Escape from Undermountain

by Mark Anthony

The truth was, part of him wanted to get caught. He was weary—weary of scheming, of running, of watching dread flare in the eyes of others when they recognized who it was that stood before them. That night, in the bottom of the muddy grave, wrapped in the rain-soaked garb of a dead man, he finally made a choice. From that moment on, he was a thief no longer.

  Now to the floor. Press your ear right against the stones. Then rap sharply with some hard object—a spoon, a pebble, even your bare knuckles if you have nothing left. Move a half-pace to one side, then rap again. Listen well as you do. A change in sound may indicate a space below. And a way out.

  He had not considered that nobody would believe him. But it made perfect sense, naturally. He had robbed the citizens of Waterdeep for years. What cause did they have to trust him? When the rumor spread across the city that he had given up his thieving ways, another rumor raced hot on its heels: it was all an elaborate ruse to lure the nobility into a false sense of security. They would leave their wealth unguarded, and Artek could thereby relieve them of it all the easier. Finally, he had realized there was only one way to make the people of Waterdeep understand that he had truly changed. He had to show them.

  His chance arrived unexpectedly. He was gloomily pacing the night-darkened streets of the North Ward, pondering his dilemma, when he turned the corner of a narrow lane and saw a gilded carriage standing at a halt beneath a stone archway. Instinct pricked the back of his neck, and he melted soundlessly into a pool of shadow. Then he saw them: two masked figures in black. One gripped the harness of the horses as the animals stamped nervous hooves against cobblestone. The other reached through the open window of the carriage, roughly jerking glittering rings from the hands of a middle-aged countess, while her heavily painted face cracked in terror.

  Artek knew this was his chance. Surely saving a countess would win him a pardon for his past crimes, and prove himself reformed. He moved swiftly through the shadows, drawing a dagger from each of his boots. The man who held the horses was dead before he even felt the knife slip between his ribs, piercing his heart. The second looked up and managed to let out a cry of surprise before he was silenced by a knife in his throat.

  Kneeling, Artek retrieved the jewels from the dead thief’s grip, then stood to hand them back to the countess. Then matters took an unexpected turn. The countess screamed. Artek tried to explain that he was returning her jewels, but she just continued to cry for help. Growing angry, he thrust the rings toward her, but she beat them away with wildly flapping hands, her shrieks rising shrilly on the night air. Too late, he realized his own peril.

  Whirling around, he saw torchlight approaching rapidly from either direction, and heard the sound of booted feet. Before he could act, a patrol of the City Watch appeared in the archway, while another rounded the corner. In seconds a dozen watchmen surrounded him, swords drawn. A cold knot of fear tied itself in his stomach as he became aware of the jewels he still gripped in his sweating hands.

  “It wasn’t me,” he said hoarsely.

  The watchmen only grinned fiercely as they closed in.

  Remember that every prison is merely a puzzle, and each has its own solution. To escape, all you must do is discover the answer that is already there. And while your face may be that of a man, never forget that the blood of the Garug-Mal runs in your veins. Ever have the orc-kindred of the Graypeak Mountains dwelled deep in lightless places. You have nothing to fear from the dark, Artek. For the dark is in you, my son …

  With a clinking of heavy chains, Artek Ar’talen shifted his body on the cold stone floor, trying to ease the chafing of the iron shackles where they dug painfully into his ankles and wrists. As always, the effort was futile. He stared into the impenetrable dark that filled the tiny cell. Once a thief, always a thief That was what the Magisters had said just before they sentenced him to spend the rest of his life in prison. On that day, Artek had finally realized that it was impossible to change. He would be whatever others thought him to be.

  Artek was not certain how long he had been in this place. Clay cups of foul water and bowls of maggoty gruel came rarely and at uneven intervals through a slit in the opposite wall, and could not be used to mark time reliably. Certainly it had been months, perhaps as many as six. In that time, he had explored the cell as far as his chains allowed, recalling everything about prisons his father had taught him as a child, but he found no hope. The walls and floors were made of flawless stone without crack or crevice, as if forged by sorcery rather than hewn by hand. Nor had his father’s tricks worked upon the shackles, or the bolts that bound the chains to the wall.

