by Mark Anthony
“Wait a minute,” Corin said. The nobleman paced quickly back and forth, his face lined in thought. “This might not be as bad as it seems.”
“Apparently, you have a better imagination than I do,” Beckla noted dubiously.
“Actually, my idea is really rather simple,” Corin went on. “Halaster seems to have taken great care in making this miniature an exact working replica of Undermountain. Don’t you see?” He paused meaningfully. “It’s perfect in every way.”
“Spit it out, Corin!” Muragh griped. “What are you getting at?”
Artek looked at the young man in astonishment. “I see what Corin means,” he said. “Wish Gate!”
“Indubitably!” Corin cried.
“Of course!” Beckla exclaimed. “Halaster has taken almost pathological care in recreating every detail in this model—there’s no reason to believe that the miniature Wish Gate won’t act just like the real one.”
Artek glanced up. Hadn’t each of the models been roofless? All he saw above them was a hazy, red-gold glow. He turned to the gargoyle. “Guss, do you think you can fly up and see if you can spot Wish Gate?” Guss nodded enthusiastically. Stubby wings flapping, he rose into the air.
Crimson magic crackled. The gargoyle let out a yelp of pain and dropped back to the floor.
“The magical barrier,” Beckla groaned. “It must work from the inside as well as out. Only Halaster can move something in and out of the model.”
Artek was not about to give up so easily. “Well, we’ll just have to find our way out of this level the hard way, like mice in a maze. Come on!” Forcing himself not to look at the tattoo on his arm, he kicked open the door and dashed into the painted hallway beyond. The others were right on his heels.
They ran down corridors painted in imitation of damp, moldy stone, passing countless figurines: monsters with glass splinter fangs, wizards gripping toothpick staves, and heroes wielding sewing-needle swords. Artek let his orcish instincts guide him as he tried to home in on their target. Finally, he came to a halt, and the others stopped, panting.
“We’ve been making steady headway in one direction this whole time,” he said between breaths. “We’ve got to be near the edge of the maze by now.”
Guss walked up to the wall before them, eyed it critically, then lashed out with a clawed fist. His hand punched through paint and wood. Ruddy light poured through the opening. “Looks like you’re right, Artek,” the gargoyle said with a grin.
Artek peered through the opening. Guss had punched through an outer wall and they were indeed on one edge of the maze. Just beneath was the edge of the table upon which this level sat. Beyond that, the drop to the floor below seemed hundreds of feet, not the three or four he knew it to be.
“Help me widen this,” he said, tearing away a chunk of wood.
The others lent their hands to the task, and in moments the opening was wide enough for them to crawl through. Once on the other side, they balanced precariously on the edge of the table.
“Hey, how come we haven’t turned big again now that we’re outside the model?” Muragh asked in annoyance.
Beckla answered his question. “I don’t think we’ll return to our normal size until we’re finally out of Undermountain—that should break the connection between us and our figurines.”
“There!” Corin said, pointing across what seemed a vast gap to the next nearest table. “I think that’s the table that holds the model of the Wish Gate level.”
Artek shook his head doubtfully. “I suppose it’s no more than three feet to that table, but it might as well be a mile. How are we ever going to get across?”
“Guss the gargoyle, at your service,” Guss announced cheerfully. He hovered over them, leathery wings flapping. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ll have to take you one at a time.”
Their laughter fell short as a gigantic shadow loomed over them, blotting out the light. A great craggy moon rose over the model, two smaller pale spheres embedded in its surface. Only after a second did Artek realize that it was not a moon at all but Halaster’s wrinkled face. The wizard was bending over his model. A gigantic, wrinkled hand stretched in their direction. They cowered against the wall of the maze as the hand loomed nearer. One careless swipe, and they would be flattened like bugs. Artek clenched his jaw, trying not to scream.
The hand hovered directly above them, then continued on, reaching to manipulate some objects elsewhere in the maze. Artek forced himself to breathe again. Halaster had not seen them. But they might not be so lucky next time—they had to hurry.
