by Mark Anthony
Artek let out a derisive snort. “And why not carry a gong with you so you can announce to all the priests that you’re dropping in?”
Guss’s wings drooped and his toothy smile turned to a look of chagrin.
“What about you, wizard?” Artek whispered acidly. “Do you know any spells that can whisk us inside the temple?”
She fixed him with a sharp look. “I can cast a spell of teleportation. But you know as well as I that only a great mage could transport the three of us. Given my level of ability, I could probably teleport a dead vole into the temple. Would that be a help?”
That last question hardly needed the caustic irony she lavished upon it. Artek grunted. He had thought as much.
The temple stood directly on the edge of the lake, and water lapped against the rear wall of the compound. Artek made a decision. Without warning the others of his intention, he moved swiftly through the trees to the shore and dove into the icy lake. With swift, strong strokes he swam underwater until surfacing before the pinkish stone wall. Moments later, Beckla and Guss rose from the lake beside him. Both gasped for breath, though Muragh seemed unfazed. Of course, the skull was used to long submersion. Not needing to breathe helped, too.
Gritting his teeth, Artek began pulling himself up the wall. Guss gripped Beckla, who in turn held on to Muragh. Wings straining, the gargoyle rose into the air, keeping pace with Artek until they reached the top together. Clutching the edge of the wall, the four cautiously peered into the temple compound below.
Below them was a series of low buildings constructed of the same rose-colored stone as the walls. The buildings were arranged symmetrically around a circular structure that dominated the center of the compound—the high crimson dome they had glimpsed earlier, supported by fluted stone columns. Evidently it was the main temple. Artek could see between the columns into the dusky interior of the temple, but glimpsed only dark figures moving around a flickering red glow. Whether it was shadows or smoke, the inner temple was filled with a gloom that even his eyes could not penetrate. Thief’s instinct told him they would find Corin there.
They froze at the sound of voices below.
“With the new sacrifice, M’kar’s count in the Hunt now rises to seventeen,” said a deep voice.
“I wouldn’t count M’tureth out yet, M’ordil,” a second voice replied.
“M’tureth has captured but thirteen in the Hunt,” a third voice said hotly. “Clearly M’kar has the favor of Malar.”
Artek drew in a hissing breath. Malar. So that was who these priests worshiped—they were disciples of the Beast God. This was worse than he had feared. The Magisters had outlawed the Cult of Malar years ago in Waterdeep because theirs was a bloody and violent religion. Malar was held to be the master of all beasts, but he did not love them. Rather, he considered them tools to be used as he wished in order to further his evil machinations. And, to Malar, humans were just another kind of beast. Banished from the city above, the priests must have found their way into Undermountain and continued their worship in secret.
Just below them, three menacing figures came into view. They were clad in leather armor trimmed with bronze and had crimson cloaks about their shoulders. Feral beast masks of beaten bronze covered their faces. Each wore a mace at the hip, tipped with a heavy bronze claw, and white animal skulls dangled from their belts. One of the priests was enormous, the second of middle height but broad-shouldered, and the third tall but thin. An idea struck Artek. He looked at Beckla and Guss and saw that they were turning to look at him. Apparently they all had the same idea.
They waited for precisely the right moment, then as one they heaved themselves over the top of the wall and dropped down. The three priests never knew what struck them. Artek dispatched his target with a sharp blow to the base of the skull, while Guss employed a crackling neck-twist and Beckla a heart-stopping jolt of magic. They quickly dragged the three bodies behind one of the low buildings.
Moments later, three priests strode from behind the building: one short but broad, one tall and lean, and one large all over. A human skull now dangled among the animal skulls attached to the shorter priest’s belt.
“Hee, hee!” Muragh giggled. “This is fun!”
“Be quiet!” Artek hissed. He adjusted his bronze mask, making certain it covered his face. While he knew little of the Cult of Malar, he did know one thing—the penalty for desecrating a temple was death. It would not do to be discovered. His anger had cooled in the face of danger, and Artek found he was now glad for the presence of the others.
