by Mark Anthony
Without warning, two red-hot pinpricks appeared in the dark circle of the hole. A shadow stirred within, and an eerie rattling emanated from the depths. Then, with menacing speed, something climbed out.
It was silver—as silver as the brilliant metal that snaked through the walls of the cavern. It was not unlike the thanatars, yet it was smaller, sleeker. And, Artek sensed, it was far more deadly. Its two clawed appendages were slender, even delicate, but gleamed sharply like polished knives. Six legs supported its shiny, multiplated abdomen. An armored tail curled up and over its back, ending in a cruelly barbed point. It was a scorpion, a gigantic silver scorpion.
The thanatars lowered their claws and the silversanns drooped their antennae in gestures of submission. “SQUCH!” they spoke in reverence. “Sssquch, yesss. Sssquch!”
“What have you brought me?” Squch demanded, pincer mouth moving. Unlike that of the others, the scorpion’s speech was surprisingly intelligible, though clearly inhuman.
“PRISONERS!” the thanatars intoned.
“Ssspecimens are they, yesss?” the silversanns contradicted.
“I will be the judge of that,” Squch snapped.
Legs moving swiftly, the metallic scorpion scrambled forward. Artek reached out his arms, keeping the others from trying to get up and run.
“Yes, you are wise, soft one,” Squch said with a weird rattling that was almost like laughter. “I am a scaladar. To flee from me is a grave error.” The scaladar lowered its barbed stinger, brushing the point softly across Artek’s cheek. The reek of venom filled his nose. He clenched his jaw to keep from flinching—to move was to die. The scaladar laughed again and raised its stinger.
“We won’t flee,” Artek said gravely. “You have my word.”
“Why have you intruded upon my domain?” Squch demanded, crimson eyes flaring.
Artek licked his lips nervously. It was now or never. “We come seeking the wizard Trobriand.”
The silversanns hissed in terror, and the thanatars clacked their claws in agitation. Squch’s stinger flicked forward, and the din instantly fell into silence. The scaladar loomed threateningly above Artek. “You dare to speak that name in my presence, soft one?”
Artek exchanged uncertain looks with the others, then slowly rose to his feet. What did they have to lose? Gazing into the burning eyes of the scaladar, he told of their search for one of Halaster’s apprentices and a gate out of Undermountain. When he finished, the scaladar laughed its brittle laughter again.
“You are a fool, soft one,” Squch replied. “Trobriand cares nothing for nonmetal creatures such as you. You would gain no help from him.”
Artek was not going to give up so easily. “You may be right, Squch. But with all due respect, I’d like to try just the same. Please—do you know where we can find your maker, Trobriand?”
The scaladar’s stinger trembled in sudden rage. A drop of venom fell from the barbed tip. It hissed and smoked as it struck the floor, burning a pit into the stone. “Do I know where you can find Trobriand? Do I know where you can find Trobriand?” Squch’s silver armor rattled in fury. “If I possessed such knowledge, do you believe that I would still be here, existing in this wretched hole in the ground?”
Artek backed away, shaking his head in confusion. The scaladar advanced on him.
“Do you know what we are to Trobriand?” Squch droned furiously. “Trash! Refuse! Garbage! He created us. He forged our bodies. He gave us thoughts. Yet when he grew tired of us, he cast us down into this pit!”
The scaladar waved a claw at the fearful thanatars and silversanns. “The Metal Mage discarded most of these walking scrap heaps for their stupidity. Oh, but not I! I was too clever, you see. That was my flaw. Trobriand feared my intelligence, feared that I would usurp his power. And he was right. I would have. And I will do so yet. Then I will rise from the ground, and lay eyes upon this city I have heard of in rumor, a city which has no stone above it, but only air, a city filled with foolish, pliable soft ones. Yes, I will gaze upon this city. Then I will make it my own.”
The scaladar’s crimson eyes bore into Artek. “You come from this place, do you not, soft one?” the silver creature crooned in sudden interest. “Come, tell me about it. Tell me all that you know, and perhaps I will not kill you.”