Artek tried not to think about the seconds slipping away as Guss valiantly ferried each of the others across the gap to the other table. Finally, it was Artek’s turn. Though Guss was clearly growing tired, he did not complain, and at last set Artek down gently on the table’s edge. They shrank into the corner between wall and tabletop for a moment, but no shadow loomed above. Apparently, Halaster had not noticed their little adventure.
The magical barrier had prevented Guss from setting them down within the maze, so Beckla blasted a hole in the wall of the model with a spell. They crawled through the smoking gap, into the labyrinth beyond.
“You got the closest look at the model, Corin,” Artek said. “You lead the way.”
For a moment, a look of uncertainty crossed Corin’s face. Then—with visible effort—he squared his shoulders and nodded. “All right, follow me.”
Artek grinned. Two days ago, Corin would never have accepted such a responsibility—the young lord had grown on this journey.
Ignoring their weariness, they ran down painted hallways and punched through doors of stiff paper. Nothing stood in their way now. They were almost to Wish Gate.
They turned the corner and found themselves facing a gigantic white beast with blood-red eyes. It gnashed its long, yellow teeth and saliva trickled from the corner of its mouth. The five stared in horror. This was no clay figurine.
Emitting a high-pitched squeak, the creature lumbered toward them, dragging a pink, ropelike tail behind. Understanding broke through Artek’s terrified stupor—this was no monstrous abomination of the underworld. It was Fang, Halaster’s pet mouse. But the creature was now thrice their size, making it a monster indeed. It seemed angry at their intrusion upon its territory. Its claws scrabbled against the floor, gouging the gray paint. Baring its razor-sharp teeth, it lunged for them.
With a roar, Guss lashed out an arm, swiping Fang’s pink nose with his talons. The mouse squealed in pain, raising its bloodied snout into the air. The five dashed into a side chamber. They shut the stiff paste-and-paper door, hoping it was enough to keep the mouse at bay. A moment later, they heard a scratching outside.
“We have to keep going down this corridor,” Corin whispered urgently. “It’s the only way to Wish Gate.”
Beckla shook her head. “We’ll never get past Halaster’s little pet.”
Artek clenched his hand into a fist, punching the wooden wall. He could not believe that they had survived so many perils only to be defeated by a mouse.
“There is a way,” said a gruff voice.
The others looked up in surprise. It was Guss. “I could go out into the hallway first and run in the opposite direction. That way, the mouse would follow me and the rest of you could get to the gate.”
“But that thing will kill you!” Beckla cried.
Guss’s serious expression did not waver. For a moment he was silent, and then he spoke in quiet words.
“During all those centuries I dwelled in the tomb of Talastria and Orannon, I always thought there was something wrong with me. I couldn’t bring myself to slay the tomb’s defilers as my brethren did. I thought … I thought it was because I was a coward.” The gargoyle gazed at the others, his green eyes glowing brightly. “But that’s not true. I simply had never met anyone whom I wanted to protect. Until now.”
The gargoyle reached out to grip Beckla’s hand gently in his own.
“Please,” he said softly
but insistently. “Let me do this thing. It is what I was created for.”
Beckla snatched her hand away. Corin and Muragh gazed at the gargoyle with shock. Sorrow weighed heavily on Artek’s heart, but a smile touched his lips. Guss knew who he was now—truly, deeply, with all his stony heart, Artek thought. Would that he could say so much. He would not deny Guss’s chance to be whole.
Artek laid a hand fondly on the gargoyle’s spiky shoulder. “Maybe you were created from evil, but you’re a good creature to us. Never forget that.”
Gratitude filled the gargoyle’s eyes, but there was worry as well. “You would do well to heed your own words, Artek Ar’talen.”
The others made their farewells then, though time forced them to be quick. Beckla’s good-bye was the most tearful, and she was reluctant to release the gargoyle from her embrace.
“I’m going to miss you so much, Guss,” she said quietly.
“And I you, Beckla,” the gargoyle replied, squeezing her tight in his stony arms. “You, more than anyone, have taught me that I can be what I choose to be. Thank you, Beckla Shadesar. Remember me.”
She shook her head fiercely. “How could I ever forget you?” But she could manage no more words beyond that.
