by Mark Anthony
The others watched with growing discomfort as the old fellow wreaked further havoc upon the miniature Undermountain. He moved from table to table, flooding rooms with water, melting wax monsters with the flame of a candle, and smashing tiny adventurers at random with a silver hammer. All the while, he let out hoots of malevolent glee, as if it were all a capricious game he was inventing as he went along.
A small white mouse suddenly scurried down a tiny corridor in one of the models, squeaking shrilly.
“Ah, Fang, there you are,” the strange old man said, clucking his tongue. “You’ve been hiding again, haven’t you? You know I don’t like it when you hide. Next time it may be bang with my silver hammer.”
The old man picked up the mouse and held out a tiny object. It was a miniature sword. “Go give this to the warrior on level four, chamber sixty-two. I don’t want her to die just yet. She’s been far too much fun.” He set the mouse back down on the table. “Now shoo! Shoo! And don’t hide the next time I’m looking for you.”
Fang let out a decidedly recalcitrant squeak, then took the sword in its mouth before scurrying away through the tabletop maze.
Meanwhile, Corin had been studying the miniature labyrinth on a nearby table. “I’ve always simply adored models,” he murmured. He pointed to a dark circle of polished onyx. “What’s that?” he asked in delight.
The old man peered over the young noble’s shoulder. “That’s Midnight Lake.”
“And what about this?” Corin pointed to a tortuous series of chambers and corridors.
The old mage let out a snort. “That’s the Gauntlet of my idiotic half-spider apprentice, Muiral. He never could find me. But then, none of them did. Poor students one and all, they were.”
Artek and Beckla exchanged shocked looks. However, Corin wasn’t really listening. “And how about this?” He pointed to a small square that glowed with an eerie green light.
The old man glowered at him. “You’re certainly full of questions, aren’t you? That’s Wish Gate. It will take you anywhere you wish to go.”
Artek’s pointed ears pricked up at this. “Even out of Undermountain?” he asked.
“I said anywhere, didn’t I?” the old man grumped. “Now, I’ve had more than enough of your questions. I’m quite busy, you know. So be quiet—or get yourselves killed. Do anything, as long as you just stop pestering me!”
The others drew away, gathering on the far side of the cavern.
“Did you hear him?” Artek asked softly. “He called Muiral his apprentice. It can mean only one thing.”
Corin’s eyes suddenly went wide. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “You mean that’s … I was talking to … this old fellow is …”
Artek nodded grimly. “Halaster himself.”
His gaze moved to the ancient mage. Halaster was chortling over his model. Artek shook his head. The Mad Wizard wasn’t simply a name, he realized. Halaster truly was mad, an old man playing a child’s game, his days of power and glory long forgotten.
Muragh let out a dejected sigh. “If he’s Halaster, then we’re doomed. I think he’s more than a little touched, and not particularly nice. He’ll never help us.”
“What about that Wish Gate?” Guss suggested. “Couldn’t it take us out of Undermountain?”
“Probably,” Beckla answered. “But only if we could get to it. Judging by the model, it looks to be miles away from here. And it’s much higher than we are now. The Horned Ring won’t take us there.”
Artek made a decision. “It doesn’t seem Halaster much cares for company. I’m going to ask him if he’ll transport us to Wish Gate. He just might do it, if for no other reason than to get rid of us.”
It seemed they had little choice. Keeping close together, the five approached the ancient mage. Mad as he was, he was still a legendary wizard, and not a figure to be trifled with.
Artek cleared his throat nervously. “I’m sorry to disturb you again,” he said as politely as he could manage. “I know you’re getting rather weary of us by now.”
The old man paused in the midst of pouring acid over a group of melting dwarf figurines. “What clued you in?” he snorted.
