it has gone, now that you have returned.”
