Escape from Undermountain

by Mark Anthony

  Pale blue magelight flared into being. Beckla slumped against a wall, gripping her staff, grimacing but whole. With painful effort, Artek turned around, wondering how Corin had fared. He stared in amazement as the nobleman leapt easily to his feet, briskly dusting off his tattered finery.

  “That was positively thrilling,” Corin said exuberantly. “The danger! The excitement! The narrow escape!” His blue eyes shone brightly. “I don’t suppose we could do it again?”

  “Are you sure we can’t kill him, Ar’talen?” Beckla grumbled, slowly pulling herself to her feet with the help of her staff.

  “Don’t tempt me.” Joints and muscles protesting, Artek stood.

  Corin eyed the others speculatively. “You know, I’m beginning to get the distinct impression that neither of you likes me very much.”

  “Wherever would you get such an idea?” Artek replied facetiously.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Corin mused. “I suppose it’s all this talk about wanting to kill me. One might construe that as an indication of dislike.”

  “Really? What a fascinating interpretation.”

  The nobleman beamed. “Why, thank you, Ar’talen!”

  Artek and Beckla exchanged meaningful glances. There was no need for words.

  By the glow of the magelight, the three stood at the beginning of a corridor. Smooth stone walls rose to a flat ceiling high over their heads. Artek could see the trapdoor through which they had fallen. It was now blocked by the bases of the thick stone walls that had nearly crushed them in the room above. The darkness was dense and stifling here, retreating sullenly before the magical light of Beckla’s staff, and only a few paces at that. A rank odor like the putrid reek of decay hung in the air, so thick that it almost seemed to leave on oily residue on their skin and inside their lungs. It was a stench of evil.

  With no other options evident, the three started down the corridor. The tunnel plunged straight through the darkness, without openings or side passages. The sickening odor grew more intense as they walked, but there was nothing to do but swallow their bile and press on. Soft, ropy strands dangled from the ceiling. Artek guessed they were moss or fungal growth, for they glowed with a faint and noxious green light. They ducked to avoid the strands and kept moving.

  Though he couldn’t be sure, Artek had the sense that the passageway was leading gradually downward. He swore inwardly. They needed to go up, but it seemed everything they did only took them farther down. It was as if Undermountain itself were somehow conspiring to pull them deeper.

  After a time, the inky mouth of a smaller tunnel opened up to the left. The fetid stench was stronger here, pouring like black water out of the side opening. Yet it wasn’t just the smell that spilled from the tunnel—there was a malice as well, distant and faint, but chilling all the same.

  “There’s something down there,” Beckla whispered nervously.

  Corin nodded, his smudged face pale. “And whatever it is, I don’t think it’s terribly friendly,” he added in a squeaky voice.

  “Just keep moving,” Artek countered. He felt the malevolent presence as well. He wiped his sweaty palms on his leather jerkin and kept his sensitive eyes peeled.

  They continued down the murky passageway. The mouths of more tunnels opened to their left and right. Some were blocked by fallen rubble, and others were dry and dusty. But the same pungent reek wafted outward from several tunnels, as did the aura of evil. Without deciding aloud to do so, the three picked up their pace. Then Artek detected it—a subtle shift in the movements of the air.

  “There’s a space ahead,” he whispered excitedly. “And a faint breeze. I think there’s a way out. Come on, it’s not far.”

  The others needed little urging. They started into a jog, hurrying down the passageway. At the same moment, the aura of malice swelled behind them. They reeled, nearly overwhelmed by the vile emanations of hatred. Something was following them, and it was gaining.

  “Run!” Artek yelled.

  Gasping, they hurled themselves down the tunnel, the darkness following thickly on their heels. An eerie whispering sound echoed all around. Lungs burning, the three kept running. All at once the walls of the tunnel fell away, and they found themselves dashing across a cavernous chamber. Strange white shapes littered the floor, crunching brittlely underfoot. Dense clumps of the same strands that had filled the tunnel hung from the high ceiling like a weird inverted forest, filling the room with a ghastly green glow. Artek caught another wisp of fresh air, stronger now. Then he saw it on the far side of the hall—a faint rectangle glowing amid the gloom. A doorway.