Artek did not know what to say. It was clear that this creature was utterly mad—no wonder Trobriand had discarded it. Yet Artek sensed that there were some kernels of truth in the scaladar’s ravings. Instinct told him that Squch had not exaggerated Trobriand’s dislike for living creatures. Even if they could find the Metal Mage, Artek knew that Trobriand would not help them.
“I’m sorry, Squch,” Artek said carefully. “I’d like to help you, but we don’t have time right now. If you let us go, we’ll come back later and—”
“Stop!” the scaladar cried. “You underestimate my intelligence, soft one. You cannot deceive me with your transparent lies. If you will not freely tell me what you know, I will find another way to learn it.” Squch waved a claw at the silversanns. “Take these foolish soft ones to your laboratory. Extract what knowledge you can from their heads. Once you have it, you may do whatever you wish with the rest of them.”
The silversanns chittered excitedly at this news. They snaked past the glowering thanatars and coiled their smooth antennae around the prisoners. Before Artek could protest to Squch, the silversanns dragged him and the others out of the cavern and down a dark tunnel. The prisoners tried to break free of the metallic strands that gripped them, but it was no use. The antennae were as strong as steel wire.
The silversanns took them to a dim chamber and dropped them on the floor. One of the creatures shut and locked a heavy iron door—so much for the only visible route of escape.
The chamber of the silversanns was filled with all manner of clutter: clay pots, cracked vials, broken staves, moldering books, and countless metal tools of inexplicable function. All lay carelessly strewn about or heaped into haphazard piles that seemed to have no obvious rhyme or reason. The silversanns gathered at one end of the chamber, speaking in sibilant whispers. Evidently, they were trying to decide how to extract the knowledge of their new ssspecimens, Artek thought grimly.
Corin sighed glumly, sitting slump-shouldered on the cold stone floor. “I’m sorry, everyone,” the young lord said ruefully. “This is all my fault. We wouldn’t be in this scrape if I hadn’t gone and dashed off into the forest like such a dolt.” He looked up at Artek with sad blue eyes. “You were right, you know. And so was my father. I can’t do anything well. But you needn’t worry. I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t try to help ever again.” He sighed deeply. “I apologize for getting you into this, Ar’talen. For your sake, I hope you can get me to Darien Thal and force him to have that tattoo fixed. But for my part, I don’t care if I ever see the surface again.”
The nobleman hung his head and fell silent. Guss gazed at him with worried green eyes, cradling Muragh in his clawed hands. Beckla shot a sharp look at Artek. It was clear she wanted him to say something. Artek just shook his head. Everything he had said before had been thoughtless and cruel. What could he say now that wouldn’t simply cause more damage? It was better if he simply remained silent.
With a sound of exasperation, Beckla stood up. The silversanns were still engaged in a secret debate, and the wizard took the opportunity to poke around in the heaps of clutter surrounding them.
“Look at all this stuff,” she said in sudden amazement.
“What is it?” Muragh asked.
She rummaged through one of the piles. “Broken wizard staves. Shattered wands. Cracked potion vials. Old spellbooks.” The wizard looked up in wonder. “It’s all magical paraphernalia.”
Artek quickly stood. “Is there something that might be able to help us?”
Beckla frowned. “I’m not sure. Pretty much all of it seems to be broken or damaged. But there might be something of interest here …”
She kept searching, and the others join
ed her. As far as Artek could tell, all of the items—staves, rods, magical crystals—seemed to have been deliberately smashed. Perhaps the silversanns had damaged the objects while trying to study them. Even a roomful of magical artifacts would do them no good if all were broken.
Just then, Guss let out a grunt of surprise. With a claw, he plucked something gold and glittering from one of the piles. “Beckla, take a look at this. I’m not sure, but it looks to me as if it’s—”
At that moment, the silversanns ended their debate and slithered toward them. Guss cut his words short, thrusting the object behind his back. The five prisoners stared apprehensively as the metallic creatures drew near.
“Decided then are we, yesss?” one of the silversanns asked the others, the small pit of its mouth dilating and contracting to form the syllables.
“Yesss, yesss,” answered another. “More learn we mussst, before gain can we knowledge theirsss.”
