by Mark Anthony
“The spider!” she screamed.
Artek gripped her shoulders tightly, looking her directly in the eyes. “It’s all right, Beckla. It’s over. We’re safe now.”
For a moment she continued to stare in terror, then she sighed deeply and nodded, indicating she understood. She winced abruptly and lifted a hand to her brow.
“My head hurts,” she groaned.
“Spider venom hangover,” Artek said with a wry grin. “It will pass.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” she grumbled petulantly.
The complaint, more than anything, assured Artek that the wizard was indeed well. “I think you had better meet our new friend, Beckla,” he said. “Something tells me you’re going to find him very interesting.”
“Hello, wizard!” Muragh exclaimed. The yellowed skull hopped up and down while Beckla gawked in astonishment.
Though it took far more words than Artek considered necessary, especially given their lack of time, they finally managed to glean the whole of Muragh’s story. What was more, the skull happily provided even more details this time, and Artek read much between the lines. In life, Muragh had been a priest of Lathander—and at least as loquacious as he was now. He relentlessly pestered an evil mage to give up his dark ways, and the mage secretly cast a magical curse on Muragh. Shortly thereafter, Muragh’s loose tongue landed him in a bar fight in which he received a knife in the heart, and his body was tossed into a dark alley. Though dead, Muragh found that he could still think and talk—apparently thanks to the evil mage’s curse. However, if the mage thought that undeath would drive Muragh mad, he had erred.
After decomposing for a week or so, Muragh was found by a drunken soldier. Of course, soldiers are a superstitious lot. This particular fellow—thinking the talking corpse to be a fiend sent to torment him for his sins—cut off Muragh’s head and tossed it into Waterdeep Harbor. There, as Muragh so graphically described, the fish stripped the flesh from his skull. Eventually, he was found by the mermen who dwell in the deep waters of the harbor. Annoyed with his constant prattling, they took the skull to Waterdeep’s City Watch, where Muragh fell into the hands of the duty-wizard.
For a time the wizard kept Muragh, using him as a watch-skull to protect his library. However, when thieves broke into the wizard’s tower, they stole Muragh, thinking him to be a thing of value. That was a mistake. They soon found that no one would pay good gold for a chatterbox skull, and tossed Muragh into the sewers.
In time, the waters flowing beneath the city carried Muragh into Undermountain, and the skull had rattled around Halaster’s labyrinth ever since. Occasionally, wandering creatures picked him up out of curiosity and carried him for a time, only to drop him before long in some new place. Eventually, he came into the possession of someone named Muiral. Though Muragh was extremely vague on this point, it seemed that Muiral grew weary of his incessant talking and locked him in this chamber. Here he had dwelled alone—until Artek and Corin discovered him.
“I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to have company again!” Muragh exclaimed. Though his ivory cranium was nearly devoid of flesh, a few wisps of rotted hair still fluttered atop his crown. “Moldy stone walls don’t make for great conversation partners, and even I get tired of hearing my own voice after a dozen years.”
“There’s a surprise,” Artek murmured wryly.
“So now you know what I’m doing down here,” the skull finished. “What about you three?”
After a moment’s thought, Artek decided that it could do little harm to tell Muragh their tale. If the skull had truly dwelled for so long in Undermountain, perhaps he would know something of use. Artek quickly explained all that had happened, and ended by describing his plan to find a gate out.
“Absolutely amazing,” Muragh exclaimed.
“Our story?” Artek asked.
“No. Your plan. It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Artek’s eyes narrowed at this insult. “And I suppose you could come up with a better idea?”
“Of course,” Muragh replied smartly. “A Thayan rock slug could come up with a better plan than that.”
Artek crossed his arms, fixing the skull with a dubious look. “I’m waiting.”
Muragh did not need to be asked twice to talk. “Finding a gate out of here on your own is about as likely as growing wings and flying.” Muragh cackled with laughter at this, teeth clacking. “Not that there aren’t gates that lead out of Undermountain—there are. But you could hardly expect Halaster to simply leave them sitting around in plain sight. He was mad, not stupid. The only ones who might be able to tell you where you could find a gate out are the old wizard’s apprentices. And that means you have to find one of the Seven first.”
