Escape from Undermountain

by Mark Anthony

  Artek scratched the dark stubble on his chin. He was still skeptical that the goddess Mystra had truly spoken to Beckla. But even if the wizard was wrong about the ring, it couldn’t hurt to make a wish on it. And if she was right …

  He glanced at the silversanns at the far end of the chamber. The glowing creatures still slithered and undulated in ecstasy, completely oblivious to their ssspecimens.

  Artek turned back to the others. Then he had it. “The last apprentice!” he said, snapping his fingers. “The ring can’t transport us out of Undermountain. But it can take us to the last of Halaster’s apprentices! It’s our only hope.”

  Beckla arched a single eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t believe that this is really a wishing ring. Have you changed your mind so soon?”

  He glared darkly at her. “You’re not making this faith thing any easier, you know. How will the ring work if we don’t even know who or where the apprentice is?”

  Beckla smiled smugly. “The ring knows.”

  “All right, we’ll give it a try,” he growled. “Beckla, you put on the ring. Now, let’s all gather close so—”

  His words were cut short as the chamber’s iron door burst open with a thunderous boom! It flew through the air and struck one of the silversanns, crushing the hapless creature against a stone wall. For a moment, its antennae twitched jerkily, then went still.

  A half-dozen steely forms lumbered through the gaping doorway, serrated claws waving menacingly.

  “SQUCH! WRONG!” one of the thanatars droned angrily.

  “PRISONERS! OURS!” intoned another.

  Razor-sharp tails swiping wickedly, the thanatars charged the silversanns. Apparently, the lobster-creatures had decided they did not care for Squch’s decision concerning Artek and the others. The silversanns screeched in terror, waving their feelers wildly as they tried to slither out of the reach of the larger mechanicals. Several were too slow, and the thanatars caught them in their pincers and squeezed, cleaving their sinuous, metallic bodies in two. The halves fell to the floor, twitching feebly. The thanatars droned in what seemed like satisfaction. Then one of the lobster-creatures caught sight of the adventurers.

  “PRISONERS!” it droned. “GET!”

  The thanatars lunged forward, and the five companions gaped in horror.

  “Now, Beckla!” Artek cried.

  Jamming the ring on a finger of her left hand, the wizard opened her mouth. At first nothing came out but a fearful croak. She took a deep breath, then tried again. This time, faint words escaped her lips.

  “I wish … I wish we were in the lair of the last of Halaster’s apprentices,” she gasped.

  The thanatars opened their jagged pincers, ready to snatch up the prisoners. But a sudden, brilliant flash of azure light sundered space. In an instant, the stony chamber, the writhing silversanns, and the violent thanatars vanished. For a single moment, humans, gargoyle, and skull were neither here nor there. Then came another blinding flash, and a new reality abruptly coalesced around them.

  Fatal Game

  “Now where are we?” Beckla asked in amazement.

  “Near the end of our journey,” Artek answered solemnly.

  They stood beneath a high stone archway. Behind them, a corridor stretched into endless shadow. Before them lay their goal—the lair of the last apprentice still in Undermountain.

  It was glorious. Walls of pale marble flecked with gold soared upward in vault after dizzying vault. An intricate mosaic adorned the lofty ceiling, depicting a fantastic sky: radiant day shone brilliantly upon one side, while night glittered with jewel-like stars upon the other. Light streamed down from the mosaic above—part of it sun-gold, part moon-pearl—refracting off the polished walls. It filled the chamber with shimmering luminescence.

  In keeping with the ceiling, the chamber’s expansive floor was a patchwork of marble squares, alternating in a checked pattern between white-gold noon and onyx midnight. Each of the squares was perhaps three paces across, and the floor was bordered on all sides by a swath of mottled green marble. On the far side of the hall, set into a shallow nave, was a door of gold. Instinct told Artek that, for good or for ill, they would find the last apprentice beyond it.

  Tucked in the crook of Artek’s arm, Muragh let out a reedy whistle. “I’ll say one thing,” the skull murmured in awe. “Whoever this apprentice is, he certainly has a flair for decorating.”