  “I remember your words, Father,” he whispered through cracked lips. “And damn your wretched half-orc soul to the Abyss, for they have failed me now.”

  With a groan, he slumped back against the wall. His father had been right about one thing—the dark was in him. And in the dark he would die.

  It might have been minutes later—or perhaps hours, or even days—when a metallic noise ground on the dank air of the cell. Artek cracked his eyes. Chains jingling, he stiffly sat up. Had the guards finally brought him some water? He ran a parched tongue across his blistered lips. It had been a long time. He eyed the place in the dark where the slit of faint light always appeared, and through which food and drink were pushed with a stick. Puzzled, he saw only unblemished darkness. Then the grinding sound ended with a sharp clang!

  All at once the perfect blackness of the cell was torn asunder. A tall rectangle of blazing fire appeared before Artek. With a low cry of pain, he shrank against the wall, shielding his face with his hands.

  “Looks like our little friend here is afraid of the light,” said a coarse voice.

  “Isn’t that just like a rat?” a second, wheedling voice laughed.

  At last Artek’s brain grasped what had happened. For the first time since he had been locked in this cell, someone had opened the door. Blinking away stinging tears, he slowly lowered his hands, trying to force his eyes to adjust. Two hazy forms stood in the open portal. Guards, one with a smoking torch. Artek supposed the light it cast was in truth dim and murky, but to his eyes, so long in the dark, it seemed like a brilliant sun.

  Why …? His lips formed the word soundlessly. Deliberately he swallowed, then tried again, straining to voice the sounds. This time the words came out as a croaking whisper. “Why have you come for me?”

  “Somebody wants to see you,” growled the first guard, a tall man with a dog’s drooping face.

  “What … what for?”

  “Rats don’t ask questions,” snapped the second guard, a corpulent man with beady eyes. “They just do what their betters tell them if they don’t want new smiles cut around their necks.”

  With a large iron key, Dog-Face unlocked Artek’s chains from the ring in the wall. He jerked on them, pulling the prisoner roughly to his feet. Artek cried out as blood rushed painfully into his cramped limbs. He staggered, but another harsh jerk on the chains kept him from falling. Gradually the fire in his legs dulled to pins and needles. After a moment he could stand on his own, though only in a hunched position. Before his imprisonment, thick muscles had knotted his short, compact frame. Now, beneath his filthy rags, bones stuck out plainly beneath sallow skin.

  “Looks like prison food hasn’t agreed with you, rat,” Beady-Eyes chuckled.

  Artek eyed the gut straining against the guard’s food-stained jerkin. “You might want to give it a try yourself,” he said hoarsely.

  Beady-Eyes glowered darkly, sucking in his stomach. “Bring him out!”

  Dog-Face pulled hard on the chain, and Artek stumbled forward, barely managing to keep his balance.

  “I can’t walk with my feet shackled,” he gasped.

  “He’s right,” Dog-Face said. “And I’m not going to carry him.”

  Beady-Eyes scratched his stubbled jowl. “All right. Unlock his feet. But don’t get any ideas about going anywhere, rat.” He took the center of the chain that bound Artek’s shackled wrists and locked i
t to an iron band he wore around his own thick wrist. A yellow-toothed grin split his face. “You’ll be staying close by me.”

  In the corridor outside the cell, four more armed guards waited. They all looked to Beady-Eyes. It was clear he was their captain. He gave the order, and they began marching down a long corridor. Two guards led the way. Next came Beady-Eyes, who jerked cruelly at the chain binding Artek’s wrists, followed by the remaining guards. Artek trudged silently, head bowed, shoulders slumped.

  “It seems there’s little spark left in you, Artek the Knife,” Beady-Eyes chortled in a bubbling voice. “No one would mistake the wretch you are now for Waterdeep’s most infamous rogue. It seems a year alone in the dark is enough to break even the greatest of scoundrels.”

  Artek staggered dizzily. A year? A few months, he thought, perhaps even six. But an entire year of his life lost in that black pit? Deep inside, amid the hopelessness that had filled him during his confinement, there now ignited a single bright spark of rage. Remembered words—spoken by father to son—echoed in his mind.