The three gathered closer, listening as Muragh told of Halaster’s seven apprentices. Nearly a thousand years ago, the wizard forsook his tower on the slopes of Mount Waterdeep and descended into the vast labyrinth he had created below. When he did not return from Undermountain, the Seven—powerful mages in their own right—boldly ventured into the dark depths in search of him. There they found magical tricks and deadly obstacles, and the deeper they went, the more difficult grew the riddles, the more perilous became the traps. The Seven soon realized that this was a test set for them by their master. Believing that whoever reached Halaster first would become his most favored—and thus heir to his most powerful magic—the Seven strove against each other. Each tried to go deeper than the rest and be the first to find their mysterious master.
Whether or not the apprentices ever succeeded in finding Halaster, no one knew. Only one of the Seven ever returned from Undermountain: Jhesiyra Kestellharp, who became the Magister of Myth Drannor, an ancient kingdom whose ruins lay far to the East, near the realm of Cormyr. The other six apprentices remained in Undermountain, and whether they still searched, granted unnaturally long life by their magic, the histories did not tell.
“It sounds as if these apprentices have the power to help us, all right,” Beckla said when Muragh had finished his tale.
“If any of them are still alive,” Artek added.
“Muragh, old boy,” Corin said, addressing the skull as one might a servant. “You seem to know a great deal about this place. Can you take us to one of the Seven?”
“As a matter of fact, I can,” the skull replied glibly. “But I won’t.”
Only by great force of will did Artek restrain himself from grabbing the insolent skull and heaving it against one of the stone walls. “Are you playing games with us, Muragh?” he said.
“No, no!” the skull said hastily. “Believe me, you really don’t want to meet Muiral.”
Muiral? Wasn’t that the person who had locked Muragh in this room? Artek picked up the skull and glared into its empty eye sockets. “Let me get this straight,” he said angrily. “You managed to annoy this Muiral with your chattering, and now you’re afraid to take us to him because you think he will do something to hurt you. Am I right?”
Muragh worked his mandible vigorously, but Artek held the skull tight. “You don’t understand,” Muragh whined fearfully. “Muiral won’t just hurt me. He’ll hurt you, too. Don’t you see? He’s the one who created the wraith spiders. And I guarantee you that there are more of them than you encountered in that chamber. Muiral loves spiders. He’s part spider himself. I don’t know how he did it, but he fused himself onto the body of a giant spider. He won’t help you.” Muragh shook pitifully in Artek’s hands. “Please don’t take me to Muiral. Please!”
Beckla bit her lower lip. “I think he’s telling the truth, Artek.”
“Have pity on the poor chap, Ar’talen,” Corin added worriedly. “He’s been through a great deal.”
Artek glowered at the skull. At last he sighed in exasperation. “All right, I believe you, Muragh. We won’t go looking for Muiral. The truth is, I really don’t care to face any more of those wraith spiders.” He shook his head. “But if we can’t go to Muiral for help, where are we goin
g to find another one of Halaster’s apprentices?”
“Actually, I have an idea,” Muragh said cheerfully. The skull leapt from Artek’s hands, fell to the floor, and rolled toward the doorway. “Well, don’t just stand there,” he said in annoyance. “Open the door. In case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t have hands.”
The three exchanged dubious looks. At last Artek shrugged. Following a talking skull seemed an unlikely way to escape from this maze, but he supposed they had little choice. He unlocked the door, then scooped Muragh into his arms as they headed out into the corridor.
“We need to be very careful here,” Muragh said in a hollow whisper. “Right now we’re on the edge of Muiral’s Gauntlet.”
“Muiral’s Gauntlet?” Artek asked softly.