  Over the centuries, no visible signs of age or decay had touched the grand hall, which seemed to indicate that it had not been abandoned. This, in addition to the sheer beauty of the chamber, boded well for their chances. Or at least, so it seemed to Artek. Together they conferred on a course of action—all except for Corin.

  “I’ll just try to stay out of your way,” the lord said meekly. He huddled just inside the stone archway, his back to the wall, staring down at his scuffed shoes. Artek sighed quietly, but he reminded himself that there was nothing he could do.

  They had come here to seek the help of Halaster’s apprentice, so it seemed best to approach the wizard’s door directly, without stealth. However, so as not to alarm the apprentice, they decided Artek should go alone at first. Then he would signal the others when he deemed it appropriate for them to follow.

  “Wish me luck,” he said nervously.

  The others all did so—except for Corin. Taking a deep breath, Artek turned to stride boldly toward the golden door across the room. As he left behind the strip of mottled green marble where the others were gathered, his boot stepped first upon a square of black. He took another step forward, onto a square of white.

  Then he ran face first into some sort of a wall.

  Like sunlight glancing off a clear window, a plane of white radiance flashed momentarily in front of him. With a cry of pain he stumbled backward, onto the black square.

  “What in the Abyss was that?” he muttered in confusion, rubbing his throbbing nose. Whatever it was, it had hurt.

  Beckla stood up, a curious frown on her broad face. “It looked like a magical barrier blocked your way,” she said.

  Artek tried moving onto the white square to his left. Once again a thin plane of white energy sprang into existence before him, blocking the way. The same thing happened when he tried to move to his right. Knowing what to expect, he did not smash his face against the magical barriers. Perplexed, he turned around and stepped back onto the swath of green marble that bordered the floor.

  “Something very strange is going on here,” he grumbled in annoyance.

  Beckla’s eyes suddenly went wide with surprise, and Guss let out a low growl of shock.

  “You aren’t kidding,” Muragh said with a low whistle.

  Artek turned back around, and an oath escaped his lips. As he watched, something appeared out of thin air on the far side of the room. Images flickered into existence, wavered like desert mirages, then grew solid. No, not solid, for Artek could still see dimly through their ghostly forms. They stood in two straight lines upon the two farthest rows of black and white squares, one creature per square, sixteen in all.

  The eight in the first rank looked to be dwarven soldiers of some sort: long-bearded, horn-helmed, mail-clad, and bearing shimmering half-moon axes. Standing behind them in the rear row—one to each side—were two tusked, long-armed ogres; two silvery knights mounted upon black steeds and bearing gleaming lances; and a pair of stern-faced sorcerers in pointed hats. These six flanked two tall, imposing figures in the center of the back row. Flowing mantles fell from wide shoulders; glimmering crowns rested upon high brows; pale eyes gazed forward in steely authority. Proud they were, and cruel: a king and a queen.

  With terrible certainty, Artek knew it was going to be no easy task getting to the gold door across the room. Even if he could find a way to avoid the glowing magical barriers between white and black squares, he now had an eerie army to contend with. At the moment, the ethereal figures stood motionless, gazing forward with impassive, unblinking eyes. Yet Artek suspected this would rapi
dly change if he drew near.

  He fixed Beckla with a piercing look. “You had to wish us to the apprentice’s lair, rather than to the apprentice himself.”

  She shrugged her shoulders sheepishly. “Oops.”

  Artek let out a groan of exasperation. “How did I know you were going to say that?”

  Beckla drew her eyebrows together in a scowl. “Look, Ar’talen. I was a little pressed for time. The thanatars were about to chop us to bits, if you recall. We really didn’t have the opportunity to debate whether I should wish for this or that. We’re lucky we made it out of there at all.” She gestured toward the phantasmal army. “I think it would be more productive if we all directed our energy to the problem at hand.”

  The wizard was right, but Artek shot her a nasty look all the same, just to let her know he was not happy. He crossed his thick arms across his black leather jerkin and studied the scene before him with dark eyes. “It’s like some game the apprentice has prepared for us,” he murmured to himself.

