Escape from Undermountain

by Mark Anthony

  The madman then began to speak in a chantlike voice. His tale was difficult to follow, for he spoke in disjointed sentences, and often interrupted himself with broken laughter or moaning sobs. From what Artek could piece together, the man’s name was Solthar, and he had been a merchant of some sort. While Solthar was traveling, a sudden storm had come upon his caravan. Seeking shelter, he and the rest of the party had entered a cave—only to find themselves in this forest. They had searched for a means of escape, but to no avail.

  “Once you find yourself in Wyllowwood, there is no escape,” Solthar said. “Unless you throw yourself in the icy river. Some did. Yes, some did, and they drowned. I cannot will myself to follow them. Soon perhaps. Soon. But not yet!”

  “But what about the rest of your traveling companions, Solthar?” Artek asked intently. “Did they all cast themselves into the river?”

  Solthar shook his shaggy head. “Oh, no. The Hunt took most of them. The Hunters will take you, too. Into the jaws of the beast they’ll throw you. And then—snap!” He clamped his hands together, like a mouth closing, then trembled in fear.

  After this, Solthar spoke only in unintelligible fragments. They had learned all they could from the mad merchant. Knowing there was no use in keeping him, Artek told Solthar he could go. The madman shot them one last queer look, then scurried away, disappearing into the undergrowth.

  Artek rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It sounds like a gate, doesn’t it?” he asked. “The cave that Solthar and the others stumbled through.”

  Beckla gave a vague shrug. “Maybe. It’s hard to say from his tale alone.”

  Yet, for some reason, Artek was sure. Perhaps it was thief’s instinct. “I think we should at least check it out. If we can find the cave, that is.”

  He gazed expectantly at Beckla. Finally she sighed and nodded. “All right. If it is a gate, my magic should be able to home in on it. But if it isn’t, we’ll be wandering in circles, you know.”

  Beckla spoke in the language of magic, and once again her hand glowed with a faint blue light. For a moment she shut her eyes, letting her hand float before her. It drifted slowly toward the right. “This way,” she said, walking off into the forest.

  She ran headlong into a tree. “Ouch!”

  “Maybe you should consider opening your eyes first,” Artek suggested.

  “Really, Ar’talen?” she replied acidly. “Why, you’re absolutely brilliant.” The wizard opened her eyes and, muttering under her breath, marched onward—this time avoiding the trees in their path.

  The sun above had sunk only a short way more in the sky when the trees thinned, and they found themselves on the edge of a glade. The short hairs on the back of Artek’s hands and neck prickled. There was danger here. With a quick gesture he brought the others to a halt. Cautiously, he peered through a tangle of branches into the glade beyond.

  In the center, next to a small lake, was a compound of low buildings ringed by a wall of ruddy stone. Soaring above the other structures was a great dome painted bright crimson. Dark smoke rose from within the compound, and the reek of charred meat drifted in the air. It was an evil smell. Artek realized this place could only be the temple of which Solthar had spoken in dread.

  Artek watched men enter from the opposite side of the glade. They wore crimson cloaks and rode toward the temple on black horses. They passed through an archway in the wall and vanished within.

  “I think we would do well to circle around this place,” Artek whispered to the others.

  Plunging back into the depths of the forest, they gave the temple a wide berth. The trees drew nearer together, and the undergrowth thickened. Cruel thorns tore at their clothes and scratched their skin. Finally, because his stony hide was immune to the thorns, Guss was forced to lead the way, hacking out a path with his sharp onyx talons. Sweating and bleeding, the humans followed behind. Only Muragh was not bothered by the journey, tucked as he was in Beckla’s pack, and his constant chattering was almost as tortuous as the march. Just when Artek was ready to give up in exhaustion and turn back, the trees came to an abrupt end. Before them rose a high wall of jagged rock. They had reached the edge of the vast cavern. In the wall was a narrow gap.

  Beckla’s hand glowed bright blue as she stretched it out toward the opening. She nodded gravely. “There’s magic in there, all right.”