  “Hurry!” he shouted, heedless of what might hear his voice.

  The eerie whispering grew louder, filling the chamber. Thick blackness poured out of the opening behind them like a putrid flood. Legs pounding, Artek outpaced the others. As he neared the doorway, he saw that it was covered with more of the same green, glowing strands. With a cry, he hurled himself at the portal. Instantly his cry became one of pain as bitterly cold threads burned the skin on his hands and face. The silken material stretched under the force of his impact, then abruptly snapped back, throwing him roughly to the ground.

  He stared up at the door in surprise, rubbing his throbbing hands. Then he leapt to his feet, drew a knife from his boot, and slashed at the chaotic weave that covered the door. The blade bounced back, jarring his wrist painfully. He had not so much as damaged one of the cords.

  “What is this stuff?” he said in hoarse amazement as the others came to a halt behind him.

  Beckla drew in a sharp breath, staring upward. “I think I know.”

  The strange whispering grew to a maddening din. The threads hanging from the ceiling stirred.

  Ghostly shapes scuttled down the glowing strands.

  “Webs,” Corin gasped. “They’re spiderwebs!”

  As they watched in horror, half a dozen bloated forms dropped down from the tangle of webs above, while several more scurried from the opening through which they had entered the chamber. They were spiders, but like none Artek had ever seen. They were huge, each the size of a dog. Their bulging bodies, as pale and waxy as corpses, were eerily translucent, and their long gray legs trailed off into dim tendrils of gray mist. Dark saliva bubbled from their vague pincer mouths, and their multifaceted eyes shone malevolently, like flame reflected off black jewels. Whatever these things were, it was clear they were not truly alive, but wraiths, in hideous spider form. As they drew near, Artek realized the nature of the white shapes littering the chamber’s floor. They were bones.

  Together, the three backed toward the web-covered doorway.

  “So, are you having fun yet, Silvertor?” Artek said darkly.

  “Actually, this is a little more fun than I had anticipated,” the lord answered with a gulp.

  “Mystra save us,” Beckla breathed.

  The spiders advanced on their misty legs.

  Artek drew the curved saber Melthis had given him. The hilt tingled in his hand—it was the first time he had drawn it in combat. Warm energy flowed up his arms as red fire glimmered along the edge of the blade. A wraith spider lunged forward, and Artek swung the saber. The creature let out a mind-piercing shriek as two of its legs fell to the floor. For a moment, they twitched of their own volition, then evaporated into wisps of fog. The spider lurched backward.

  Beckla uttered an arcane incantation. Blue energy crackled from her fingertips. It struck two of the wraith spiders, but passed through their ghostly bodies. They continued to scurry forward.

  “My magic has no effect on them!” the wizard shouted in terror.

  “Nor does my rapier!” Corin cried as he thrust without result at one of the creatures. He retreated hastily.

  “Then work on freeing the door!” Artek gritted through clenched teeth. “I’ll try to hold the spiders back as long as I can.”

  He swung the saber in whistling arcs, and a dozen more many-jointed legs fell to the floor, turning to mist. The spiders advanced more slowly
now, wary of Artek’s crimson sword. The plan was working for the moment, but there were too many of the wraiths. It was only a matter of time until one got through.

  “I don’t want to tell you your job,” he growled, “but you might want to hurry, Beckla.”

  “Quiet!” the wizard snapped. “I’m thinking.” She studied the webs that crisscrossed the door. After a moment she nodded. “All right, if my magic won’t work on these things, let’s see what some good, old-fashioned, mundane fire will do.”

  Beckla uttered a command, and the end of her wooden staff burst into scarlet flame. She thrust the blazing brand at the webs. Instantly the sticky strands ignited, engulfed by brilliant fire. In seconds they were burned to fine ashes, clearing the doorway.

  “It worked!” Corin cried excitedly.

  “Come on, Artek!” Beckla shouted. “Let’s go!”

  Artek started to back away from the spiders, toward the now-open door. Then he suddenly froze. The saber in his hands jerked violently. As if imbued with a life of its own, the blade danced forward, pulling Artek roughly with it. He tried to release the sword, but his hands were suddenly glued to the hilt. Seemingly of its own will, the saber swung at one of the wraith spiders. Artek stumbled wildly, trying to keep his balance as he was carried along by the blade.

