Escape from Undermountain

by Mark Anthony

  “Guhr og noth!” Artek swore. It was an orcish oath, learned from his father. Rage boiled in his blood at the one possible conclusion.

  Lord Darien Thal had betrayed him.

  Webs of Deceit

  Arms crossed over her chest, Beckla paced in agitation before a leering statue of some nameless beast. Corin watched, apprehension written plainly across his boyish face.

  “This is just wonderful,” the wizard said acidly. “I thought you were going to get me out of this dump, Ar’talen, and now I’m deeper than ever.” She let out a sharp sigh of exasperation. “I suppose that will teach me to trust a thief.”

  Artek slumped against a wall. He stared blankly at the bas-relief carving of lost souls falling into the dark void of the Abyss. So this is how the line of Arthaug ends, he thought bitterly. Not in glory, ruling over the Garug-Mal once more, but in ignominy, alone and forgotten in a hole in the ground. Artek sighed dejectedly. He had been wrong to turn his back on the darkness within him. And this was the punishment that deed had wrought.

  “I’m sorry to have led you to a bad end, Beckla,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t mean for it to turn out this way.”

  The wizard paused in her pacing to glare hotly at him. “Oh, that’s just great,” she said disgustedly. “First you get me into this mess, and then you decide to just lie down and give up. You know, I don’t think you’re half the thief all the stories made you out to be, Artek Ar’talen.”

  No, I’m only a quarter, he almost spat, but swallowed the words instead. “You said it yourself, Beckla,” he said grimly. “No one has ever gone this deep in Undermountain and returned to tell about it. In an entire year, you couldn’t find a way out of this maze’s uppermost halls. So what chance do we have this deep down?”

  Beckla clenched her too-square jaw angrily but said nothing.

  After an uncomfortable silence, Corin cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said in a meek voice. “I know I’m hardly the most qualified person to offer an opinion on this matter, seeing as I’m the one who’s theoretically being rescued here.” He made a vaguely hopeful gesture with his hands. “But couldn’t we at least try to find a way out of this dreadful place? It certainly seems like the reasonable thing to do.”

  Artek let out a derisive snort. “You see this?” He thrust out his arm, pulling up the sleeve of his jerkin to reveal the magical tattoo. “In less than two days, this thing is going to kill me. And in less than two days, the nobility of Waterdeep is going to hold its vote, and Lord Darien Thal will ascend to the seventh seat on the Circle of Nobles.”

  He jerked the sleeve back down, covering the tattoo. “Don’t you understand? There’s no point in trying to escape. Even if we could find a way out of this hole, it would certainly take us more than two days, and by that time I’d be dead. And if you managed to get out, Corin, I’m sure the first thing Darien would do in his new position of power would be to find a way to dispose of you.”

  Chagrined, Corin fell silent and hung his head.

  “Well, that still leaves me,” Beckla snapped. “Or had you forgotten? I certainly still want to try to find a way out of this pit.”

  “Then be my guest,” Artek grumbled. He turned his back on the wizard.

  Anger burned in her brown eyes. She ran a frustrated hand through her close-cropped brown hair. For a moment she bit her lip, considering something. Then, abruptly, she spoke several harsh, guttural words.

  “Morth al haugh nothok, Artek Ar’talen! Bettah al nothokari!”

  The words sliced at Artek like knives. It had been years since he last heard them. Drawing in a hissing breath, he spun around, advancing on the wizard. “Where did you learn to speak that?” he demanded fiercely.

  Beckla stepped backward, momentarily startled by the fury blazing in his black eyes. Corin stared at the two in open alarm. Then, visibly, the wizard steeled herself. “I once traded spells with an orcish sorcerer,” she said evenly, a sly smile on her lips. “Of course, I learned a few things other than spells from him. And I heard him use that oath once or twice.”

  Artek shook with rage. Old memories surfaced in his mind, of a father berating his child for being too afraid to pick a rich merchant’s purse. “Do you know what those words mean?” he choked.