The first silversann undulated forward, brushing Artek with its cold antennae. “Let usss then apart take them, yesss? Sssee we can how work they. Yesss, yesss?”
Artek glared at them warily. “What do you mean, ‘take us apart’?”
“Take apart mean we, yesss?” the silversann answered blithely. “Disssasssemble your pieces. Mind you not, yesss?”
Several silversanns pressed forward, each bearing weirdly shaped, sharp-edged tools in their antennae. Artek and the others exchanged looks of horror. They slowly backed away from the creatures. “We most certainly do mind,” Artek countered nervously.
“Worry not, yesss?” the leader of the silversanns hissed reassuringly. “Put we together back your bodiesss when done we are. Yesss, yesss?”
The silversanns continued to close in, steel tools raised. Apparently they didn’t understand that living creatures couldn’t simply be taken apart like machines. And once they discovered that they couldn’t just put their ssspecimens back together, it would be far too late. Artek gripped the hilt of his saber, wondering if the blade would have any effect against the hard plates that armored the creatures.
One of the silversanns stretched a wicked-looking probe toward Beckla.
“Get back, you metal worm!” the wizard cried. She shouted several arcane words, and blue magic crackled between her outstretched fingers. “Get back, or I’ll melt you!”
The silversanns let out a chorus of shrill shrieks. For a second, Artek thought Beckla’s threat had terrified them. Then, in astonishment, he realized that their shrieks were sounds of delight, not fear.
“Magic, yesss?” they cried excitedly, clustering around the wizard. “How cassst you did magic? Ssshow usss, yesss? Ssshow usss!”
The silversanns continued to babble, but Artek could catch little of what the creatures said in their hissing voices. However, Beckla bent toward them, cocking an ear. As she listened, a smile gradually spread across her face. Finally she said something to the silversanns and they let out piercing squeaks of joy. They scuttled a short distance back, then waited expectantly.
Artek leaned over to murmur in her ear. “What in the world did you say to them?”
“I told them I’d teach them how to do magic,” she whispered back.
“You what?”
“You heard me, Ar’talen.”
“I heard you, but I don’t understand. I’m no wizard, but even I know that only living beings can wield magic.”
Beckla nodded. “I know that, and you know that. But they don’t know that.” Her smile broadened into a grin. “As it turns out, the silversanns are absolutely fascinated by magic. It’s their favorite area of research. They’ve seen some of the thanatars’ prisoners work it before, and they want more than anything to learn it themselves. Of course, no matter how faithfully they duplicate the words and movements of a spell, it will never work for them. It can’t. They’re not alive.”
Beckla gestured subtly toward the heaps of broken artifacts. “That’s what all this stuff is for. Somewhere along the line, they developed a crazy notion that when magical objects are broken, their magic is released. They sleep near these heaps of junk in the belief that, over time, they’ll absorb some of that magic.”
Artek shook his head at this absurdity. “So what are you going to do?”
“You’ll see,” she replied mysteriously. She approached the waiting silversanns.
Corin, Guss, and Muragh looked at Artek questioningly, but he only shrugged his broad shoulders. He had no idea what the wizard intended to do.
“All right, then,” Beckla said crisply, addressing the mechanicals as she might a class of new apprentices at a school for mages. “Casting magic really isn’t all that difficult. It’s simply a matter of using the proper inflection. Now, follow my movements as best you can, and repeat after me.”
She weaved her arms in a complex pattern while uttering a string of words that, to Artek, sounded far more like nonsense than they did magic. The silversanns made a comic effort to mimic her hand movements with their whiplike antennae. A buzz rose from them as they repeated her words dutifully and, unfortunately, quite erroneously.
“K’hal sith mara!” Beckla shouted in finish, raising her arms above her head.
“G’sssar ziph mooli!” the silversanns repeated happily, waving their wiry sensory organs.
A shimmering aura of sapphire light sprang into being around Beckla’s body. Artek thought he saw the wizard wiggle her fingers. A fraction of a second later, a blue aura surrounded each of the silversanns. The creatures shrieked in glee, their countless legs wriggling in abject ecstasy.