Walking slowly but boldly, so as not to attract undue notice, the three wended their way among the stone buildings toward the crimson dome. As they went, they passed several other priests. Each time Artek’s heart lurched in his chest, fearing discovery. However, each time the other priests merely saluted with a fist as they passed. The three impostors mimicked the action and continued on.
Rounding a corner, they found themselves on the edge of an open square. Acrid smoke drifted in the air, along with the clang of hammers on metal. It was difficult to make out what was going on through the choking haze. Crimson fire glowed in what seemed to be forges, and hissing steam rose from bubbling vats. Artek suspected this was the smithy where the priests forged their masks and clawed maces. In the center of the foundry was a dark, gaping pit. From time to time, one of the workers approached the hole and tossed in an unwanted piece of refuse. Apparently, it was a garbage pit, and a deep one at that, for Artek never heard anything thrown into it strike bottom.
Clutching their hands to the mouths of their masks so as not to breathe the noxious fumes, they hurried on. At last the crimson-domed temple rose before them. To Artek’s surprise, no sentries stood watch around the column-lined pavilion. Apparently, here within the high walls of their stronghold, the priests of Malar expected no interruptions. Artek grinned fiercely behind his mask. It was going to be rather fun to rattle those expectations.
Quietly ascending the marble steps that surrounded the temple each of the three stood behind a column and peered into the smoky dimness beyond.
“The favor of Malar has shone upon the Hunt!” a majestic voice echoed from inside the dome.
Artek’s dark eyes gradually adjusted to the murk, and he bit his lip to keep from swearing at what he saw. In the center of the temple was a hideous statue wrought of black metal. The priests apparently created more than just masks and maces in their foul smithy. The statue had been crudely forged in the shape of a grotesque, gigantic wolf. Bloody light flickered in its slanted eyes, and rancid smoke poured from its gaping maw, as if some terrible fire burned in the pit of its belly.
A dozen priests stood around the idol. Huddled at the statue’s feet were two bound prisoners. Their faces were covered by bronze masks molded into expressions of terror. One of them was a man whose ragged clothes and scraggly hair recalled Solthar. The other was a slender man with long golden hair. Artek clenched his hands into fists—it was Corin.
The priest who had spoken before wore a mask with a haughty expression. He gestured to the two prisoners. “Behold! I, M’kar, bring not one, but two beasts as gifts for the jaws of our lord, Malar!”
The gathered priests murmured in appreciation. All, that is, except for one who stood slightly apart from the others. Somehow, his bronze mask seemed to frown. Artek guessed that had to be M’tureth—M’kar’s rival.
“Let the feeding begin!” M’kar thundered.
Two priests gripped the bedraggled man. He struggled against them, but his bonds held his arms and legs fast. It was no use. Together, the two priests lifted the man into the open jaws of the statue. There he lay, eyes wide with terror behind his mask, wondering what was to come. He did not have long to wait.
“Is Malar hungry?” M’kar asked in a sinister voice. “Is he pleased with the gift?”
One of the other priests reached into a bronze basin and drew out a handful of slimy, ropelike strands. With a queasy grimace, Artek recognized what they w
ere—animal entrails. The priest flung the entrails onto the stone floor, then studied the patterns they formed. After a moment, he nodded. “The augury speaks clearly. Malar is pleased. Let the feeding begin!”
With his clawed mace, M’kar tapped the statue’s brow. A rumbling almost like a growl emanated from the statue, along with a hiss of steam, and then the jaws began to close. The prisoner screamed, straining against his bonds in vain. His screams were cut short as the wolf’s iron jaws clamped shut. A moment later, the beast’s maw opened slowly once more. The jaws were empty, save for foul smoke. The sacrifice had been accepted. Now all eyes turned to the other prisoner before the statue.
Artek quickly backed away. They had only seconds to rescue Corin. He had an idea, but whether it would work or not was another matter.
“Beckla, I could use that dead vole trick of yours now,” he whispered.
She stared at him in confusion. “The teleport spell, you mean?”
“Yes. Only we need something for you to teleport. An animal of some sort. It doesn’t have to be alive. In fact, it really shouldn’t be.”