Artek risked continuing. “Well, there is a way you can be rid of us for good. All you have to do is transport us to Wish Gate and—”
“Bah!” Halaster spat. “I can come up with something far more interesting than that. But thank you for reminding me. It’s about time I used these.” From the pocket of his robe, he pulled out the small objects he had been working on earlier. They were figurines, like the ones scattered throughout the various levels of the miniature Undermountain. Artek leaned closer, squinting. He saw now that one of them was a tiny man: broad-shouldered, with black hair and black eyes, dressed all in black leather, with a curved saber at his hip.
Blinking in shock, he realized that the figurine was him. Four more diminutive figurines rested on Halaster’s palm: a short-haired woman in a white shirt and gray vest; a willowy young man with golden hair; a bat-winged gargoyle; and a grinning skull no larger than a pea.
“How do you like my newest playthings?” the mad wizard cackled. “They’re not bad likenesses, if I do say so myself. I’m going to have great fun with these. I’m rather sure of it.”
Before Artek could wonder what he meant, with two fingers the old man picked up the gargoyle figurine. He scanned the maze on the table before him, which depicted one of Undermountain’s many levels. “Ah, this will do!” He placed the gargoyle figurine inside a small chamber next to another figurine carved in the shape of a flame.
Guss vanished.
The others stared in astonishment. One moment the gargoyle was there, standing beside them, and the next moment he wasn’t. There was no flash, no thunder, no sparkling magic. Guss had simply and completely disappeared. Humming an eerie tune under his breath, Halaster took the figurine of the golden-haired man and, stretching his arm, set it down in the model, on the edge of a chasm.
This time it was Corin who vanished.
This display before them was not merely a model of Undermountain’s levels—it was Undermountain. By means of his vast magic, Halaster had bound the miniature and the real mazes inexorably together and what happened in one labyrinth happened in the other. Given his madness, Halaster probably thought this no more than a game. He was like a cruel boy burning his toy soldiers for fun, but each of the figurines he manipulated represented real, living beings: animals, monsters, and men. And now he had created five new figurines to add to his amusing little playhouse.
Artek lunged for the model to snatch up the likenesses of Guss and Corin, hoping that would return them to the laboratory. A thin sheet of crimson magic sprang into being between him and the table, throwing him violently backward. He clambered to his feet in time to see the mad wizard place the tiny skull figurine in a chamber next to a green pool. In the blink of an eye, Muragh was gone.
This time Artek lunged for the wizard himself. Once again crimson magic flashed, tossing him backward like a rag doll. Unperturbed, Halaster set the figurine of the short-haired woman in a chamber lined in shining silver. Beckla shouted in horror, but her cry was cut short as she vanished from sight. Artek watched in dread as Halaster took the remaining figurine—the man in black—and reached toward the model. Though he knew it was futile, once more Artek threw himself at the ancient mage. He was only halfway there when, laughing with wicked glee, Halaster set the figurine atop a miniature stone column.
Everything blurred into gray.
* * * * *
Guss backed against the stone wall as the fire elemental danced closer and closer. The air in the cavern shimmered, and it felt as if he were inside an oven. Guss had tried to take flight, but he had been brutally buffeted against a wall by an updraft spawned by the roaring heat. He could see no other exits. There was no escape.
The elemental was mesmerizing, even beautiful. He almost thought he could see a lithe figure whirling in the center of the white-hot corona. He suppo
sed it was better this way. It was wrong to live on after all his brethren had passed into stone, but now it would not be much longer. Behind him, the stone wall began to sag. Rivulets of liquid rock dripped downward. Searing pain filled Guss’s body as the fire elemental danced nearer. Just a few more moments. Then he would return to the stone that had spawned him. Like the wall, he, too, began to melt.
At least it was an adventurous way to go, Corin thought.
With white-knuckled hands he clung to the edge of a precipice. Darkness yawned beneath his feet. Somewhere far, far below he could hear the sound of water, but it was a long way down. His boots scrabbled against the cliff face, but it was no use. The stone was too smooth. He tried to pull himself up, but the darkness seemed to drag him downward. There wasn’t enough strength in his arms and what little remained was quickly waning.