“Magic do usss, yesss?” they cried. “Wizardsss now we are, yesss? Ssspells cassst we! Yesss, yesss?”
As the silversanns continued their jubilation, Beckla pulled the others some distance away.
“What did you do to them?” Artek asked, staring at the creatures in disbelief. “Did you really teach them to cast a spell?”
“Don’t be a ninny, Ar’talen,” she replied smoothly. “Of course not. That would be completely impossible. While I was having them repeat all that mumbo-jumbo, I worked in the words and movements of a real spell. It’s just a simple aura of light. It’ll fade in an hour or so. But it should keep them occupied until then.”
Artek laughed, clapping the wizard on the back. “Nicely done, Beckla,” he said. The back of his neck suddenly prickled. He looked around just in time to see Corin abruptly turn away. Artek sighed, his high spirits quickly sinking. They still had to find a way out of this place, he reminded himself.
Beckla moved over to see Guss and examine the object he had found earlier. Artek stooped to pick up Muragh and approached the wizard and the gargoyle.
“It’s a ring,” Guss said, his green eyes glowing with excitement.
“Are you two getting married?” Artek asked dryly.
“No, not that sort of ring,” Beckla scowled. “It’s a magical ring.” She held up a small circle of polished gold. “And it’s not broken.”
Artek gazed at the ring, his own excitement rapidly growing. The ring was so small that the silversanns must have misplaced it among all the clutter before they could break it. “What do you think it is?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” Beckla replied. “But I think I can find out.”
“It’s awfully plain-looking,” Muragh said critically. “I can’t imagine it does much.”
Beckla gave the skull a curious look. “Maybe. Then again, sometimes appearances can be deceiving.”
As the silversanns chattered among themselves about their new magical “powers,” the wizard sat cross-legged on the floor. She pulled out a grimy blue cloth from a pocket and spread it before her, placing the ring on it. Next, she drew out a small vial filled with yellow sand. She unstopped the vial and carefully poured out the sand, tracing a circle around the ring. Closing her eyes, she held her hands over the cloth.
“Circles within circles,” she chanted softly. “Meanings within meanings. Grant me your guidance, Mystra, Lady of Mysteries, Goddess of Magi
c. Help me understand the nature of the enchantment that lies before me.”
As the others watched in fascination, Beckla continued to chant, now in the ancient tongue of magic. After a moment, sparks of sapphire fell from her hands. They traced a slow spiral to the ring below, imbuing it with pale blue radiance. Lines of concentration furrowed the wizard’s brow. Her hands began to tremble. Suddenly, her brown eyes flew open, and the blue sparks vanished.
“Oh!” she gasped.
“What is it?” Artek asked in alarm.
Beckla shook her head slowly. “She usually doesn’t answer when I ask her questions like that. At least not so clearly.”
“Who are you talking about?” Artek demanded.
“Mystra,” Beckla replied.
Artek slapped a hand to his forehead in incredulity. “What? You’re telling me that the goddess Mystra just spoke to you? She told you what this ring is?”
The wizard nodded solemnly. “That’s right. She is the patron goddess of wizards, after all.”
“I know that,” Artek sputtered in disbelief. “But the gods don’t just answer every little question you put to them.”
“Apparently, sometimes they do,” Muragh quipped. The skull addressed Beckla. “It seems Artek here is having a little problem with the matter of his faith. But I’m sure the rest of us would very much like to know what Mystra told you.”
Beckla picked up the ring and held it gingerly in her hand. “It’s a wishing ring,” she murmured. The wizard’s face suddenly seemed strangely troubled.
“A wishing ring?” Muragh exclaimed. “But that’s wonderful! It means we can wish our way right out of this dump. Come on! What are you waiting for?”
“Not so fast, Muragh,” Beckla countered. “It doesn’t work that way. Remember those enchantments that Halaster bound into the walls of Undermountain, the ones that keep anyone from magically transporting out? Well, that goes for wishes, too. If we try to wish our way out of here, we’ll probably find ourselves in some random part of Undermountain, and our wish wasted to boot.” She lifted the ring, gazing through its open center. “There’s only one wish left in this thing. We have to use it wisely.”
