by Mark Anthony
Once again Guss’s voice called from above. “Artek, you’re almost out of time! The fork in the river is just ahead!”
Ignoring the searing pain in his side, Artek attacked the captain with redoubled vigor, driving the zombie back toward the wheel. The schooner’s keel grated against a submerged rock, and the ship gave a jarring shudder. Somewhere timbers cracked like old bones. Decayed limbs unable to keep their balance, the zombie captain stumbled backward against the ship’s wheel. It was now or never.
Artek sprang forward, letting the cursed saber have free rein. The blade struck once, hewing off the captain’s sword arm. Then it swung again, severing the zombie’s other arm. Finally, the magical saber pulled Artek forward in a mighty thrust. The blade pierced the pirate captain’s heart, pinning the zombie to the center of the ship’s wheel.
“Artek, now!” Guss cried out from above.
With all his strength, Artek grabbed the ship’s wheel and spun it—along with the feebly flopping zombie captain—to the right. At the same moment a sharp angle of stone loomed in the darkness before the schooner. The dark waters of the Sargauth broke and divided upon the rocky wedge, half going right, and half going left.
With a shout, Artek turned the wheel farther. For a terrified moment he thought the schooner was going to run directly into the sharp wedge of stone before them. Then, at the last moment, the rushing waters swept the schooner into the right-hand passage. There was a horrible splintering sound as the port side of the hull grated against the rough stone wall. Artek was tossed to his knees as the ship convulsed violently. Then the grating noise ceased and the shaking ended as The Black Dart sailed down calmer waters. Artek climbed to his feet, gazing in amazement at the placid river ahead. They had done it.
“Ar’talen!” Corin cried behind him. “I think that we’re in a spot of trouble.”
Artek turned to see Corin and Beckla hurrying toward him. Behind them, the entire aft section of the ship was in flames, thick smoke drifting in the air.
Beckla’s face was smudged with soot. “All the zombies are destroyed,” she said breathlessly. “But we couldn’t put out the fires. The ship is going to burn up!”
“Not if it sinks first,” Guss countered, landing on the deck before them. “The hull has been taking on water the whole time from the small hole in the starboard side. And when we struck the cavern wall, a large rip was torn along the port side of the prow. In a few minutes, this ship is going to be on the bottom of the river.”
Artek ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Death by fire and drowning? They had fought too hard for this victory to give up now. With an angry motion, he jammed the cursed saber into its sheath. The blade did not resist the action, confirming that, indeed, the zombies were no more.
As Artek madly considered their options, the walls of the cavern suddenly fell away. There was a queer, green-gold cast to the air, and Artek had the sense that they had just passed into some far vaster space. However, he could not see through the hazy curtain of smoke that hung above the schooner.
“We’ll have to abandon ship!” he shouted. “The river is calmer here, so we should have a chance. Make for the right bank.” He grinned fiercely. “I sure hope everyone knows how to swim.”
“Hey, don’t forget me!” a dry voice called out. As the deck listed, an off-white shape rolled toward them. It was Muragh. Guss snatched up the skull. There was a sound like thunder as the schooner’s foremast cracked and fell flaming toward the deck.
“Now!” Artek shouted.
Guss flew into the air, and the others dove off the side of the flaming ship, into the frigid waters of the river below.
The Hunt
Artek was the first to the shore.
Dripping, he pulled himself out of the chill river and onto the sandy bank. He grimaced as he stood, immediately hunching over to clutch his injured side. The cutlass wound was not deep, but the gash burned as if someone had poured molten lead into it. Behind him, Beckla stumbled onto the shore, followed by a bedraggled Corin.
“In the name of Mystra, what is this place?” the wizard gasped in an awed voice.
“Are we dreaming?” the nobleman wondered, gazing around them.
Artek frowned at their curious words. What were they talking about? Clenching his jaw against the searing pain, he lifted his head, and his oath of astonishment was added to theirs.