“Is there an echo in here?” Muragh replied acidly. “Yes, Muiral’s Gauntlet. The room where you encountered the wraith spiders is part of it, but only a small part, and not the worst. Not by far.” The skull whistled sadly through his teeth. “Muiral’s quite mad, of course. Searching for his master and failing addled his brain. What little sanity he still possessed after that was destroyed when he grafted himself onto that giant spider’s body. These days his only pleasure comes from toying with the victims he gates down from the surface. He sends them into his Gauntlet and watches to see how far they can get through the maze of dangers he’s created.”
“Let me guess,” Beckla said uncomfortably. “No one ever makes it out of Muiral’s Gauntlet alive.”
Muragh grinned, despite his lack of flesh. “Well, Muiral certainly wouldn’t think it very much fun if they did.”
“So where are we going, if not into the Gauntlet?” Artek asked nervously.
“This way.” The skull tugged at Artek’s hands, leading him toward the mouth of a side tunnel. “Before I ended up here, I got caught inside a gelatinous cube. Not a fun experience, by the way—very cold and slimy. It was the cube that brought me into Muiral’s Gauntlet. I remember the path by which it slithered here. And I recall seeing something very interesting along the way.”
Artek glanced sharply at the skull. “Something interesting? What is it?”
“You’ll see,” Muragh replied mysteriously.
After this the skull became unusually reticent. Artek decided not to press for more answers, but rather to enjoy the quiet. His ears were ringing from Muragh’s previous chatter. He walked stealthily down the narrow passageway, following the tugs and jerks of the skull in his hands, as Beckla and Corin came behind. Unfortunately, after the acid pit and the fire in the spider room, the wizard’s staff was a lost cause. However, it seemed she could make do without it, for a wisp of blue magelight danced on her outstretched hand, lighting the way for the group.
Guided by Muragh’s tugging, they traveled through a tortuous series of dank corridors and murky chambers. Before long Artek lost all sense of direction. At first, here and there, they encountered glowing wisps of green webs dangling from the ceiling, and from time to time they caught a whiff of the same evil scent that had permeated the wraith spider lair. However, as they progressed, they soon left all traces of the eerie webs and spiders behind. Though still dark and stifling, the air here was no longer so oppressive and menacing. The three humans found themselves breathing a little easier. It seemed Muragh knew what he was doing.
Artek glanced down at the tattoo on his arm. The moon had passed the arrow now. In the world above, night had fallen. Not that it really mattered—it was always night down here.
“How much farther, Muragh?” Artek asked quietly.
“We’re close now,” the skull piped up brightly. “And you can quit whispering, you know. We left Muiral’s territory behind ages ago.”
“Maybe I like whispering,” Artek replied.
“Suit yourself,” Muragh sniffed.
Artek started to clench his hands. How much force would it take to shatter an old skull, he wondered?
“Hey, stop that!” Muragh complained. “You’re giving me a headache!”
By force of will, Artek managed to keep his fingers from squeezing. “Sorry,” he grumbled.
“I’m touched by your sincerity,” the skull quipped sarcastically. “Now turn left here.”
They passed through an archway and found themselves descending a narrow spiral staircase. The steps were slick and treacherous. Several cracked beneath Artek’s boots, and one gave way completely when Corin trod upon it. If not for Beckla’s quick hand pulling him back, the nobleman would have crashed into Artek, and both would have gone tumbling breakneck down the steep staircase. The steps seemed without end as they delved deeper into the darkness.
Finally the staircase stopped, and they stepped through an opening into a passageway so broad that it was not so much a corridor as an avenue. A line of basalt columns ran down the center of the hall, supporting the arched ceiling high above. The columns were skillfully carved into the shapes of trees, conjuring the illusion of walking down a sylvan boulevard under the shadows of dusk.
Artek let out a low whistle, turning his head to try to take in the grandeur of the subterranean road. “I’ll give Halaster one thing—he knew how to think big.”
“Actually, Halaster didn’t build this passage,” Muragh said. “It’s even older than the mad wizard. This road was built by dwarves of the clan Melairkyn. In ancient days, they constructed an entire city here, called Underhall, far beneath the surface.”
