by Mark Anthony
Without warning, Darien let out a cry of pain. He hopped on one foot, clutching the other with his hand. A pale, round form gnawed with yellow teeth at the flesh of his ankle: Muragh. With his left hand, Darien grabbed the skull and hurled it across the room. Muragh struck a wall with a sickening thud, then fell to the floor. After that, the skull did not move.
Muragh’s teeth had done little damage, but Darien had been thrown off balance and Corin did not waste the chance. His rapier flashed in a bright arc, severing Darien’s right arm above the wrist. The Device bounced to the carpet, its steel prongs still whirling violently. Darien stared in horror at the gory stump of his arm. He clutched it to his body and stumbled back against a polished mahogany wall. The cruel arrogance in his eyes was replaced by terror as Corin advanced, leveling his rapier at Darien’s chest.
Darien shook his head slowly, tears streaming from his eyes. “Please,” he whined piteously. “Please, Lord Silvertor. I beg of you. Have mercy!”
Corin hesitated only a moment. “No, Darien,” he said quietly. “Mercy is for innocents.”
Darien opened his mouth to scream, but was cut short by the whiplike sounds of Corin’s rapier. Corin withdrew the blade. For a moment it seemed his blows had done nothing—Darien stared forward with an almost peaceful expression. Then blood began to flow from a dozen wounds on his arms and torso. A line of crimson appeared around his neck. Cleanly severed, Darien’s head rolled to one side while his body slumped to the other, and both fell to the floor in a rapidly growing pool of blood.
“Do forgive me,” Corin whispered. The rapier slipped from his numb fingers as he stared at the grisly scene he had wrought.
Artek lifted the cursed saber. He willed his hand to release the hilt. To his amazement, the blade fell to the floor. Then he felt it: the first pinpricks of pain in his arm. His eyes locked on the tattoo. The sun was centered squarely on the arrow now. Sparks of crimson magic sizzled around the lines of dark ink, and he shuddered as blazing agony traveled swiftly up his arm, reaching toward his heart.
Now that he had finally come to the end, he found that he was not afraid anymore. Perhaps it was because he finally knew who he was. And it was Guss who had shown him, with his noble sacrifice. If a gargoyle could be good, then so could Artek. It didn’t matter what one was created to be. What mattered was how one lived one’s life. He knew now that he didn’t have to choose between being good and being part orc. He could be both.
Artek threw his head back, calling out to the heavens. “Arturg! Arthaug! My fathers before me! I come to you!”
“No!” a voice screamed.
It was Beckla.
The wizard rushed toward him as he fell to his knees. She raised her hand. Something gold and crimson shone on her finger. “Gate!” she cried. “Open!”
As she spoke the words, a glowing square filled with billowing gray mist appeared before them. Deadly crimson magic crackled around Artek’s tattoo. He arched his spine in agony. His heart jerked in his chest.
Filled as he was with pain, he almost didn’t notice as Beckla grabbed his arm and thrust it into the shimmering gate. The wizard held his arm fast, keeping the magical portal from pulling Artek fully into its cold mists. Instantly, Artek’s pain vanished. The fire in his arm turned to ice as his flesh melted away in the nothingness beyond. His heart gradually slowed to a steady pace. Finally, the wizard pulled his arm out of the swirling mists. The gate sizzled and vanished.
Artek stared at his arm in wonder. The tattoo still marked his flesh, but the crimson magic was gone, and the image no longer moved. Golden daylight spilled through the glass windows into the room. Dawn had come and he was still alive.
“What happened?” he asked in amazement.
Relief flashed in Beckla’s brown eyes. “Our bodies become incorporeal when we pass beyond a gate,” she explained. “I figured that the tattoo’s death magic couldn’t work if there was no arm for it to travel up.”
“Good reasoning,” he murmured, flexing his arm.
“Lucky guess,” she replied with a smirk. “The spell was set to work at a specific time. That time has passed. I think the magic has been negated. It’s just a mundane tattoo now.”
Artek grinned at her. “You’re really not a bad wizard at all, you know.”
“And I’m going to get even better,” she said. From the pocket of her vest she pulled out a score of folded parchment sheets. “I picked these up in the lair of the silversanns, in Trobriand’s Graveyard. The spellbooks there were all torn up, but some of their pages were still whole. Every one of these is a new spell, Artek, enough for years of study.” She carefully tucked the papers back into her vest. “Maybe I won’t ever be the greatest wizard in the city. But I’m well on my way to becoming a good one.”
Artek could only laugh in agreement. They stood up, looking to Corin. The nobleman, tears streaming freely down his dirty cheeks, turned away from Darien’s corpse.
Artek’s mirth was replaced by concern. “Are you all right, Corin?” he asked quietly.
The young lord nodded, roughly wiping the tears from his cheeks. “I am now—thanks to you, Artek. I won’t ever let anyone tell me I’m worthless again.”
Artek said nothing. He reached out to grip Corin’s shoulder. After a moment, he tousled the lord’s hair. “Don’t you have a vote to be getting to?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Corin replied, suddenly beaming. He glanced down at his ragged clothes. “I’m not exactly dressed appropriately, but it will have to suffice. I’ve decided that I really don’t care if I please the other nobles or not.”
Beckla cast a sideways glance at Artek, then stepped toward the lord. “Do you mind if I go with you, Corin?” she asked, her eyes shining.
Corin grinned shyly, then nodded. “I would like that very much,” he replied gently, taking her hand in his.
Artek gaped at the two in shock. “But I thought women always fell for the roguish type!” he sputtered.
Beckla winked slyly at him. “Not in this story, Ar’talen. I need a dose of goodness in my life.”
Artek could only shake his head, his expression both chagrined and bemused.
“Oh, before I go,” Corin said, “you should know that my first action in the Circle will be to recommend that a certain Artek the Knife receive a full pardon for all past crimes. The fellow will have a completely clean start.”
Artek looked up at the young man in surprise. “He won’t waste it,” he said.
Corin nodded solemnly. “I know.”
Without further words, Corin and Beckla dashed from the room and out into the dawning streets. For a moment Artek stared after them, feeling terribly alone. He wondered how it was possible to feel so glad and so sorrowful at the same time. At last, with a sigh, he turned to leave.
“Hey!” a reedy voice piped up. “Don’t forget about me!”
Artek swore. How could it have possibly slipped his mind? He hurriedly knelt and picked up the skull. “Muragh, are you all right?”
“I’m going to have a nasty headache,” the skull groaned. “And believe me, when all you are is a head, headaches are no fun. But I’ll be all right.”
Artek grinned, his spirits rising. It looked as if he wasn’t so alone after all. Picking up the skull, he headed outside. The city was just beginning to stir, getting ready for the day. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen so bright a morning.
“So,” Muragh said, his jaw working, “did I ever tell you about the time the mermen in Waterdeep Harbor used me to play an impromptu game of finball?”
“No,” Artek laughed. “But I’m sure you will.”
“Well,” the skull chattered happily, “it all began when I had the misfortune of getting eaten by a swordshark …”
About the Author
Mark Anthony is the author of a number of fantasy novels, including Kindred Spirits (with Ellen Porath), Tower of Doom, and two titles in the Harpers series–Crypt of the Shadowking and its sequel, Cu
rse of the Shadowmage. Escape from Undermountain is his fifth novel for TSR.
Mark currently resides in Colorado. However, as usual, he expects to be inconveniently transported to another world at any moment.
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