* * * * *
At last, his fingers could hold on to the sharp edge no longer. His hands started to slip, then let go. His last thought was of how he wished he’d had a chance to say good-bye to Artek and the others. Then he plunged downward, falling into deep—but not endless—darkness.
* * * * *
Muragh stared at the rising pool of bubbling green liquid.
“Of course you’re staring, you ninny,” he muttered to himself. “You’re a skull. You don’t have eyelids. Staring is all you can do.”
Even before the emerald fluid touched the old bones of a nameless creature—dissolving them in an instant—Muragh had known it was acid. He had hopped and rolled as far as possible to the edge of the small, circular stone room, but he could go no farther. The acid continued to rise.
“I wonder if it can hurt to die when you’re already dead?” he asked himself nervously.
With every second, the edge of the hissing pool drew nearer. It looked as if he was about to find out.
* * * * *
Beckla knew that this was what it was like to go mad.
Countless faces leered at her from the jagged, shardlike mirrors that covered the walls, floor, and ceiling of the chamber—all horribly distorted. Bloated, bloodshot eyes stared at her, and twisted mouths laughed in silent mockery. They were hideous. Yet still more hideous was the knowledge that the faces were her own, each one a broken reflection of her own horrified visage.
Beckla spun dizzily, but in every direction the horrid, shattered faces gazed back at her. Screaming, she sank to the floor, and the sharp-edged mirrors that covered it sliced her knees. She tried shutting her eyes, but that made it even worse, for then she could feel all the loathsome eyes boring into her flesh. She opened her eyes and reeled again. It felt as if at any moment her mind would shatter like the crazed mirrors, breaking into a thousand distorted pieces from which a whole could never again be reconstructed. She had to get out but could see no doorway. Only eyes, mouths, and faces, faces, faces.
Sobbing, she hunched over. As she did, a reflection caught her eye. A thought pierced the growing madness that clutched her brain. Perhaps there was a way after all.
Gargoyle’s Gift
Artek stood atop a stone pillar.
He was in a vast, dimly lit hall. A line of freestanding columns stretched in either direction, each perhaps ten paces apart. Like the one Artek stood upon, all ended abruptly, supporting nothing but thin air. If there was a ceiling to this place, it was lost in the gloom above. With his orcish eyes, he could just make out the floor of the hall below. It was writhing. Even without his darkvision he could have guessed the nature of the slithering shadows by the dry hissing that rose on the air—snakes. There were hundreds of them, thousands. And more than a few of them were probably venomous.
Glancing down at the dark tattoo on his forearm, he saw that the sun was nearly touching the arrow now. Dawn was just minutes away. And his death with it.
Artek flinched at a sudden, reverberating boom! There was a long moment of silence, followed by a second crash. Then came another, and another. His jaw fell in grim surprise. It looked as if something else were going to kill him first.
The pillars were falling. Even as he watched, one of the columns farther down the line tilted in his direction and struck the column next to it with a thunderous cracking of stone, causing this column to begin to fall as well. It was a chain reaction—one by one, they were all going to topple.
The tenth column from him began to fall. Then the ninth. He turned, took as much of a running start as the constraining surface allowed, then leapt to the top of the next pillar. Letting his momentum carry him forward, he tensed his legs and sprang to the pinnacle of the next pillar in line. Behind him, the columns continued to topple. The seventh farthest from him fell. Then the sixth. He kept jumping.
His lungs burned with effort. The fourth column behind him crashed to the floor, and then the third. He could not jump fast enough—the columns were gaining on him. A few seconds more and he would crash to the snake-strewn floor below with a thousand tons of stone. Then he saw it hovering in midair just ahead: a glowing square filled with billowing gray mist. He blinked in confusion. How could this be?
There was a deafening crash and the stone beneath his feet gave a violent shudder. He fell sprawling to the top of the pillar and nearly went flying over the side. He gripped the edge, hauling himself back up. As he did, the column tilted wildly, then began to trace a smooth, fatal arc toward the floor below. The pillar was falling.