The gargoyle flashed a toothy grin and extended his onyx talons, truly looking like the fearsome creature he had been created to be. But the same kindness glowed in his eyes.
“Here I come, Fang!” Guss bellowed. “Your doom is upon you. And its name is Terrathiguss!”
The gargoyle shredded the paper door with his claws and leapt through the tatters. The mouse squealed, its bloody whiskers twitching. Guss ran down the corridor. The mouse scrabbled after him while the others dashed into the hallway, watching in horror.
Guss was fast, but the mouse was faster still. It pounced, landing on the gargoyle. The two caught each other in a terrible embrace. Guss’s talons raked across the mouse’s belly, staining its snowy fur with crimson. It shrieked, then dug its teeth into the gargoyle’s shoulder, and green ichor flowed. Wrestling with each other, the two creatures crashed into a wall. Thin wood splintered. As one, mouse and gargoyle tumbled through the hole and were gone.
Artek was first to the gap in the wall. Beckla and Corin—who held Muragh—were a half-second behind. Together, they peered through the hole.
Beyond the edge of the tabletop, on the floor far below, lay the mouse, its fur drenched with blood. It twitched once, then lay still. Scattered around the mouse were a dozen jagged shards of gray stone, stone that looked just like the remnants of a broken statue—the statue of a gargoyle.
Clutching a hand to her mouth, Beckla turned away. Corin cradled Muragh in his arms. By force of will, Artek swallowed the lump of sorrow in his throat. There would be time for mourning later. He gripped Beckla’s hand.
“Let’s go,” he said.
The others nodded, and they started back down the hallway. Moments later, they burst through a paper door and into a small room. Wish Gate hung on the far wall like a shimmering emerald mirror. Artek looked down at his tattoo. The sun had brushed the arrow. How long did he have now? Three minutes? Two? There was no time to waste.
He gripped hands with Beckla and Corin; the nobleman held Muragh in his other hand. They approached the shimmering gate.
“Where are you going to wish us to?” Beckla asked.
Artek bared his pointed teeth; the expression was not a smile. “If it works, then you’ll see.”
Fixing his wish in his mind, he tightened his grip on the others. Then, as one, they leapt into the gate.
This time the nothingness was green. Then blue. Then black as ice at midnight. The cold was worse than before, and far, far longer—crueler than anything they had felt. Artek thought it would freeze his very soul to splinters, and his consciousness dwindled, like a dying spark lost in a winter night. Then, just as the spark wavered on the edge of being extinguished, cold dark became blazing light, and the universe exploded.
Falling through a sizzling aperture, they landed on a cushioned surface. Artek blinked and looked down. It was a thick, luxurious rug—an expensive one, by the look of it. His feral grin broadened. He recognized this room. The wish had worked.
With a snarl, he leapt to his feet. Corin and Beckla pulled themselves up behind him. They were in a gaudily decorated room filled with gilded wood, rich tapestries, and ostentatious displays of gold and silver. Before them stood two men. One was clearly a wizard: bald-headed, hook-nosed, and clad in a brown robe. The other was tall and elegant, with dark hair and gleaming green eyes, fashionably clad in purple velvet and silvery silk. He had frozen in the act of putting on a thick, black walking cloak.
“Going somewhere, Lord Thal?” Artek asked.
Only for a second did shock register upon the lord’s handsome face. Then his visage grew smooth once more, his hooded green eyes glittering like a serpent’s. A cruel smile coiled around the corners of his lips.
“Artek Ar’talen,” he said with an almost imperceptible nod. “Exaggerated as the stories concerning your prowess seemed, it appears now they underestimated you.”
Artek took a menacing step forward. Beckla and Corin flanked him on either side. “Save the compliments, Thal,” Artek spat. “They’re wasted on me. There’s only one thing I want from you.”
Thal affected an expression of mock regret. “Oh, do forgive me. But I really am in a bit of hurry. I have an important appointment to keep.” Wicked laughter rose in his chest. “It seems that a foolish little titmouse of a lord has turned up missing—hardly a great loss, I know—and in his stead I am to be elected to the seventh seat on the city’s Circle of Nobles.”
