by Mark Anthony
“So what did he offer you?” Artek hissed. “A tower of your own? The finest tutors of magic? Money to purchase all you needed to research your precious spells? Was that it, wizard? Did he offer to buy your dreams for you?”
“Yes,” Beckla whispered. She gazed, not at Artek, but into space, as if she could see a vision of all she had ever desired floating before her. “He promised to make me a great wizard, a mage of renown. All I had to do was lead you to Corin. Then you would use the transportation device he gave you, which would take you deeper into Undermountain.”
Part of Artek’s anger was lost to confusion. “I don’t understand. If your job was to get us lost deeper in Undermountain, then why did you come with us? And why did you help us every time we were attacked?”
“Lord Thal didn’t want to leave anything to chance,” Beckla explained evenly. “At first, he wanted me to lead you both to your deaths, and to bring back proof of your demise. But I refused him on that point.”
“How kind of you,” Artek spat bitterly.
Beckla winced at his words but went on. “We decided that I would go with you through the gate, to make certain you did not return to the surface before two days had passed. By then, the nobles would have held their vote, and Lord Thal would have been elected to the Circle. And the reason I helped out in all those scrapes is easy enough—I was protecting my own neck.”
Corin stepped forward, his boyish face both worried and perplexed. “But I still don’t understand, Beckla. Why in the world would you agree to such a task? Once you were lost with us, how were you supposed to escape from Undermountain yourself?”
“With this.”
She drew something from a pocket of her vest and held it up. It was a bronze ring inlaid with small rubies. Two small prongs stood up from the center of the ring like curved horns, holding a larger ruby between them.
Artek stared at the ring in shock. “You mean, all this time you’ve had a way out?”
Beckla nodded gravely. “This ring has the power to gate whoever wears it out of Undermountain. I could have left you at any time. But I didn’t. I don’t suppose that counts for anything, but I wanted you to know.
“I had always thought that I would give anything for my dream, but I know now that a dream at any price isn’t a dream at all—it’s a nightmare.” She hung her head. “Do what you will now,” she whispered softly.
Artek bared his slightly pointed teeth. He raised his big hands before him. He knew now what would be the wizard’s punishment for her betrayal. Corin and Guss reached for him, as if to hold him back, but he shook them off. A low growl rumbled in his chest. He sprang forward, catching the wizard in his arms, and with his orcish strength began to squeeze her—in a rough but warm embrace.
Beckla’s eyes grew large with astonishment, as did those of the others. Artek laughed, lifted the wizard off the floor, and spun her around. At last, he set her down. She gripped the table dizzily to keep from falling.
“I don’t understand,” she gasped. “Aren’t you angry with me?”
“By all the fires of the Abyss, you’d better believe I’m angry with you, Beckla Shadesar. You should have told us before about that ring of yours. It could have saved us a rather large amount of trouble. But the fact is, you didn’t betray us. You could have, but you chose not to.” He reached out to squeeze her hand. “And that’s all that matters.”
Color crept slowly into Beckla’s cheeks. A smile stole across her lips, and a mischievous spark flashed in her brown eyes. “I think Lord Darien Thal is going to be in for a bit of a surprise.” She held up the magical ring. “Let’s get out of this dump.”
The wizard pressed one of the small rubies on the ring, and it popped out, falling into her hand. Thrice more she did this, then gave a ruby to each of the others, sticking Muragh’s in his bony ear hole. Finally, Beckla put the ring on her right hand. They gathered close as she held up the ring and spoke in a commanding voice. “Gate—open!”
The ring flashed. In the air before them appeared a glowing line. The line widened into a doorway filled with billowing gray mist.
“All right, everybody,” Beckla cried. “Hold on!”
Together they leapt through the misty portal and fell into the nothingness beyond. Once again, Artek felt the terrible, bodiless cold that gnawed at the very center of his being, but it lasted only a moment. There was another flash, and a crackling hole opened in midair, a gap in the very fabric of the world. The five tumbled through the hole and struck a hard stone floor.
“Can’t you program these things for softer landings?” Corin complained as they stood. “I’m really not certain I can take much more … oh.” His words faltered as they gazed around.