Guss let out a dejected sigh. “I found this a little way back. I was saving it for my lunch, but as long as it’s an emergency …” He pulled a very dead rat from beneath his cloak, its limbs curled with rigor mortis.
“That was going to be your lunch?” Beckla gagged, staring at the rat.
“This is not the time to discuss gargoyle eating habits,” Artek hissed in annoyance. “Now here’s my plan. Listen close, Muragh. I’m going to need your help.”
Moments later, Artek boldly strode into the temple, leaving the others outside. The priests looked up at him in surprise. Corin lay within the jaws of the wolf, his blue eyes nearly mad with fear behind his mask. The augur held a handful of dripping entrails, ready to cast them onto the floor.
“What is the meaning of this?” M’kar demanded. “You are not of the Inner Circle. I should have you fed to Malar for this insolence!”
“It is no insolence,” Artek said in a deep voice from behind his mask. He gestured to Muragh, who hung from his belt. “Malar has spoken to me through this skull. He does not care for you or your gifts, M’kar.”
Fury blazed in M’kar’s eyes. However, behind M’tureth’s mask, interest flickered in the cool gaze of the rival priest.
Artek did not give M’kar a chance to respond. He lifted his hands above his head. “Give us a sign, Malar! Tell us what you think of M’kar’s desire to rule us all!”
A small object dropped out of the shadows above, landing with a plop on the stones—Guss’s dead rat. Beckla had been right on cue.
“Malar has spoken,” the skull intoned in an eerie voice. “Heed the sign! Malar has spoken!”
The priests gaped in horror at the skull. “Behold, it is a rat,” Artek intoned while he had their rapt attention. “So that is what Malar thinks of you, M’kar.”
Murmurs of shock rose from the gathered priests, while wicked chuckles issued from M’tureth’s bronze mask. M’kar glared at the laughing priest. “Did you arrange this little travesty, M’tureth?” he demanded in rage.
“No, M’kar,” M’tureth crooned. “It seems Malar has found a way to ridicule you himself. Clearly, your gifts have won you no favor.”
“We shall see,” M’kar spat.
The priest moved faster than Artek had thought possible. Before Artek could spring away, M’kar swung his clawed mace and roughly knocked aside Artek’s mask. The mask clattered to the floor, spinning away. The priests stared at Artek in astonishment.
“An impostor!” M’kar cried.
“Now!” Artek shouted.
At that signal, a winged form flew between two columns, crimson cloak fluttering, snatching Corin from the jaws of the wolf. Guss flew back out while the priests stared in confusion.
“Kill him!” M’kar screamed in rage.
His words propelled the priests into action. As one, they lunged for Artek. In desperation, he grabbed the bronze vessel filled with entrails and heaved it toward the feet of the oncoming priests, spilling the contents of the bowl across the floor. The priests skidded upon the slimy entrails and went down in a tangled heap.
Artek did not waste the chance. He ran out of the temple, and the others met him on the steps. Guss slashed Corin’s bonds with his sharp talons.
“That was fun!” Muragh giggled. “I like being a prophet of Malar.”
“You’re going to be a snack of Malar if we don’t get out of here,” Beckla said breathlessly.
“May I suggest that we run for it?” Guss proposed.
“You may,” Corin agreed weakly.
A deafening noise rose from the temple. Someone was beating a gong of alarm. “Come on!” Artek yelled.
They dashed in the direction of the gate but were brought up short by a dozen priests who had answered the alarm. Hastily they turned and ran in the other direction with the disciples of Malar on their heels. They careened into the smoke-filled foundry and abruptly came to a halt. On the far side of the square stood a score of priests, all gripping clawed maces. Behind them the other priests approached at a run. They were surrounded.
“There’s nowhere left to go!” Beckla cried.
Artek’s eyes locked on something in the center of the smithy. “Yes, there is!” he shouted. Grabbing the others, he lunged for the open garbage pit. The priests swung their clawed maces, but the weapons only whistled through empty air. Artek leapt into the hole, pulling the others along with him. He could only hope that the pit was as deep as he had thought it was.
As it turned out, it was deeper.