Corin hung his head at Darien’s cutting insult. Worried, Beckla glanced over at the young man.
Artek laughed bitterly. “What was it you told me when you first offered me this task, Darien?” He snapped his fingers. “Ah, yes. I remember. ‘Among Silvertor’s rivals are those with dark ambitions. They see the Circle as a means to rule over all the city’s nobility, and as a position from which to launch an all-out assault against the hidden Lords of Waterdeep.’ ”
“Well, then,” Darien said with dark mirth. “I did not lie about everything.”
Darien’s wizard gripped his staff. “Shall I dispose of this refuse for you, my lord?”
“Hush, Melthis,” Darien crooned. “Be polite. These are our guests, after all. Besides, in just a few more seconds, the worst of them will be disposed of for us.”
Artek glanced at his dark tattoo. The sun was nearly centered upon the arrow. The windows of Darien’s mansion glowed deep red—it was almost dawn.
Artek walked up to the dark-haired lord and thrust out his arm. “Have your vulture take it off, Darien,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “Now. If you don’t, I swear, you won’t outlive me.”
Darien sighed deeply. At last he nodded. “Very well, if you put it that way.” He turned toward the bald-headed wizard. “Melthis?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Die,” Darien said flatly. The lord pulled his right arm from beneath his heavy cloak, and three whirling prongs sprang from the end of the burnished steel Device where his hand should have been. Before Artek could react, Darien plunged the spinning prongs into the wizard’s chest. Melthis jerked spasmodically, his eyes going wide in disbelief, his mouth opening silently.
Darien pulled the bloody Device back. Melthis slumped to the floor, blood pouring from the ragged hole in his chest. The wizard twitched once, and that was all.
“Damn you, Thal!” Artek shouted in fury. “Why?”
Darien’s smiled with an almost mad glee. “Melthis was weak and stupid. Had you threatened my life, he might have capitulated and given you what you wanted, removing the tattoo. But now there is no chance of that.” His voice rose exultantly. “The seconds are slipping by, Ar’talen. Can’t you feel them draining away, one by one? You’ve lost. If you were wise, you would use these last moments to make peace with whatever uncouth gods you orci
sh rats worship in your rancid little holes in the ground.”
Beckla raised her hands to cast a spell. “No!” Artek roared. “He’s mine!” Orcish rage cast its blood-red veil before his eyes. Drawing the saber at his hip, he lunged forward. He swung the blade in a whistling arc, precisely aimed to sever the lord’s neck.
But before it connected, the saber jerked in Artek’s hand, wrenching his arm painfully. The blade changed direction of its own volition, and Artek twisted his body, barely managing to keep from severing his own leg.
“You are a fool, Ar’talen,” Darien laughed. “You should have known you could not harm me with that blade. I was the one who gave it to you, after all.”
Artek tried to cast down the sword. He would squeeze the life out of Darien with his bare hands if he could just release the cursed blade. But it was all he could do to keep the saber from turning on him again.
Darien tossed his cloak back, holding the bloody Device before him. He started moving for the door. “Out of my way—all of you! Waterdeep is going to be mine. And no one can stop me.”
There was a sharp ringing of steel.
“I can,” someone said.
All turned in surprise. It was Corin. He stood before Darien, rapier drawn. Gone from the young man’s face was all the pale uncertainty of before. Authority blazed in his brilliant blue eyes, and despite his ragged, grimy clothes and smudged cheeks, his nobility seemed to shine forth. For all of Darien’s rich velvet and silver silk, he looked like a lowly beggar next to Corin.
Mocking laughter escaped Darien’s throat. “You can’t kill me, boy. And even if you could, you wouldn’t. You haven’t the guts. Now scurry back to your little House of Silvertor, and perhaps, when I rule the city, I might let you live. After all, you’re really not even worth killing.”
Corin said nothing. He gripped his rapier tightly, his jaw set in firm resolution. The Device buzzed on the end of Darien’s arm. For a protracted moment the two stared at each other, deciding who would make the first move.