  Beckla nodded solemnly. “ ‘Your heart is not that of an orc. It is that of a goblin.’ I think that’s an accurate translation, don’t you?” She clucked her tongue at his shocked expression. “Come now, Ar’talen. Don’t be so surprised. All the stories say that orcish blood runs in your veins.”

  Artek opened his mouth, but he could find no reply. Only once had Arturg used those words with him, but once had been enough. There was no greater insult among orc kindred than to have one’s heart compared to a goblin’s. It was an accusation of cowardice, a brand of worthlessness. As a child, Artek had done everything he could to please his father in order to make certain that he never heard those hateful words again. Now this arrogant wizard had dared to speak them herself.

  “You have no right,” he began, clenching his hands into fists.

  “And why not?” she snapped harshly. “It’s all true, isn’t it? You’re the one who’s giving up.” She shook her head. “Maybe the stories are wrong. Maybe it isn’t fell orcish blood that runs in your veins, Ar’talen. Maybe it’s the blood of lowly goblin worms after all.”

  The wizard had gone too far. Artek felt a fierce, primal fury stirring deep inside. As always, he fought to contain it, but this time it was no use. The rage welled up hotly in his stomach, burning as it coursed through his veins. A red veil descended over his eyes, and a rushing sound filled his ears. The dark, animal part of himself that he always kept carefully locked away now rose to the fore. It terrified him, but it was intoxicating as well. Raw power trembled in his limbs. His orcish side was free.

  Artek snarled, baring his pointed teeth, his handsome face twisted into a sinister mask. Corin let out a cry of fear, leaping backward. Beckla paled, shocked by the fury her words had unleashed.

  “Damn you!” Artek hissed, advancing on the startled wizard. Words sprang from his mouth as if someone else spoke through him. “You have no right. I am Garug-Mal! I will rend your flesh for this insult. I will splinter your bones!”

  Artek grabbed Beckla and shoved her roughly against a stone wall. His hands encircled her throat. The desire to kill seared his mind. The wizard’s body shook, but she clenched her jaw and gazed unflinchingly into his eyes, refusing to show fear. This only enraged his orcish side further; his fingers contracted tightly. Beckla gasped for breath as her airway inexorably closed.

  No, Artek! Don’t do it!

  The voice was faint and distant, barely piercing the roaring in his brain. He ignored it, gritting his teeth as he tightened his grip.

  Don’t kill her!

  This time the voice was stronger. Uncertainty tinged his rage. He hesitated.

  This doesn’t have to be you!

  At last he recognized the voice. It was his own—at least, that of his human side. For a second, dark and light halves warred within. Then, with a strangled cry, he tore his hands away from the wizard’s throat and lurched back. Beckla stumbled forward, clutching her throat, gulping in ragged breaths. Artek shuddered, staring at his clenched hands, sickened at how close to killing they had come. He looked up. Though her lips were tinged with blue, the wizard was grinning.

  “That was dangerous, Beckla,” he said, his voice low and grim. “I could have killed you. I almost did. You took a foolish gamble.”

  “But it worked, didn’t it?” she rasped smugly. “Corin and I need you, Ar’talen. We have to stick together if we’re to have any hope of getting out of here. I guessed that only a little orcish anger would burn through your stupid self-pity, and I was right.”

  Artek scowled at her. “Well, you don’t have to act so pleased about it.”

  “Oh? And why not?”

  He had no answer to that, and settled for a sullen grunt instead. Risky as it had b
een, the wizard’s plan had worked as intended. Despair and hopelessness had been burned away by his rage. Artek wanted nothing more now than to have his revenge on Lord Darien Thal, and the only way he could achieve that was to escape from Undermountain. He found himself returning Beckla’s grin. As violent as his orcish side was, it had its uses.

  Corin gasped as he realized what the wizard had done. “Oh, bravo, Beckla!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together, tattered lace cuffs fluttering. “That was simply brilliant. A virtuoso performance.” He snapped his fingers as an idea occurred to him. “Why, perhaps it would hearten Artek further if I uttered the same epitaph. Now, what were the words?” He braced his shoulders and lowered his voice, speaking the words with exaggerated bravado. “Malth al nothilk, Artek Ar’talen!”