  “What are you doing, Ar’talen?” Beckla demanded frantically. “The door’s open. We’ve got to go!”

  “I can’t let go of the sword!” he gasped. “It won’t let me retreat!” He lurched as the sword thrust itself at a spider, pulling him along with it. With a surge of rage, he realized the truth. “Damn Darien to the Abyss. This thing must be cursed!”

  Beckla let out a fierce oath. “All right, I’ll see if I can use my magic to remove the—”

  The wizard’s words turned into a scream as a pale form dropped down from above, landing on her back. Her cry was cut short as ghostly pincers dug into the back of her neck. Her body went limp, and she fell to the floor. The still-burning staff slipped from her fingers, rolling away.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Artek saw Beckla fall. He strained against the dancing blade in his hands, face twisted in effort, then managed to turn it on the spider that clung to the wizard. The saber sliced through the thing’s bloated abdomen. It waved its thin legs, then exploded into a puff of foul vapor.

  Grim satisfaction turned to cold terror as Artek realized that his back was now toward the other wraith spiders. Sensing their prey’s vulnerability, they chittered hatefully, closing in. Artek knew he had mere moments to live.

  His eyes fell upon Beckla’s burning staff, and an idea struck him. But he could not let go of the cursed saber. There was only one chance.

  “Corin!” he shouted. “Grab the staff and hold it over your head!”

  The lord stared at the approaching spiders, frozen in horror. He did not move.

  “Now, Corin!” Artek screamed. “If there is any drop of truly noble blood in your veins, do it!”

  The young lord blinked. Mechanically, he obeyed Artek’s orders. He gripped the staff, then thrust the blazing end over his head just as the wraith spiders closed in. Flame licked the bottom of a clump of pale webs dangling from the ceiling. For a terrible second, Artek thought his plan had failed. Then crimson fire snaked up the hanging strands, and all at once the chamber’s entire ceiling burst into roaring flame. Gobs of burning web dropped down, landing on the wraith spiders. They shrieked and writhed as they were engulfed in crackling fire.

  As his enemies were consumed, Artek felt the cursed saber release his arms. He thrust the blade back into its sheath, then bent down to scoop up Beckla’s motionless form. He threw the limp wizard over his shoulder.

  “Run, Corin!” he shouted over the roar of the flames.

  This time the lord obeyed. They dodged falling clumps of blazing spider web and dashed through the door. Leaving behind the blazing inferno of death, they ran into cool darkness.

  Ancient Footsteps

  When they no longer heard the roar of flames and the echoing shrieks of the wraith spiders, Artek slowed to a halt, still balancing the motionless wizard over his broad shoulders. A second later, Corin—unable to see in the thick gloom—collided with Artek’s back. The nobleman stumbled, caught himself, then leaned against a slimy wall, clutching his chest and gasping for breath. Artek glanced down at Beckla’s face. Her eyes were closed, her skin deathly pale. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not. They needed to stop and rest, but not here, not in this open stone corridor. There was no telling what things might wander by and catch them unaware. They needed someplace out of the way, someplace safe.

  Then something caught Artek’s eye. Set as it was into a deep alcove, he almost didn’t notice it, even with the aid of his darkvision. It was a small wooden door. Resting behind a portal they could barricade would certainly be preferable to sitting in the middle of a drafty passageway. Artek made for the alcove, and Corin stumbled after him, feeling his way through the murk.

  The door was locked. Artek drew the dagger from his boot, slipped the tip into the iron lock, and gave it an expert twist. The door swung open with a groan. Beyond was a small chamber bathed in leprous green light that emanated from phosphorescent fungus clinging to the room’s damp walls. It was not a wholesome light, but at least Corin would be able to see. They entered the room, and Artek shut and relocked the door behind them.

  “I must say, I’ve had better accommodations,” Corin noted in a quavering voice.

  “But you can’t beat the price,” Artek replied dryly.