“What happened to them?” Beckla murmured in awe.
“No one knows for certain,” Muragh replied. “They disappeared centuries before Halaster stumbled onto their delvings in the course of his excavations. Most likely they were slain by the duergar—dark dwarves who skulked in these halls until Halaster showed up. He decided he wanted Underhall for himself. Not being keen on sharing, Halaster eradicated the duergar like so many rats. After that, Underhall became part of Undermountain proper.”
Artek took a deep breath. The weight of years hung heavily on this place. He almost could hear the ghostly ring of hammers, drifting in the air like echoes from the past.
“Is this what you wanted to show us, Muragh?” he asked.
“No, over there,” the skull said, clacking his jaw in the direction of one of the stone columns.
Artek and the others approached the column. Scratched into the dark stone were several lines of strange, flowing writing. Beneath the writing was an arrow that pointed down the ancient road. The words looked somehow familiar, but Artek could not make them out. Whatever it was, it wasn’t written in the common tongue. He shook his head, his annoyance growing.
“Muragh,” he warned, “please don’t tell me that you brought us all this way just to look at thousand-year-old markings.”
“What’s wrong with you, Ar’talen?” Muragh complained. “Can’t you read what it says?”
“No, I can’t,” Artek snapped. He glanced questioningly at Beckla.
“Don’t look at me,” the wizard told him. “I can’t read it either. Though I’m willing to bet it’s a naughty poem,” she added with a disgusted glance at the skull.
“Excuse me,” Corin said suddenly, pushing past them to get a closer look at the column. He peered at the words with his blue eyes, then clapped his hands excitedly. “Oh, this is absolutely fascinating!”
Artek and Beckla stared in shock at the nobleman.
“You can read this, Corin?” Artek asked.
“Of course,” Corin replied smoothly, as if it were a silly question. “It’s written in Thorass.”
“Thorass?”
“That’s right,” the nobleman said. “Thorass, also known as Auld Common. It’s the tongue our ancestors spoke long ago, and from which the current common tongue is derived. I learned to read it as a child, studying the old Silvertor family history. It goes back centuries, you know. In fact, it all started when—”
“I’m sure your family’s story is enthralling, Corin,” Artek interrupted. “But we’re in a bit of a hurry. Do you think you could just tell us
what this says?”
Corin studied the words a moment more, then nodded to himself. “ ‘On this, the fiftieth day of our search for our master, came we to this place,’ ” he translated.
“That’s it?” Artek asked.
“That’s it,” Corin confirmed. “Oh, except for this.” He pointed to the last two lines of writing. “The message is signed, Talastria and Orannon.”
“And who are they?” Beckla wondered.
Artek made a leap of intuition. “I think I know,” he said. “The message says that they came here in search of their master. Who could that be, except for Halaster himself? So Talastria and Orannon were two of his apprentices.”
“Whew!” Muragh groaned. “I thought you were never going to get it!”
“You could have just told us, you know,” Artek noted caustically.
“What? And spoil all your fun?”
Artek bit his tongue. It wasn’t worth a reply. The important thing was that they had found the ancient trail of two of Halaster’s apprentices.
“Come on,” Artek said. “This arrow must indicate the direction the apprentices were traveling in. If we follow, we may find what became of them—and maybe a way out, too.”
Together, they hurried down the underground avenue in the direction the arrow had indicated. Clouds of thick dust settled sluggishly in their wake. Their shadows, conjured by Beckla’s pale magelight, rippled across the passage’s walls like weird giants from an ancient nightmare. Artek tried not to look at them—this was an eerie place. In silence they continued on as countless tree-columns slipped by.
It was Beckla who saw the words scratched into the wall beside a keyhole-shaped archway. The stones of the arch itself were oddly scorched and cracked.
“ ‘It took us many days to destroy the fire elementals that barred this door,’ ” Corin translated slowly. “But now the way is clear, and our search continues, on this the fifty-sixth day of our quest.’ ”