With a desperate cry, Artek sprang up and forward with all of his strength. For a terrified moment, he thought he wasn’t going to make it, but then his body broke the surface of the gate, and he fell down into gray emptiness.
As before, his body seemed to dissolve away. He had no substance, no flesh—only a naked, quivering consciousness to be flayed raw by the bitter cold. Thankfully, the horrible sensation lasted only a second. There was a flash. The reek of lightning filled his nostrils, and he fell hard to a stone floor. Groaning, he pulled himself to his feet.
A trio of trolls stood before him.
They reached out with long arms, baring countless filthy, pointy teeth. With a cry of alarm, Artek fumbled for the cursed saber at his hip and drew it with a ring of steel. He did not wait for the trolls to attack first. He swung the saber, striking the arm of one of the creatures. The limb snapped with a brittle sound and fell to the floor. The troll did not so much as blink. Its companions were equally still. Artek stared in puzzlement.
Cautiously, he approached the creatures, tapping one with his saber. It tottered, then fell backward. As it struck the floor, it shattered.
Clay, Artek realized in amazement. The trolls were made of clay. The cursed saber did not compel him to attack the harmless figures. As he stared down at the broken monster, he noticed that the floor looked odd. He scratched the stones with the point of the saber, and a thick line of gray curled up, revealing brown wood below. It was paint. What was going on here?
Before Artek could think of an answer, there was a sizzling sound as a gate appeared in the air above. A form dropped through, landing on the floor with a soft oof!. It was Beckla. He quickly helped the wizard to her feet as the gate flashed into nonexistence. The wizard’s brown eyes were wide and staring, almost mad. At last she shuddered and looked at Artek.
“Where are the others?” she gasped.
Even as she said this, three more gates crackled into existence. Each spat out a single figure before vanishing. Corin and Guss groggily picked themselves up, while Muragh rolled in a dizzy circle.
The young nobleman blinked in bewilderment. “I don’t understand. I was plummeting to my death. Then a gray square appeared below me and I fell into it and … and here I am.”
“I was about to be melted into slag when the same thing happened to me,” Guss said with a shudder. Wisps of smoke still wafted from his scaly hide.
“And I was on the verge of being dissolved into skull soup,” Muragh said in a quavering voice.
“What is going on?” Artek wondered. “Where are we?”
“We’re in Undermount
ain,” Beckla said in awe.
“I can see that,” Artek replied dryly.
“No, not the real Undermountain,” Beckla countered. Her forehead crinkled in a frown. “Though I suppose we are there, too.”
“Make up your mind,” Artek said.
“Don’t you see?” Beckla circled the chamber, studying the clay trolls, the painted walls, the wooden floor. “We’re inside the miniature.” She waited for the others to absorb this fact and then went on.
“It was the Horned Ring,” the wizard explained. “I thought that if each of us still had a ruby from the ring, there was a chance it might be able to gate us all to the same place. So I concentrated on Halaster’s cavern as I invoked the ring. And it worked. It brought us all here.” She ran a hand through her short hair, gazing around. “Only something went wrong. The magic that binds Halaster’s model of Undermountain must permeate the entire cavern. I think there must have been some strange interaction between the Horned Ring and that magic.”
In shock, Artek stared at the clay trolls. He had thought them to be statues, but now he knew that wasn’t so. They were figurines—the kind with which Halaster populated his model of Undermountain. This entire room was no more than a few inches long.
“By all the bloodiest gods!” he shouted, whirling to look at Beckla. “Do you mean to tell me that each of us is now the size of one of Halaster’s figurines?”
The wizard nodded grimly. “In a word, yes. And I imagine that, somewhere in Undermountain, there are now five life-sized clay replicas of us, falling off cliffs and getting dissolved by acid. Somehow the interference between the model and the ring has caused us to switch places with our figurines.”
Artek staggered, leaning against a painted paper column for support—this was too much. “At least it won’t be much work to bury me,” he said in a slightly manic voice. “No need to dig six feet. Six inches will do fine.”