  For a moment Artek and Beckla stared at the puffed-up lord. Then both burst into laughter. Corin frowned in confusion.

  “I don’t understand,” he sputtered. “Why are you laughing? Aren’t you supposed to be absolutely furious with me? I just said your heart was a goblin’s!”

  “No, you didn’t,” Artek replied.

  “Well, what did I say?” the nobleman asked indignantly.

  Beckla let out a snort. “You said, ‘Your ears are made of cheese, Artek Ar’talen.’ ”

  The two broke into renewed peals of mirth. Corin stared at them with a hurt expression until Artek took pity on the lord.

  “Don’t worry, Corin,” he said. “We’ll make an orc of you yet.” He gave the young man a friendly slap on the back, and Corin stumbled forward, eyes bulging at the force of the blow.

  “Er, thank you,” he murmured. “I think.”

  His black leather creaking, Artek prowled back and forth. He knew what they needed to do—get out of Undermountain. Now, how by the Shadows of Shar were they going to do it? The obvious thing was to attempt to work their way upward through Halaster’s mad labyrinth. However, according to Beckla’s spell, they were terribly deep—deeper than anyone had gone and managed to return in nearly a thousand years. Artek didn’t like those odds, and instinct told him that there was little hope in heading upward. But what other alternative was there?

  His black eyes glittered sharply. The inkling of an idea crept into his cunning mind. He turned toward the wizard. “Beckla, you said that Halaster enchanted the walls of Undermountain so that no one could magically teleport in or out.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So how was it that the gate Melthis gave me was able to transport us so much deeper? Doesn’t that mean that it is possible to teleport here?”

  The wizard shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. Like I said earlier, gates are different. A spell of teleportation instantly moves a person or object from one place to another. And Halaster’s magic blocks such spells. But when you pass through a gate, you don’t really move at all. Instead, the gate magically brings two different places close together. It’s space that moves, not you.”

  Artek frowned at this explanation. “I don’t exactly follow you.”

  “I suppose that’s why I’m the wizard,” she replied dryly. “Here, I’ll show you.” She reached out and grabbed the pebble that still hovered in midair from her earlier spell. She held her hands flat and apart, the pebble resting on her left palm. “Say I’m the pebble, and I want to get from my left hand to my right. If I cast a teleport spell, it’s like jumping from hand to hand instantly.” With a deft flick of her wrist, she tossed the pebble and caught it in her right hand. “But a gate works more like a window opening between two places. Effectively, it brings the two locations next to each other.” She moved her hands until they were touching. “Then it’s only a short step sideways from one place to the next.” She tilted her right hand, and the pebble rolled onto the left. She tossed the pebble toward Artek. “Got it?”

  He snatched the pebble out of the air, then held it between his fingers, studying it thoughtfully. “Got it.” He digested this new information, and gradually his plan grew clearer. “So instead of trying to find our way up through an endless maze, all we need to do is find another one of these gates.”

  “If there are any others,” Beckla amended cautiously.

  “There have to be others,” Artek replied. “All the stories tell how Halaster abducted living things—people and monsters alike—for use in his magical experiments. He had to have some way to bring them down here. And from what you’ve said, a gate is the only way.”

  Beckla crossed her arms over her white shirt, her expression skeptical. “I still say our surest bet is to head upward. But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to look for any gates on the way.”

  That was close enough for Artek. “Then it’s settled,” he said firmly. “Darien hasn’t beaten us yet. And neither has Undermountain. One way or another, we’re going to get out of here.”

  Corin jumped excitedly. The lord had become quite caught up in Artek’s stirring speech. “Oh, this is going to be positively fun!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. “I had no idea that getting lost could lead to such a marvelous adventure.”

  Artek bit his tongue. Corin would find out soon enough for himself that this was going to be anything but fun.