They stood on the edge of an enormous cavern. At least, it seemed like a cavern—high walls of rough stone rose all around them. Yet there was no rocky ceiling arching overhead, no dim cavern roof dripping with stalactites. Instead, there was a smooth azure dome, tinged by a faint yellowish haze. In the center of the dome hung a blazing orb of fire that filled the cavern with a warm golden light.
“Why, it’s the sun,” Corin breathed in astonishment.
Artek took a staggering step away from the river, toward the edge of a dense forest that filled the cavern. Tall trees danced under the touch of a soft zephyr. Of course, he realized. The blue dome was the sky, and the white puffs were clouds. Familiar as it was, the sight was so unexpected that he had not even recognized it.
“But this can’t be,” he murmured, shaking his head in confusion. “The River Sargauth keeps flowing from here. We haven’t made it to the ocean yet. And that means we’re still underground, beneath Mount Waterdeep.” He shot an uncertain look at Beckla. “Aren’t we?”
The wizard nodded slowly. “I think so. There’s no ocean in sight. And I would have noticed if we had passed through another gate.” She gazed thoughtfully at the verdant forest. “Besides, this doesn’t look like any place near Waterdeep that I know.”
There was a whirring of wings as a dark form swooped down from the sky. Guss landed on the pebbly bank of the river, Muragh in hand. The gargoyle staggered dizzily and dropped the skull.
“Hey!” Muragh cried indignantly. “Try to be a little more gentle next time. These old bones are very delicate, you know.”
Guss paid no heed to the skull’s complaints. He lifted a clawed hand, rubbing his skull.
“What’s going on, Guss?” Artek asked. Pain made him limp as he approached the gargoyle, and Artek was frustrated. The cutlass wound in his side was shallow. It shouldn’t be hurting so much.
“I bumped my head,” Guss said in a groggy voice.
“You did what?” Artek demanded incredulously.
Guss swayed on his sharp-taloned feet. “When I saw all that space, I became terribly excited,” the gargoyle explained. “I wanted to fly up into it, but when I got as high as the cavern’s walls, I cracked my skull on something. I couldn’t see it, but believe me, it was hard as stone.” The gargoyle groaned, and still gripping his head, sat down hard on his tail.
Curiosity flashed in Beckla’s brown eyes. She opened her mouth to ask a question but was interrupted by a loud cracking sound. They all turned around. On the river, the hull of The Black Dart had broken in twain. The burning halves of the ship sank swiftly into the water, hissing as they submerged. In moments the old pirate schooner vanished from sight beneath the dark surface of the river, sunk at last to its watery grave.
Artek wanted to ask Guss more about the sky, but a wave of nausea suddenly crashed over him, and he too sat hard on the ground. Both he and Guss moaned in pain. The gargoyle let go of his head and clutched the oozing wound on his arm. Concerned, Beckla knelt beside them.
“Both of you are burning up,” the wizard gasped as she felt their foreheads.
Muragh rolled toward them, coming to a halt on a small heap of gravel. “It’s the zombie wounds,” the skull said grimly. “It’s begun.”
“What’s begun?” Corin asked.
“The transformation,” Muragh replied, his mandible working. “A wound tainted with the filth of a zombie will fester. Gradually, the victim’s body will start to die. But he won’t stop moving. Instead, the victim will become a zombie himself.”
The others stared at Muragh in horror. Artek shook his head weakly. All his li
fe, he had been part monster. He had resigned himself to that fact. But to become a zombie was a fate he could not bear. “Kill me,” he begged hoarsely. “Kill me before it’s too late.”
At last Beckla regained her senses. “Not so fast, Ar’talen,” she said crisply. “I’m not going to give you two up for dead … er, undead just yet. Where’s that vial of healing potion—the one you used to cure me of the wraith spider venom?”
Artek tried to move, but he was too weak. His skin was burning as if on fire. Sweat poured down his face, but he felt terribly cold. “It’s … it’s in my pocket.”
“I don’t usually do this sort of thing until I’ve known a gent for a while, but …” The wizard reached into the pocket of Artek’s black leather breeches, and pulled out the glass vial. It was empty except for a few purple drops at the bottom. “Corin, do you have another one of these?” she asked the nobleman.
He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid that was the only one I had.”