A rough-hewn corridor stretched into shadow in either direction. Pale fungus clung to the walls, and dark water trickled across the floor.
Artek swore vehemently.
“I don’t understand,” Beckla said in confusion. “The ring was supposed to take us to the surface, but this still looks like—”
“Undermountain,” Artek spat, finishing for her. He shook his head and almost laughed. Almost, but his chest was too tight with the bitter irony of it all. What fools they were! “Don’t you see, Beckla? Haven’t you figured it out yet? He’s betrayed you, too.”
The wizard’s face blanched. Then anger ignited in her eyes. She spoke a single, hateful word, as if it were a curse: “Thal.”
Artek nodded grimly. “It makes sense. He couldn’t have allowed you to live—you knew that he had arranged Corin’s demise. So, he made certain that you would never escape from Undermountain either.”
A great heaviness came upon Artek, weighing him down. “Well, it looks as if Darien has beaten us to our little surprise. He has defeated us after all. But I suppose it was well that we tried.” He glanced at his tattoo—less than an hour left. At least he would not have long to wait for his end to come. The others would not be so lucky. It was hard to believe now that the legacy of the Garug-Mal truly ran in his blood, because the darkness held no comfort. It was cold, and bleak, and utterly empty.
“Wait just a second,” Muragh piped up suddenly. “Guss, pick me up. Beckla, hold up your hand. I need to take a look at that ring of yours.”
The others regarded Muragh in vague curiosity, but they did as he instructed. The skull peered at the ring with his empty eye sockets.
“Hmm,” he muttered through his broken teeth. “I was afraid of that,” the skull pronounced finally.
“Afraid of what?” Artek asked, not certain he had the energy to play the skull’s guessing games anymore.
“This is a Horned Ring,” Muragh replied. “Not a common find in Undermountain, but not so rare either. Halaster made quite a few of them.”
“Wait a minute,” Artek protested. “You mean Halaster himself made this thing?”
Somehow the fleshless skull managed to look annoyed. “Granted, I don’t have lips, so sometimes I tend to mumble, but I’m pretty certain that’s what I said.”
Beckla studied the ring with new interest. “If it won’t take us out of Undermountain, what will it do?”
“Take us down,” Muragh replied. “A Horned Ring will gate you anywhere you want to go in Undermountain, as long as it’s below where you are at the moment. With every jump, it takes its wearer deeper.”
Artek looked at the skull in sudden shock. “What did you say?” he demanded hoarsely.
“Really, Artek,” the skull grumbled. “Why don’t you clean the orc cheese out of your ears? I’m getting awfully tired of repeating myself.”
But Artek was no longer paying attention to the skull. He paced quickly over the damp stone floor, his mind working feverishly.
“Of course!” he exclaimed, smacking his forehead with his hand. “That’s the answer!”
“The answer to what?” Beckla asked.
“Halaster’s riddle,” he replied in growing excitement. “Remember? ‘The deeper you go, the deeper I get. If you jump sideways, you ma
y find me yet.’ ”
“I think maybe you’ve jumped a little too deep yourself,” Muragh noted acerbically.
Artek ignored him. “Don’t you see, Beckla? You said it yourself, back when you were explaining to me the difference between teleporting and using a gate. Teleportation is a fast but direct journey between places.” He brought his hands together. “But using a gate is like jumping—”
“Sideways,” Beckla breathed.
Artek snapped his fingers. “Exactly! That’s the key to finding Halaster. If every use of the Horned Ring takes you deeper, eventually you would have to reach the deepest part of Undermountain. And where else would the Mad Wizard be except at the very bottom of his own maze?”
“Do you think we really dare disturb Halaster himself?” Corin asked, a startled expression on his smudged face.
“It’s our only chance,” Artek replied. “He’s the only one who could transport us out of here. What have we got to lose?”
“You can count me in,” Guss said with a grin.
“Me too!” Muragh added.
“And me,” Beckla said firmly.
Corin smoothed his grimy, tattered silk shirt, then gripped the rapier at his side. “Well, I’m not about to miss all the fun.”