  Keeping together in a tight knot, they entered the mouth of the cave. The floor was dry and sandy, and the walls oddly smooth, as if scoured and polished by some ceaseless force over long years. They rounded a sharp bend and found themselves at the end of the narrow passage, which opened into a landscape beyond.

  It was a desert. The golden sun beat down upon wave after wave of sand. Dunes stretched like a great yellow ocean to a distant horizon. A parched, gritty wind blew into the fissure, chafing their skin even as it did the stone walls. Artek shook his head in awe and confusion. As far as he knew, the closest desert to Waterdeep was hundreds upon hundreds of leagues away. Wherever this place was, it was nowhere near the city.

  Beckla raised her glowing hand. A matching blue aura glimmered across the opening before them, almost like a thin pane of glass. “I think I understand now,” Beckla said in amazement. She turned to the others. “This opening is a gate. And see? The sky here has the same yellowish tinge as the sky above the forest.”

  Artek frowned in puzzlement. “But what does it mean?”

  “I know it’s hard, but do try not to be so dense, Ar’talen,” Beckla said with a scowl. “Don’t you see? The entire roof of the cavern is a gate. The gate opens onto this desert. That’s how the forest gets the light it needs to survive so far below ground. I suppose the necessary water comes from the river and the lake.”

  Guss scratched his head. “So when I cracked my skull on the sky, that was really the cavern roof?”

  Beckla nodded in agreement. “That’s right.”

  “Wait a minute,” Artek protested. “This doesn’t make any sense. If the entire sky is a gate that lets through sunlight, why didn’t Guss simply fly through into the desert beyond?”

  The wizard tapped her cheek with a finger. “I think I know the answer to that,” she said finally. “Guss, why don’t you try to step through the gate here?”

  “Oh, after you,” the gargoyle said hurriedly.

  Beckla sighed in exasperation. “This is just a test, Guss. You don’t have to be polite, you know.”

  “Oh,” the gargoyle said sheepishly. He shrugged his massive shoulders, then stepped through the gap. At least, he tried to step through. There was a blue flash, and he was roughly thrown backward into the others.

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Beckla said glumly.

  “What?” Artek grunted. “That I would get crushed by a gargoyle?”

  “Sorry!” Guss apologized, leaping off Artek and helping him to his feet.

  “Not you, Ar’talen,” Beckla said in annoyance. “The gate. It obviously works in only one direction. People—and sunlight—can pass through to the forest. But they can’t go back out. Just like Solthar said.”

  Artek felt his hopes evaporate like water in the hot desert sun. “It doesn’t really matter. This gate couldn’t have helped me. Or Corin. Wherever this desert is, it’s certainly more than a day’s journey back to Waterdeep. And less than a day is all both of us have to get back.” He laid a big hand on Beckla’s shoulder. “But this could have given you a way out of Undermountain. I’m sorry.”

  For a moment her brown eyes were troubled, then she shook off his hand. “I’ll survive.”

  Leaving the fissure, they returned to the edge of the forest. However, Artek had no idea where they should try to go. He was out of ideas.

  “Shall I lead the way this time?” Corin asked. Before anyone could answer, he drew his rapier and began hacking at the tangle of branches and vines before them. However, the thin blade merely bounced off the dense foliage. It flew from the nobleman’s grip and landed quivering in the ground directly between Art
ek’s legs.

  Corin’s face blanched. Artek gripped the rapier and jerked it out of the ground. He did not have the time to deal with Corin’s foolishness. His blood began to boil. He couldn’t suppress his orcish rage.

  “I could try again,” Corin said hopefully, reaching for his rapier.

  Artek did not hand the blade to him. “No, Corin,” he growled. “Don’t try again. In fact, don’t try anything again.” Baring his pointed teeth, he advanced on the startled lord. “Don’t do anything, don’t say anything—don’t even think anything. Understand?”

  “But I—”

  Artek interrupted him. “No buts, Corin,” he snarled viciously. “You’ve landed us in enough trouble already. Escaping is going to be hard enough without you getting us into worse straits with your antics. Haven’t you gotten it though your silly noble head yet that you’re—”

  Despite his anger, Artek clamped his mouth shut on the hurtful words he’d nearly uttered. It was too late. The damage had been done. Corin gazed at him with wounded eyes.