* * * * *
Artek sat up with a groan. Bits of garbage tumbled from his shoulders. It felt as if his body had been trampled by a stampeding herd of Vaasan thunderhooves.
“Where … where are we?” asked a tremulous voice. It was Muragh. The skull still dangled from the belt of Artek’s priestly garb.
“Good question,” Artek said hoarsely. His darkvision adjusted, piercing the perfect blackness around them. They were in a small, rough-hewn cave. Beneath them was a heap of rotting refuse and rusting junk that had been tossed into the garbage pit so far above. Sudden panic clutched his heart. Where were the others?
He shook his head, trying to clear away the disorientation of the nightmarish fall. Then he remembered. After they had leapt into the pit, leaving behind the bloodthirsty priests of Malar, the hole had angled, and they had slid wildly down a steep stone slope, unable to stop their descent. Once again, Undermountain had pulled them deeper. Even Guss had been trapped, for the passage was too narrow for him to spread his leathery wings.
It seemed they had slid for hours, plunging ever deeper into the bowels of the world. Then, without warning, the tunnel had divided. Beckla, Corin, and Guss had fallen to the left, while Artek and Muragh had bounced to the right. The screams of the others had vanished in an instant. A few moments later, the harrowing ride had come to a jarring end. The tunnel had ended, and for a moment Artek had fallen through empty air. Then he had landed atop the garbage heap. Foul as the refuse was, he knew he should be grateful, for it had cushioned his fall, leaving him with bruises instead of broken bones.
Artek half-climbed, half-slid off the midden heap and stood stiffly. Sweat beaded on his brow. The darkness was hot and oppressive here. The weight of countless tons of rock pressed heavily from above. A sharp metallic odor hung upon the air, stinging his nostrils and burning inside his lungs. Then he heard a weird clicking sound that drew closer as he listened. He saw a dark opening in the far wall of the chamber—the source of the sound.
“Do you hear that?” Muragh asked nervously.
Artek nodded grimly. “Something is coming.”
“Quick!” the skull whined in terror. “Hide us!”
“Wait a minute,” Artek muttered. “I’m the one who should be afraid. You’re already dead, you know.”
“And it’s an experience I don’t care to repeat,” Muragh replied with a s
hudder. “Now move it!”
Much as Artek would have liked, there was no time to reproach the imperious skull. Moving silently, he padded toward the cave’s wall and pressed his body into a shadow-filled fissure. The eerie clicking noise drew nearer. A red glow appeared in the opening in the far wall. A moment later, two creatures scuttled into the chamber.
Bugs—that was Artek’s first thought. But they were like no insects he had ever seen. They were easily as large as a man, but flat and round, with small heads and eight appendages, two of which ended in strangely shaped claws. Each seemed to have a lantern attached to the back of its head, and it was from these that the ruddy light issued. In all, they looked like weirdly distorted sea crabs. The blotchy carapaces that covered their backs were the exact color of rusted iron.
No, Artek realized in shock, their shells didn’t simply look like iron. They were iron. And so was the rest of them. There was no doubt. His heat-sensing darkvision could discern the difference between living tissue and dead metal. Whatever these creatures were, they weren’t alive at all, but some sort of mechanical devices. Yet they seemed to move with a rudimentary intelligence as they made for the garbage heap.
To Artek’s further surprise, a tinny voice emanated from the pincer mouth of one of the creatures.
“Whrrr. Ferragans search for metal,” it droned. “Good ferragans. Clkkk.”
“Yes, search fallings from above,” the other creature echoed in a metallic buzz. “Scrrr. Find metal. Squch be happy. Bzzzt. Good, good ferragans.”
The crablike creatures—which were evidently called ferragans—scrabbled onto the garbage pile. Artek now saw that each bore two different types of claws: one shaped like a broad hammerhead, the other like a pincer with three multijointed prongs. With this latter claw, obviously designed for gripping, the ferragans began picking through the rubbish heap. When one found a piece of scrap metal, it reached back and placed it in a wire basket attached to its carapace, emitted a high-pitched clicking that sounded almost like gleeful laughter and then continued searching. Finally, their baskets full, the two creatures clambered off the pile.