Artek surveyed the determined faces of the others. He had entered Undermountain alone. Never had he expected to find such allies, such friends, in its dark depths. His heart swelled. “Let’s do it,” he said.
They gathered close together, making certain each still had a ruby. Then Beckla raised the ring. “Gate!” she ordered. “Open!”
The misty portal appeared before them.
“Here goes nothing,” Artek murmured.
Together they jumped through.
They fell sprawling to the floor of a great cavern. An acrid smell hung in the dank air. Artek heard a strange clinking sound and looked up.
Glittering blue scales armored the vast, sinuous body of a blue dragon. Like sapphire sails, leathery wings spread open in a menacing display. Red eyes flaring hotly, the dragon stretched its serpentine neck, rising off the mountain of gold, silver, and jewels upon which it sprawled.
“Thieves!” it shrieked in a deafening voice.
The dragon opened its toothy maw, preparing to kill them with its deadly breath.
“Beckla, the gate!” Artek cried. “Open it!”
The wizard needed no prompting. She shouted the words. Instantly, the glowing portal appeared in the air before them. They threw themselves toward the billowing mists just as a terrible crackling filled the air. Blazing bolts of blue lightning emanated from the dragon’s maw, sizzling toward them. Just before they were engulfed by searing, sapphire death, the magical fog swallowed them. Dragon, cavern, and lightning vanished.
They quickly lost count of the jumps they made using the Horned Ring.
Sometimes they landed in musty stone corridors and dim tombs. Other times they found themselves suddenly facing snarling abominations ready to rip their throats out. Once, they plunged into bone-chilling water, and another time they landed on a small basalt islet lost amid a sea of molten lava. Each time, Beckla quickly resummoned the gate, and they leapt through, passing from one peril to another in dizzying succession.
Then they landed on a stone floor. Thick clouds of dust billowed sluggishly around them. They were in a cobweb-filled antechamber. By the look of it, no one had set foot in this place in centuries. But there was no time to waste—they had to keep jumping.
“Gate, open!” Beckla called out.
The portal appeared, and they lunged through.
They landed on a stone floor. Thick clouds of dust filled the air around them.
Artek blinked in surprise. It was the same antechamber they had landed in a moment ago. The jump had taken them no deeper. Then he realized why.
“We’re here,” he said.
This was it. The very bottom of Undermountain.
As they stood, their eyes fell upon a small, nondescript wooden door set into one wall. There was no other exit. The five exchanged uncertain looks but there was only one thing to do. They approached the door, and Artek turned the brass knob. The door swung open.
“Blast it—company!” hissed a cracked voice. “I must have forgotten to reset the poison-spiked welcome mat again. Well, don’t just stand there like you don’t have the brains of a black pudding among you. Shut the door. You’re letting in a draft!”
They were so startled by these words that they could only numbly obey. Closing the door, they took a step into the chamber beyond. No, not chamber, Artek corrected himself. Make that laboratory.
If there was any rhyme or reason to the laboratory, it was beyond Artek’s comprehension. Chaos ruled supreme here. Vials and beakers balanced precariously on makeshift tables fashioned from moldering books. Weird objects cluttered crooked shelves: mummified animal parts, jars filled with staring eyeballs, and small stone idols with leering expressions. A bucket carelessly filled with jewels sat next to a glass case that enshrined a collection of toenail clippings. Candles had been stuck with melted wax to every available surface: floor, shelves, books, jars, and the skulls of articulated skeletons. However, they seemed to cast more smoke than light, filling the room with flickering shadows that tricked the eye. In all, it was like the locked attic room of someone’s mad uncle—peculiar, musty, and vaguely sinister.
Then Artek saw the old man. It took some concentration to pick him out from among the mess. He was clad in a drab black robe that was belted crookedly around the waist with a frayed bit of rope. Scraggly gray hair hung loosely over his stooped, bony shoulders as he bent over a wooden table, muttering and cackling to himself as he worked on something hidden from view.