  “That I’m what?” the nobleman asked quietly. “Go ahead, Ar’talen. You can say it. After all, I’ve heard it often enough.” Artek gazed at him in silence, while the others looked on in concern. Corin shook his head ruefully. “Fine, then. I’ll say it myself. I’m worthless. That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it? That I’m stupid, and soft, and utterly worthless.”

  A look of defiance colored his pale visage. “Well, maybe you’re right,” he went on bitterly. “Maybe I am worthless. My father certainly would have agreed with you. Then again, you don’t know me any better than he did. You don’t know what my life has been like.” He clenched his hand into a fist. “You don’t know the first thing about me!”

  Corin drew a deep breath, forcing his fingers to unclench. A fey light crept into his blue eyes. “Well,” he said calmly, “I won’t trouble you any further. I’m sure you’ll fare far better without my presence to hinder you. I wish you all the best of luck. Good-bye.”

  With that, the young lord plucked the rapier from Artek’s surprised hand, then turned and plunged into the forest. Artek started to lunge after him, but a hand on his shoulder halted him. It was Beckla.

  “Let him go,” the wizard said softly. “Give him a little time to himself.”

  Artek glared at her. “A little time to get himself killed, you mean? In case you’d forgotten, that foolish young noble is the reason I’m here in the first place! He’ll owe me big when we finally get out of here.”

  Beckla thrust her hands on her hips, her brown eyes flashing with fire. “And in case you’d forgotten, it’s because of your idiotic talk that he’s run off into the forest.”

  Artek opened his mouth, but he had no reply to her stinging words. She was right.

  “Well, you’ve botched things up rather nicely,” Muragh said.

  “Don’t worry,” Guss said, his gruff voice reassuring. “We won’t let him get too far ahead.”

  Artek nodded silently. He moved a short distance from the others to think. Why had he said those harsh things to Corin? They sounded exactly like the sort of things his father had said to him when he was just a child. Arturg had been a hard teacher, and it had seemed Artek’s thieving skills had never lived up to his father’s expectations. Even when he had grown into a man, and his abilities had far surpassed those of his father, Arturg’s voice had still echoed stingingly in his mind. As a child, Artek had vowed never to speak cruelly to another as Arturg had to him. Yet he had broken that vow with Corin, hadn’t he? Like father, like son. Arturg would be proud of you, he told himself bitterly. He hung his head in shame.

  In the distance, an eerie sound echoed through the forest. Artek looked up. The sound came again—high, clear, and menacing. It sounded like the call of a hunting horn.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked the others. By their fearful expressions, they had. Dread growing, Artek gazed into the trees where the nobleman had disappeared. The sound of the horn had come from the same direction. “Corin.”

  With a cry, Artek leapt forward and ran swiftly through the entangling forest. Beckla and Guss followed him as quickly as they could manage, but Artek moved with the strength and grace of a wild animal, ducking beneath low branches and leaping over fallen tree trunks. He soon outpaced the others. His nostrils flared as they caught a familiar, rusty scent—blood. He pushed through a thick curtain of vines, then skidded to a halt.

  It was Solthar. A long spear, decorated with crimson feathers, had pierced his chest, pinning his body to the trunk of a tall tree. His feet dangled limply a foot above the ground, and his head lolled forward, staring with blank eyes. He was dead.

  The vines rustled and parted as Guss and Beckla caught up with Artek. Both gaped in shock when they saw Solthar dangling from the tree.

  “He was right,” Beckla said. “The Hunt did find him in the end.”

  Something in the leaf litter caught Artek’s eye. He bent down and picked it up. It was a small square of grimy silk. He swore under his breath.

  “This is Corin’s handkerchief,” he said grimly. He looked up at the suspended body of the madman. “The hunters Solthar talked about must have come upon Corin. The old man must have actually tried to help him.”

  “I don’t think it worked,” Muragh said.

  Artek dug in the pocket of his breeches and pulled out a small blue stone—the heart jewel he had used to find the lost lord in the lair of the Outcasts. Blue light pulsed rapidly in the center of the crystal. Corin was still alive, but he was terrified.