  A good thief finds strength in weakness. Chains can be a weapon. And sometimes a prisoner’s bonds may be turned upon unwitting captors.

  The party rounded a corner. To the left the wall fell away, and in its place was an iron rail. Beyond this was a vast chamber, its floor fifty feet below—the center of the prison of the Magisters, a place named the Pit by the city’s criminals. Below Artek, five levels of cells lined the perimeter of the Pit, each bordered by a narrow catwalk. In the far wall was a massive stone slab of a door. At present, the door was raised, held up by a chain that passed through a ring in the ceiling and hooked to a large counterweight. A dozen armed guards stood before the open portal.

  Beady-Eyes tugged Artek’s chains, leading him toward an opening to the right, away from the Pit. The spark blazed more hotly inside the prisoner, burning away months of apathy and despair. This, he realized, would be his only chance.

  He took it.

  Lunging to the left, Artek jerked sharply on the chain that connected his shackled hands to the guard’s wrist. With a cry of alarm, Beady-Eyes stumbled toward him, giving Artek the slack in the chain he needed. The guards drew their swords, reaching for Artek, but they were too slow.

  With a shout, he threw himself past the iron railing and over the edge of the Pit. For a second he plunged downward, then abruptly stopped short. Above, Beady-Eyes shrieked in pain as he struck the iron railing. Arms above his head, Artek dangled in midair, suspended by the chain attached to the corpulent captain’s wrist.

  “My arm!” Beady-Eyes squealed, his pudgy face bright red. With his free hand he clutched the iron rail to keep from being dragged over the edge. “He’s going to pull my arm out of its socket! Break the chain!”

  The other guards stared at him.

  “Break it!” Beady-Eyes wailed.

  Dog-Face hurried forward, raising his sword. The blade flashed downward in a whistling arc. At the same moment, Artek swung his body toward the wall. Another shrill scream sounded above just as the chain gave way. Artek’s momentum carried him forward, and he landed in a crouch on the catwalk bordering the highest row of cells. Glancing at the chain around his wrists, he saw that Dog-Face’s blow had missed. The chain was unbroken, but at its center, still in the iron wristlet, was a severed hand. No wonder Beady-Eyes had screamed, Artek thought with grim mirth. He plucked the hand from the iron ring and tossed it aside.

  Shouts of alarm rang out across the Pit. Jerking his head up, Artek saw guards racing along the catwalk from either direction. There was no way past them without a fight, which left only one way to go. Gripping the edge of the catwalk, he lowered himself down, grunting with effort. His body was no longer accustomed to such rigors. Drumming footfalls approached. Gritting his teeth, he swung himself forward and dropped to the catwalk bordering the fourth level. At least his body had not forgotten everything.

  Angry curses drifted downward. A moment later, a pair of black boots dangled over the edge of the catwalk above. A guard was climbing down after him. Artek grabbed the man’s boots and pulled. With a scream, the guard lost his grip and plunged downward. A second later, he struck the hard stone floor forty feet below, and blood sprayed outward in a crimson starburst. The remaining guards above swore again but did not attempt to follow their companion.

  Artek looked up. Across the Pit, guards on each of the five cell levels raced in his direction. He leaned against the railing of the catwalk, his breath rattling in his gaunt chest.

  You may not have changed, Artek, he thought. But you’re certainly not the man you used to be.

  Exhausted though he was, this was not the time to rest. He lowered himself over the edge of the catwalk and swung onto the third level. Emaciated arms reached out from iron-barred cells, but he ignored them. They would have to find their own way out. Arms aching, he lowered himself to the second level, then finally dropped to the main floor of the Pit.

  He staggered, then gained his feet. A few feet away, a grimy old man pushing a wheelbarrow looked up in surprise. The cart was filled with gray, lumpy slop, and the old fellow gripped a dripping wooden ladle in his hand. He had been making the rounds, flinging a ladleful of the fetid slop into every cell for the prisoners to eat off the floor.

  “That looks appetizing,” Artek said wryly.

  The old man only gaped at him.

  A dozen guards poured out of a nearby stairwell and rushed toward Artek. He glanced at the door of the Pit. Another dozen guards stood before it. Now where?