Beckla tilted the vial, eyeing the residue critically. “I guess we’ll just have to hope this is enough.”
The wizard unstopped the vial and poured a drop of the precious fluid on the angry scratch on Guss’s arm. She spread the potion over the wound with a finger, then turned to Artek. With Corin’s help, she managed to pull off Artek’s leather jerkin.
“Are you wearing a fur undershirt, or does all that belong to you?” she asked dryly.
“Very funny,” Artek growled. “You’d be hirsute yourself if you had orc blood in you. And let me say that I think it looks a lot better on me than it would on you.”
“I won’t argue with you there.”
Perhaps because his flesh had been forged from stone, Guss’s wound had only begun to fester. Artek’s looked far worse. The shallow cut ran along his left side onto his muscular chest. The center of the wound was bright red, but the edges were disturbingly dark and gray—the color of a corpse’s skin. Three drops remained in the vial, and Beckla used them all on Artek, spreading them carefully to cover the entire wound.
“Now what?” Artek gasped.
“We wait,” Beckla replied gravely. “If it’s going to work, it shouldn’t take long.”
Even as she said this, Guss let out a grunt of surprise. Though still open and bleeding, the wound on his upper arm no longer oozed ichor, and the signs of festering had vanished. It appeared no more than a normal scrape.
“I think something’s happening,” Artek said.
A violet radiance glowed around the wound on his side, then abruptly vanished. Like Guss’s injury, the scratch was not healed, and still bled freely, but the alarming grayness was gone. Artek breathed a sigh of relief. His sweating ceased, and the preternatural chill left his bones. He shrugged his jerkin back on over his broad shoulders and stood.
Corin clapped his hands together. “I’m so terribly glad that you two aren’t going to become zombies,” he exclaimed happily. “I believe I received my fill of battling undead on the pirate ship.”
The nobleman glanced in Artek’s direction, and Artek had the sudden feeling that the young man was looking at him expectantly. What in the Abyss could Corin possibly want? Artek shifted uncomfortably, searching for something to say.
“Well, you did a good job against the zombies, Corin,” he muttered finally. “That was some fancy swordplay you used back on the ship.”
Corin’s face lit up brightly at this compliment. He puffed out his chest and opened his mouth to reply.
“Next time, you might even want to try fighting with your eyes open,” Artek added sharply before the lord could speak.
Corin’s mouth snapped shut and his shoulders slumped. A crestfallen expression replaced the look of pride on his boyish face. Artek swore inwardly. Once again he wondered if he had been too harsh on the nobleman, but he couldn’t concern himself every moment with Corin’s sensitive feelings. He had more pressing concerns. Like getting them out of this place alive. Grumbling to himself, he turned away.
“Well, we can’t follow the Sargauth any longer,” Artek said. “It loses its banks just past this shore. So we’d better start exploring,” he said, leading the way toward the edge of the forest. “If we’re going to find a way out of this place, we have to figure out where and what it is first.”
“Maybe we could build a raft from these trees and keep sailing down the river,” Beckla suggested hopefully.
“Not unless you can cast a spell and turn our hands into axes,” Artek replied, eyeing the towering trees. “The only blade among us is this damned cursed saber. It would take me a year to cut down one of these trees with a sword. And in case you’ve forgotten, I have considerably less time than that before this thing stops my heart.” He glanced down at the tattoo on his arm. After a moment, something odd struck him, and he gazed up at the sky. “That’s strange,” he said with a puzzled expression.
“What’s strange?” Muragh piped up. “Other than myself, of course.”
Artek pointed to his tattoo. The arrow was now midway along the circle between sun and moon. “According to this, it’s high noon up above, on the surface. The sun should be directly overhead in Waterdeep. But here the sun is more than halfway past its zenith, and sinking. Reckoning by the sun here, it’s a good four or five hours after midday.”
“Maybe something’s gone wrong with the tattoo,” said Beckla.
“Maybe,” Artek answered skeptically. “But that’s not the only thing. Right now it’s spring in Waterdeep, but the heat of this sun feels more like midsummer to me.”