  “Come on!” Artek growled. “We have to find Corin.”

  Artek dashed through the forest again, running in the direction in which the gem’s light was strongest. As he ran, he tried to recall what Solthar had said about these strange Hunters. “Their god is a beast, and a master of beasts. And beasts we are to him. His eyes. Too bright, his eyes. They burn as he crushes them in his jaws.” Artek was filled with a deep sense of foreboding. He tightened his grip on the jewel. Instinct burned in his brain, urging him to hurry.

  Without warning, the trees gave way to grass. Artek stumbled to a halt, chest heaving. He blinked and realized that once again he stood on the edge of the large clearing by the lake. In the distance lay the walled temple, its crimson dome gleaming like blood. A moment later, Beckla and Guss crashed out of the underbrush to stand beside him. As one, they stared in horror at the scene before them.

  Far across the green field, a gangly form ran desperately while three crimson-cloaked men on dark horses rode swiftly behind. It was Corin. The lord stumbled and fell sprawling on the grass. The horses leapt over him, then circled around as their riders laughed. Corin lurched to his feet and stumbled on. The hunters blew their horns and spurred their mounts after him. The bastards, Artek thought with a snarl. They were toying with the nobleman.

  Artek lunged into a run, racing across the field. He was far too slow. He was less than halfway there when the hunters tired of their game. One scooped up Corin, flinging the lord over his saddle, and the three riders rode through the archway in the temple’s wall, disappearing inside. There was a distant but audible boom! as an iron door shut, sealing the opening. Artek stumbled and fell to the ground, utterly exhausted.

  Corin was alive, but Artek had lost him.

  Jaws of the Wolf

  It was going to be just another job.

  Artek had pulled off dozens of capers like it—more than he could count. This would not be the easiest stronghold he had ever broken into, but he did not think it would be the hardest. There was only one difference. It was not gold he planned to steal, nor jewels, nor pearls. This time he was going to steal a nobleman.

  “We’re going with you,” Beckla said grimly, crossing her arms over her flowing shirt and gray vest.

  Behind her, in the thicket in which they had hidden themselves, Guss nodded solemnly. Muragh bounced up and down in the gargoyle’s clawed hands to signal his agreement.

  “It’s my fault he was
captured,” Artek growled. “Don’t you see? It’s because of my blasted orcish side that he’s in trouble. So it’s up to my other side to get him out.” He turned his back on the others, not wanting them to see the pain that twisted his face. Why did he always have to war against himself like this? Even as he posed the question, he knew the answer. When he suppressed the orcish part of him, he became an overly idealistic fool, someone who stupidly trusted that others would believe his innocence without proof of his guilt. Yet when he allowed the orc in him to reign free, he was brutish and violent—a cretin who drove a young man to danger with his insensitive words. Fool or brute, he could be one or the other. But he could never be whole.

  Damn you, Artek, he cursed inwardly. Damn you, Arturg, and Arthaug before you. Yes, damn us all to the Abyss. The whole wretched family. I am what you made me, and I hate you for it.

  “I know this seems horribly rude,” Guss said in a serious but polite tone, “but you’ll have to stop us from coming with you.”

  Artek let out an animalistic snarl. He did not have time for this! Hadn’t they heard the ominous words of the madman? He glanced at the heart jewel; blue light still pulsed rapidly in the center, but that could change at any second.

  “Suit yourself,” Artek growled finally. “But don’t get in my way. The dark gods know I can’t say what will happen if you do.” Artek then began to move through the trees, keeping to the shadowed edge of the clearing as he circled around the temple. Beckla and Guss followed quickly after him.

  Finally, they reached the shore of the lake. Here the trees drew near to the temple—no more than thirty paces of grass lay between woods and walls. The gate was on the far side of the compound, and there were no watchtowers on this side. It seemed the priests were confident within their walled stronghold and that was well. Confidence led to conceit, which in turn led to carelessness.

  Artek squatted, leather creaking, and considered the best way to gain entrance to the temple.

  “I could fly over the walls,” Guss suggested, sensing his train of thought.