  A good thief is imaginative, my son. If something seems impossible, consider it. The unexpected action is the hardest of all to counter.

  His black eyes drifted upward. A thrill coursed through him as he spied a way out. There was no time to consider it; the guards were almost upon him.

  “Excuse me,” Artek said, pushing the stunned old man aside. He gripped the handles of the cart and, with a grunt, heaved it over. Putrid, gray gruel spilled across the stone floor, and the guards were running too fast to avoid it. Their boots skidded on the slimy swill, and they went down in a swearing tangle of arms, legs, and swords.

  Artek did not hesitate. He took the sword from the body of the guard who had fallen to his death, then raced to a corner of the Pit. A massive iron ball was tied with a rope to a ring in the wall. The ball was, in turn, attached to a long chain dangling from above—the counterweight to the door.

  Artek snaked his arm around the chain, then swung the sword, severing the rope from the ring. Instantly the counterweight rose into the air, taking Artek with it. Across the Pit, the guards before the door dove forward to avoid being crushed by the ponderous slab of stone as it descended. The counterweight came to an abrupt halt as the door crashed to the ground.

  Artek kicked his legs, swinging at the end of the chain in wider and wider arcs. At the end of the widest arc, he let go, tucking himself into a ball. He sailed through the air, landing inside the open mouth of the ventilation shaft he had glimpsed from below.

  Leaving behind the angry shouts echoing in the Pit, Artek crawled as quickly as he could through the narrow shaft. Though he couldn’t be certain, he felt that it was gradually heading upward. The shaft had to lead to the surface at some point. He crawled on.

  Just when he thought his cramped limbs could go no farther, he glimpsed a square of golden light ahead—an opening. His heart pounded rapidly. Was that sunlight pouring through the hole? Artek couldn’t remember what the rays of the sun looked like, and now freedom was mere yards away. In excitement, he pulled himself through the golden opening, and suddenly felt himself tumble end over end through cold mists, no longer sure of where he was. After a moment of dizzying disorientation, Artek landed with a thud on a softly cushioned surface.

  “I see that you’re right on time, Artek Ar’talen.”

  Artek blinked away the fog in his head and saw that he was lying on a thick, expensive-looking rug. A sharp stench of lightning hung in the air.

&nbs
p; Artek jumped up, but the action was never completed. Brilliant energy crackled through the air, and a blood-red aura sprang up around him, pinning his limbs to his sides and rooting his feet to the floor. He was not outside at all, but in a small chamber filled with rich tapestries, gilded wood, and many other ostentatious displays of wealth and taste. Artek choked for air, feeling as if the breath were being squeezed out of him. Struggling, he lifted his head to gaze upon the faces of his new captors.

  They were a curious duo: a nobleman and a wizard. Effort racked the wizard’s face as he concentrated on the spell of binding. Between his dark robe, hooked nose, and bald head, he looked like a great vulture. In contrast, the nobleman was strikingly handsome, with sharp green eyes and dark hair tied back from his high brow with a black ribbon. He was clad all in purple velvet and silver silk and, in a sophisticated affectation, had tucked his right hand beneath the breast of his long coat. He regarded Artek with calm but keen interest.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” the nobleman said in a smooth voice. “I am Lord Darien, scion of House Thal, high advisor to the Circle of Nobles.” He inclined his head ever so slightly.

  Artek stared at the man as his thief’s intuition made a sudden leap. “You,” he spat between clenched teeth. “You’re the one they were taking me to see.”

  Darien nodded, drawing a step closer. “That is correct. You see, I have a bargain to offer you, Ar’talen. It would be a simple transaction—freedom from this prison in exchange for your services. Are you interested to hear more? If not, don’t hesitate to say so, and I will be happy to deliver you back into the hands of the guards …”

  Artek swore inwardly. Why did nobles always enjoy playing such games, manipulating common people as if they were merely pieces on a lanceboard?

  “Calling the guards won’t be necessary,” he said. “And you can tell your hired vulture to call off his spell. I won’t be going anywhere. You have my word.”

  Darien turned to the wizard. “You heard him, Melthis. Remove the spell of binding.”