  Artek had noticed earlier that there were no doors in the room—at least, none readily apparent to the casual eye. All four walls of the chamber were of solid stone, each covered with a grotesque frieze of tortured souls. But Artek was not going to believe their quest was over before it had even begun. He doubted that even a mad wizard would build a room without a door—what would be the use? Thief’s instinct told him that there had to be a way out of the chamber. All they had to do was find it.

  “All right, let’s search the walls and floor,” Artek told the others. “There has to be a hidden door in this room somewhere. Look for anything at all that stands out or seems unusual in some way.”

  He moved to one of the walls and began running his hand over the bas-relief carvings that covered it, searching for any seams or inconsistencies in the stone. Corin and Beckla exchanged unsure looks, then followed suit. Each pored over his or her respective wall, attempting to find any sign of a secret portal. Before long, Artek’s head throbbed with concentration. The friezes made it difficult. The intricate relief carvings of writhing bodies could be obscuring something—a crack, a hole, a gap—he might otherwise see. However, there was nothing to do but keep searching.

  Just when he was beginning to lose hope, Beckla let out an excited whoop. “I think I’ve found something, Artek! There’s a thin seam around the neck of one of these carvings. I think the head is some sort of knob. It looks like it could turn.”

  That sounded promising. Artek hurried toward the wizard. “That’s good, Beckla. But don’t touch it yet. If the knob is a trigger for a secret door, it could be trapped. We need to check it out before we turn it.”

  “Oh,” Beckla replied as she snatched her hand away from the carving. “Oops.”

  Artek halted in alarm. The last time Beckla had uttered that word, she had nearly set his hindquarters on fire. He shook his head slowly, staring at her. “Please tell me you didn’t …”

  Beckla grinned at him weakly. “I did.”

  The wizard gestured to the twisted stone figure on the wall. Its screaming head now pointed backward. Artek lunged forward, reaching out to turn the figure’s head back around, but it was too late.

  There was a hiss of stale air, followed by a low grating sound. The floor vibrated beneath their feet, and the three stared around the room in surprise. At first it was not apparent what was happening—until Corin voiced the truth.

  “Look at the walls!” the nobleman cried. “They’re closing in!”

  Artek swore in alarm. The young lord was right. The chamber’s two long walls were slowly but inexorably moving in ward. Artek gripped the figurine, turning the head back around. It was no use. The trap had been sprung, and the walls continued to close in. Artek guessed they had no more than a few minutes before the slabs met and crushed their bodies to a pul
p. The open stone mouths of the writhing damned no longer seemed to be screaming, but laughing.

  “Quick!” Artek shouted over the rumbling. “There’s got to be another trigger, one that will stop the trap!”

  Hastily, he began searching one of the walls as it pressed forward. Needing no other inducement besides fear, Corin and Beckla leapt toward the other wall and did the same. As they searched, they were forced to keep stepping backward as the walls closed in. There were fifteen paces between them, then ten, then five. Frantically, Artek kept searching. He felt something brush his back. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Beckla staring at him with wide eyes. The walls were no more than two arm lengths apart.

  “That’s odd,” Corin announced. “The arm on this figurine looks almost like a lever.”

  “Well, then pull it!” Beckla cried urgently.

  Corin put his hands behind his back. “Oh, no. Not before Artek checks it. You heard what he said before.”

  Artek craned his neck, gazing with wild eyes at the nobleman. “Pull it, Corin!” he shouted.

  The lord shook his head. “If I pull that lever, we may find ourselves in worse trouble yet. You told Beckla not to …”

  “Never mind!” Artek barked. His back was against one wall, the other just four feet away. Three feet. Two. “Just pull the lever!”

  Corin sighed in exasperation. “Well, this is all very contradictory. But here goes …” He gripped the stone arm and pulled the lever. The floor dropped out from beneath their feet, and the three plunged downward, screaming. The two walls met with a clap of thunder above their heads, grinding together with bone-crushing force. For a moment more they continued to fall through darkness. Then, with three grunts, they struck a hard stone floor.

  Artek groaned as he sat up. Magically restored though it was, his body still wasn’t used to all this falling and landing, if it ever had been. He probed gently with his fingers, wincing as he found numerous tender spots. However, nothing seemed to be broken.