Beckla did not have a response to this, and Artek decided it did not truly matter. His life was tied to the magical tattoo, and so it was all that mattered. According to the tattoo, he had half a day and a night to live. It was time to get moving. Leading the way, he plunged into the thicket of trees.
The forest was even denser than it had looked from the outside. Trees grew close together, spreading their branches into a thick green canopy high above. In the dappled shadows below grew myriad vines and bushes, some covered with alien-looking blooms. Pale mushrooms grew from the rotting bodies of fallen trees. None of the plants were any that Artek or the others recognized. The air was damp and muggy, and soon all of the humans were sweating profusely. Tiny, bothersome insects danced in the air, flying into their ears and up their noses, making them sneeze. As always, Muragh chattered ceaselessly as they went. However, Corin was unusually silent. The young lord walked quietly at the rear of the party, eyes cast down upon the ground.
“So, tell me,” Muragh went on in his reedy voice. “If we are really still underground, how is it that this forest can survive here?”
For a change, someone actually answered the skull’s question. “I don’t know,” Beckla said, shaking her head as she lowered a glowing hand. “However, as far as I can tell with my magic, nothing about these woods is enchanted. These are all perfectly normal, mundane trees. Somehow, they must be getting all the light and water they need to—”
Artek held up a hand, silencing the wizard’s words. He paused, listening with his slightly pointed ears. He heard something: a rustling, followed by the cracking of a dry twig. Something was lurking in the undergrowth just ahead. Whatever it was, Artek knew it was best to consider it dangerous. Whispering, he explained what he had heard to the others. They quickly formed a plan, and in moments were ready to act.
Beckla pointed a finger at the bushes ahead and intoned the words of a spell. Shimmering darts of energy sprang from her fingertips and struck the tops of the bushes, instantly vaporizing them. That was Guss’s cue. Snarling as Artek had instructed him, the gargoyle swooped down from a high branch where he had perched, diving toward the bushes. There was a hoarse cry of fear, and a shabby form leapt out of the bushes. Artek jumped from behind a tree, tackling the running form. His quarry struggled wildly, but Artek was the stronger, and he pinned the other to the ground.
“No, don’t take me to him!” cried a cracked and terrified voice. “Waukeen save me! I saw
what happened to all the others. My heart! His tooth will pierce my heart! And his eyes. Too bright, his eyes. They burn as he crushes them in his jaws. They’ll crush me, too!”
So terrified was the voice that Artek was startled and moved to pity. He loosened his grip—though not so much as to lose control—and leaned back, gazing at his quarry. It was what was left of a man. He was clad in strange, flowing clothes that might once have been fine but now were filthy and tattered. His tangled hair was matted with leaves, and a scraggly beard clung to his chin. His gaunt body was half-starved, and dark eyes stared madly from his twisted face.
Artek gazed at the broken man. “We’re not going to hurt you,” he said, gripping the man’s shoulders firmly but gently.
For a moment the madman struggled, then went limp. A look of wonder crept onto his haggard face. “You’re not on the Hunt, are you?”
Artek shook his head. “The Hunt? What do you mean?”
“The Hunters from the Temple,” the man said, licking his lips fearfully. “Have you not seen them yet? Ah, but you will. You will! Their god is a beast, and a master of beasts. And beasts we are to him.” Weird laughter bubbled deep in his throat.
The others approached cautiously and gathered around the madman. Artek allowed him to sit and studied his twisted face. Certainly this ragged fellow had seen something that had frightened him out of his wits. Artek wondered what it could be, and also how this man—and these Hunters he spoke of—had come to be here in this strange forest. The answer might give them a clue to a way out.
“Can you tell us more about this Hunt?” Artek asked quietly. He gestured to the trees around them. “Or what this place is?”
The madman looked warily from side to side. “They’ll be coming soon. We can’t stay here.”
“Please,” Artek urged gently. “It won’t take long. And then we’ll let you go free. You have my word.”
The other man’s dark gaze bore into Artek. He spoke in an eerie voice. “No one is free in Wyllowwood. Not for long, anyway. I am the last. I know.”