  To his surprise, someone answered him. “It’s not just some game,” said a quiet voice. “It’s lanceboard.”

  Artek turned around. It was Corin. The young lord gazed with his clear blue eyes at the eerie figures across the room. “Don’t you see?” Corin went on timidly. “With those black and white checks, the entire floor serves as the playing board. And those figures over there are the opponent’s playing pieces.”

  Artek turned back toward the gigantic lanceboard. It made sense—the apprentice would not let just anyone enter his domain. They had to best the wizard at a game of lanceboard first. If they could do so, it was likely the apprentice would view them favorably. But something odd struck Artek. “If those are our opponent’s playing pieces, then where are ours?”

  Beckla swallowed hard. “I think we’re them.”

  Even as her words chilled him, Artek knew they were right. No ghostly army had appeared on their side of the marble gameboard. They themselves were the only playing pieces they were going to get.

  “Why don’t I just fly across the room?” Guss asked.

  Wings flapping, the gargoyle rose into the air. He was no more than three feet off the floor when a plane of white magic flashed above him. He fell back to the green marble, landing with a grunt.

  “Oh, I suppose that’s why,” he winced, rubbing his scaly tail.

  “Well, this is just wonderful,” Artek growled in disgust, running a hand through his short black hair. “I’ve never played a game of lanceboard in my life. I don’t even have the foggiest notion of the rules.”

  He looked to Beckla, but the wizard shook her head. So did Guss. Neither knew how to play the game. Artek’s gaze drifted toward the yellowed skull he had set down on the green marble.

  “Well, don’t look at me,” Muragh said defensively. “I was just a lowly priest of Lathander in life.”

  The others turned their eyes toward Corin. The young lord looked up in shock, his face drawn.

  “No,” he whispered hoarsely, slowly shaking his head back and forth. “Not me …”

  Artek quickly moved forward and knelt beside Corin. “You know how to play lanceboard, don’t you?” he asked intently.

  Corin opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. It didn’t matter. Artek already knew the answer. Corin had recognized the gameboard and the playing pieces. Like every noble child, he had learned to play the game.

  “You have to help us, Corin,” Artek said gravely. He gripped the young man’s shoulders. “You have to help us get across the room. You’re the only one who can do it.”

  Corin tried to back away, but Artek’s strong hands held him firmly. “But I can’t,” the nobleman gasped. “Don’t you understand? If I make a mistake, you’ll all be killed.”

  “And if you don’t try, we’ll all die for certain,” Artek growled.

  Tears sprang into Corin’s eyes, along with a look of terror. “You don’t understand. I can’t do it. I tried … I tried to be worth something, but I failed. You said so yourself.” He shook his head. “He was right. He was always right. I suppose I deserved it,” Corin sobbed.

  In sudden dread, Artek gazed at the noble. A coldness crept into his heart, and dark realization into his mind. He gripped the young man’s shoulders more tightly, searching his frightened face. “What did he do to you, Corin?” Artek asked. “By all the gods, what did your father do to you?”

  Beckla, Guss, and Muragh stared at them in shock. A low moan escaped Corin’s lips.

  “Tell me!” Artek demanded, baring his white teeth.

  This time he did not wait for an answer. With brutal force, he spun Corin around. He gripped the lord’s dirty silk shirt in two hands and tore it apart.

  “Ur thokkar!” he swore in the language of orcs.

  Crisscrossing the skin of Corin’s back were countless pale scars. Artek had seen enough thieves flogged in public squares to know what the raised weals were—lash marks. As a child, Artek had often received the cruel abuse of his father’s tongue, and once or twice, Arturg had even struck him. But never this. Never had he suffered anything like this.

  Stunned, Artek released Corin. The young lord pulled the tattered remains of his shirt back over his shoulders, concealing the scars once again. Hesitantly, he looked up with wounded eyes at Artek. For a moment, all Artek could see was a small, golden-haired boy in a corner, injured and afraid, trying with all his courage not to cry.