  There was little in the room but a few heaps of rusted metal and rotted wood. Atop one of the piles of refuse was a yellowed human skull. A drooping, frayed tapestry hung on one wall, and Artek yanked it down and spread it on the cold floor. As gently as he could, he laid the limp wizard down on the worm-eaten cloth.

  “How … how is she?” Corin asked quietly, hovering over them.

  Artek shook his head. It didn’t look good. He laid a hand on Beckla’s throat. Her flesh was as cold as ice, and he could feel no pulse. He held his dagger before her mouth, but the cool steel did not fog. She was not breathing. Artek turned her head, and on the side of her neck were a pair of small, dark wounds.

  “The wraith spider bit her,” he said grimly. “I suppose the thing was poisonous.” A tightness filled his chest, and his eyes stung. He had only just met the wizard, but she had helped him when he was alone, and he considered her a friend. “Beckla is dead, Corin,” he said hoarsely.

  “No, she isn’t.”

  Artek glared up at the nobleman. “This really isn’t the time for your boundless optimism, you know.”

  Corin looked at him in surprise. “But I didn’t say that,” he gulped.

  Artek frowned. “Well, if you didn’t say it, then who did?”

  “Hello there!” called a cheery voice. “It was me! I said it!”

  Artek leapt to his feet and Corin spun around. Both stared in confusion. There was nobody else with them in the chamber.

  “Over here!” It was the voice again: odd and hollow, almost like the sound of a low flute. “On the rubbish heap. No, not that one. This one!”

  Artek and Corin blinked in shock as their eyes finally fell upon the mysterious speaker—a yellowed skull. Lower jaw working excitedly, it hopped and spun atop the pile of refuse.

  “Surprised, eh?” the fleshless skull gloated.

  “You could say that,” Artek said cautiously, wondering if they were again in danger.

  The skull clattered its teeth happily. “Good! I like surprises! The name is Muragh, Muragh Brilstagg. At least, that was my name when I was alive. Of course, I’m not half the man I used to be. By Lathander, I’m more like an eighth! Some fool soldier cut my body away, and then went and threw my head in the harbor. The fish had a good time with me. Do you know what it’s like to have your eyeballs eaten by eels and your brain sucked out by starfish?” The skull rattled its jaw, as if shuddering. “Let me assure you, it isn’t m
uch fun.”

  Maybe the thing wasn’t dangerous, Artek decided, but it certainly was talkative. He approached the skull. “You said that our friend isn’t dead, Muragh. What makes you think so?”

  “I don’t think so,” the skull replied smugly. “I know so.”

  And arrogant as well, Artek amended inwardly.

  “The wraith spiders may not be alive themselves, but they don’t like to feed on the dead,” the skull explained in a reedy voice. “Their venom only stuns—that way they can wrap their prey in webs and snack at their leisure.”

  A chill ran down Artek’s spine. The skull’s words conjured a grisly image. He glanced back at the still form of the wizard. “So how long will it take for the effects of the venom to wear off?”

  “Not long,” Muragh replied. “No more than three or four—”

  “Hours?” Artek interrupted hopefully.

  “Days,” the skull said.

  Artek’s heart sank. He couldn’t simply leave Beckla here for three days with no one to protect her but a talking skull. It was too much of a betrayal—and that would make him no better than Darien Thal. But in three days he would be long dead.

  “Wait a minute!” Corin piped up. “I think I have something that might help.” The nobleman fumbled about his grimy velvet coat, searching the pockets. “Aha!” he exclaimed, pulling out a small object. “Here it is.” He held up the item—a glass vial, filled with a thick, purplish fluid.

  “What is that?” Artek asked dubiously.

  “A healing potion,” Corin replied. “My family’s healer gave it to me before I embarked on the hunt. I hadn’t thought of it before—it wouldn’t do much good if Beckla were dead. But if she’s only injured …”

  Hope surged in Artek’s heart. “Give me that,” he snapped, snatching the vial from Corin’s hand. Kneeling beside Beckla, he unstopped the cork and carefully poured the purple potion into her mouth. For an agonizing moment nothing happened. Then the wizard swallowed and coughed, her chest heaving as she drew in a ragged breath. Her eyes flew open, and she sat bolt upright.