Artek guessed that the man was a lackey of Halaster’s. However, if he was a doorman, he wasn’t a very good one. The fellow seemed to have completely forgotten about their presence. After a moment, Artek cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said hesitantly.
The old man continued to mutter to himself, poring over the table before him.
Gathering his courage, Artek took a step forward. This time he spoke more loudly. “Excuse me, but we’re really in a bit of a hurry. We were wondering if you could tell us where we might find Halas—”
The old man looked up, twisting his head to peer back over his shoulder. His ancient face was nearly lost beneath a long gray beard and spiky eyebrows—all Artek could make out was a bladelike nose and two colorless eyes as cold and piercing as ice.
“What?” the old man interrupted. “You’re still here?” He blew a snort of disgust through his ratty mustache. “I must have forgotten to oil the trigger on the boulder over the door as well. Well, if you’re not going to have the decency to die, at least stop being such a nuisance with all your chatter. Can’t you see that I’m working? Now make yourself useful and hand me that.”
He thrust a bony finger toward a small jar of black paint on a nearby shelf. Before Artek even knew what he was doing, he hopped forward to obey the command. Chagrined, he brought the jar of paint to the ancient man. Artek craned his neck, but could not quite glimpse what the other man was working on. It was something very small. After a moment, the old man cackled in glee.
“Done!”
Scooping up several tiny objects into a withered hand, he marched with surprising swiftness toward an opening in the far wall and disappeared beyond. Artek exchanged curious looks with the others. After a moment’s hesitation, they followed after. Stepping through the opening, they found themselves not in another chamber, but on the edge of a vast cavern. A red-gold light hung upon the dank air, but it appeared to have no source. Artek blinked in astonishment as the others gasped behind him.
Arranged in haphazard fashion around the cavern were a score of tables, every one a dozen paces long and half again as wide. Sprawling atop each of the tables was what appeared to be an intricate maze. Artek approached one of the tables and shook his head in wonder. This wasn’t just any maze, he realized.
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It was Undermountain.
“What in the name of all the gods is that?” he asked in awe.
From the center of the cavern came a shrill cackle of glee. “It’s my masterpiece!” the old man cried. “My most marvelous toy ever. Impressed, aren’t you? Well, you should be!”
Rendered in tiny but perfect detail, every single one of the vast labyrinth’s many subterranean levels lay before Artek. He had never seen anything so wondrous in his life. The model was roofless, so that he could gaze within, and every wall, every door, every minuscule stone had been fashioned with exquisite care from wood and clay and paint. Tiny figurines populated the miniature halls and chambers: skillfully rendered monsters and adventurers, each no taller than the knuckle of a finger. So flawless was the model that Artek felt almost like some great god, peering down upon the diminutive world of mortals below.
“Look!” Beckla whispered in amazement. She and the others had wandered around, gazing at other levels resting on other tables. The wizard pointed to a chamber filled with tiny trees fashioned from bits of green moss. “I think this is Wyllowwood.”
“And this must be the River Sargauth,” Corin added from nearby, pointing to a thin strip of glittering blue fashioned from crushed sapphire.
“And here’s the tomb where you found me,” Guss said excitedly, pointing to a small chamber at the end of another table.
“It’s times like these that make me really wish I still had fingers,” Muragh muttered to no one in particular.
Artek shook his head in disbelief. “Everything’s here. Everything. It’s absolutely perfect.”
The old man approached. “Of course it is,” he said. “I made it, didn’t I? And it’s taken me quite a few centuries to get it just right, if I do say so.”
Startled, Artek stared at the ancient man. A chilling suspicion began to coalesce in his mind.
Just then the old man glanced down and frowned. Near the center of the table, a band of adventurer figurines faced a dozen clay goblins. “Humph! I don’t like those odds.” The old man reached into his pocket and drew out a strange-looking pair of shears. Opening the handles, the shears extended like an accordion, stretching toward the figurines. A cruel light flashed in his eyes as he squeezed the handles together, and the blades of the shears snapped shut, lopping off the heads of three of the adventurer figurines. Only one remained intact. The old man let out a burst of maniacal laughter, retracting the shears. “That’s better!”