  “I had to bear it,” Corin said finally in a quiet voice, barely a whisper. “I couldn’t weep. I couldn’t resist. I had to bear it because if I did, then maybe he would love me.”

  Trembling, Corin continued, as if words long dammed up inside were now rushing from him of their own volition. The others could only listen in growing horror. “I was the youngest of three sons, you see. Corlus, my eldest brother, was to inherit the Silvertor estate. My other brother, Cordair, was the most like my father, being skilled at arms and gambling, and well liked by other men. And then there was me.

  “My mother died in childbirth when I was born. I think my father always blamed me for that. At least, I used to tell myself that he did. That way it all made some sort of sense—there was a reason that nothing I could ever say or do pleased him.” As he spoke, Corin kept his gaze on the floor. “Most of the time he just ignored me and kept busy with Corlus and Cordair. But once a moon or so, he would come home reeking of wine, and feeling sour-tempered from losing at gambling. He would roar for me at the top of his lungs, and I didn’t dare refuse to come. I would find him in his chamber, his riding whip in his hands. That was when …”

  Corin suddenly looked up at the others. A smile twisted his lips. “Fate is strange, isn’t it? Who would have thought that my father would outlive my brothers? But Corlus died of the red fever, and Cordair got a knife in the heart when he was caught cheating at dice in a tavern by the harbor. Then this winter my father finally died. The physicians said it was the drink that did it. I came to him at his deathbed. And do you know what he told me? ‘You are the one I should have outlived.’ That was all he said. Then he died.” Corin’s gaze returned to his shoes.

  “My father’s death left me as the sole heir to the Silvertor legacy. And to his seat on the Circle of Nobles. Our House is one of the oldest in the city, and there has always been a Silvertor on the Circle—the vote is a mere formality. I suppose I should have been happy. But I wasn’t.” He clenched his hands into fists. “I didn’t want his House. I didn’t want his blasted seat on the Circle. I could never please my father. How could I possibly please all of the other nobles in Waterdeep?”

  Forcibly, he unclenched his hands and let out a weary sigh. “The truth is, when Lord Darien Thal invited me on the hunt into Undermountain, I secretly hoped something would happen to me—something bad. I told myself it would all be so much easier that way.” Wiping the tears from his cheeks, he looked at Artek. “And here I am,” he finished softly. “I know you can never forgive me for getting you into this, Artek. But I want
you to know that I am sorry—terribly sorry.”

  For a long time, Artek could say nothing. All this time he had thought of Corin as a mere nuisance, as an object to be rescued and nothing more. In that, he had been no better than the young lord’s father. Perhaps worse. He of all people should have known better. He knew what it was like to be scorned by one whose love he craved; he knew what it was like to learn to loathe himself. If Corin’s father were still alive, Artek would have vowed to kill him. But vengeance cannot be gained from the dead, and the living are left to bear the scars inflicted.

  At last Artek drew in a deep breath. Maybe it was too late for him, but Corin was young. Maybe there was still time for the young man to find a sort of healing, to be whole. Artek reached out and gripped Corin’s shoulders. He gazed into the young man’s eyes and would not let him look away.

  “Listen to me, Corin,” he said solemnly. “Listen to me, because I speak the truth. I was wrong. Your father was wrong. You aren’t worthless. You have to believe that. I know that there are voices inside you, voices that tell you otherwise, but you have to stop listening to them because they, too, are wrong. No one deserves what happened to you, Corin. Do you hear me? No one.”

  At last Corin stopped struggling and held still within Artek’s grasp. Artek kept talking.

  “Don’t you see, Corin? We need you. All of us. You’re the only one who can get us across that lanceboard. You’re the only one who can help us.” Black eyes bore into clear blue ones. “Please,” he whispered. “Won’t you try?”

  For a long moment, Corin sat as if frozen, staring with unseeing eyes. Artek despaired, fearing his words had fallen upon deaf ears. Then Corin’s pale visage seemed to melt, and he blinked, drawing in a shuddering breath. At last he nodded. “I can’t promise anything,” he said in a hoarse voice. “But I will try.”