Marc Anthony - Escape from Undermountain

Clutching a hand to her mouth, Beckla turned away. Corin cradled Muragh in his arms. By force of will, Artek swallowed the lump of sorrow in his throat. There would be time for mourning later. He gripped Beckla's hand.

"Let's go," he said.

The others nodded, and they started back down the hallway. Moments later, they burst through a paper door and into a small room. Wish Gate hung on the far wall like a shimmering emerald mirror. Artek looked down at his tattoo. The sun had brushed the arrow. How long did he have now? Three minutes? Two? There was no time to waste.

He gripped hands with Beckla and Corin; the nobleman held Muragh in his other hand. They approached the shimmering gate.

"Where are you going to wish us to?" Beckla asked.

Artek bared his pointed teeth; the expression was not a smile. "If it works, then you'll see."

Fixing his wish in his mind, he tightened his grip on the others. Then, as one, they leapt into the gate.

This time the nothingness was green. Then blue. Then black as ice at midnight. The cold was worse than before, and far, far longer-crueler than anything they had felt. Artek thought it would freeze his very soul to splinters, and his consciousness dwindled, like a dying spark lost in a winter night. Then, just as the spark wavered on the edge of being extinguished, cold dark became blazing light, and the universe exploded.

Falling through a sizzling aperture, they landed on a cushioned surface. Artek blinked and looked down. It was a thick, luxurious rug-an expensive one, by the look of it. His feral grin broadened. He recognized this room. The wish had worked.

With a snarl, he leapt to his feet. Corin and Beckla pulled themselves up behind him. They were in a gaudily decorated room filled with gilded wood, rich tapestries, and ostentatious displays of gold and silver. Before them stood two men. One was clearly a wizard: bald-headed, hook-nosed, and clad in a brown robe. The other was tall and elegant, with dark hair and gleaming green eyes, fashionably clad in purple velvet and silvery silk. He had frozen in the act of putting on a thick, black walking cloak.

"Going somewhere, Lord Thai?" Artek asked.

Only for a second did shock register upon the lord's handsome face. Then his visage grew smooth once more, his hooded green eyes glittering like a serpent's. A cruel smile coiled around the corners of his lips.

"Artek Ar'talen," he said with an almost imperceptible nod. "Exaggerated as the stories concerning your prowess seemed, it appears now they underestimated you."

Artek took a menacing step forward. Beckla and Corin flanked him on either side. "Save the compliments, Thai," Artek spat. "They're wasted on me. There's only one thing I want from you."

Thai affected an expression of mock regret. "Oh, do forgive me. But I really am in a bit of hurry. I have an important appointment to keep." Wicked laughter rose in his chest. "It seems that a foolish little titmouse of a lord has turned up missing-hardly a great loss, I know-and in his stead I am to be elected to the seventh seat on the city's Circle of Nobles."

Corin hung his head at Darien's cutting insult. Worried, Beckla glanced over at the young man.

Artek laughed bitterly. "What was it you told me when you first offered me this task, Darien?" He snapped his fingers. "Ah, yes. I remember. 'Among Silvertor's rivals are those with dark ambitions. They see the Circle as a means to rule over all the city's nobility, and as a position from which to launch an all-out assault against the hidden Lords of Waterdeep.'"

"Well, then," Darien said with dark mirth. "I did not lie about everything."

Darien's wizard gripped his staff. "Shall I dispose of this refuse for you, my lord?"

"Hush, Melthis," Darien crooned. "Be polite. These are our guests, after all. Besides, in just a few more seconds, the worst of them will be disposed of for us."

Artek glanced at his dark tattoo. The sun was nearly centered upon the arrow. The windows of Darien's mansion glowed deep red-it was almost dawn.

Artek walked up to the dark-haired lord and thrust out his arm. "Have your vulture take it off, Darien," he hissed between clenched teeth. "Now. If you don't, I swear, you won't outlive me."

Darien sighed deeply. At last he nodded. "Very well, if you put it that way." He turned toward the bald-headed wizard. "Melthis?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"Die," Darien said flatly. The lord pulled his right arm from beneath his heavy cloak, and three whirling prongs sprang from the end of the burnished steel Device where his hand should have been. Before Artek could react, Darien plunged the spinning prongs into the wizard's chest. Melthis jerked spasmodically, his eyes going wide in disbelief, his mouth opening silently.

Darien pulled the bloody Device back. Melthis slumped to the floor, blood pouring from the ragged hole in his chest. The wizard twitched once, and that was all.

"Damn you, Thal!" Artek shouted in fury. "Why?"

Darien's smiled with an almost mad glee. "Melthis was weak and stupid. Had you threatened my life, he might have capitulated and given you what you wanted, removing the tattoo. But now there is no chance of that." His voice rose exultantly. The seconds are slipping by, Ar'talen. Can't you feel them draining away, one by one? You've lost. If you were wise, you would use these last moments to make peace with whatever uncouth gods you orcish rats worship in your rancid little holes in the ground."

Beckla raised her hands to cast a spell. "No!" Artek roared. "He's mine!" Orcish rage cast its blood-red veil before his eyes. Drawing the saber at his hip, he lunged forward. He swung the blade in a whistling arc, precisely aimed to sever the lord's neck.

But before it connected, the saber jerked in Artek's hand, wrenching his arm painfully. The blade changed direction of its own volition, and Artek twisted his body, barely managing to keep from severing his own leg.

"You are a fool, Ar'talen," Darien laughed. "You should have known you could not harm me with that blade. I was the one who gave it to you, after all."

Artek tried to cast down the sword. He would squeeze the life out of Darien with his bare hands if he could just release the cursed blade. But it was all he could do to keep the saber from turning on him again.

Darien tossed his cloak back, holding the bloody Device before him. He started moving for the door. "Out of my way-all of you! Waterdeep is going to be mine. And no one can stop me."

There was a sharp ringing of steel.

"I can," someone said.

All turned in surprise. It was Conn. He stood before Darien, rapier drawn. Gone from the young man's face was all the pale uncertainty of before. Authority blazed in his brilliant blue eyes, and despite his ragged, grimy clothes and smudged cheeks, his nobility seemed to shine forth. For all of Darien's rich velvet and silver silk, he looked like a lowly beggar next to Corin.

Mocking laughter escaped Darien's throat. "You can't kill me, boy. And even if you could, you wouldn't. You haven't the guts. Now scurry back to your little House of Silvertor, and perhaps, when I rule the city, I might let you live. After all, you're really not even worth killing."

Corin said nothing. He gripped his rapier tightly, his jaw set in firm resolution. The Device buzzed on the end of Darien's arm. For a protracted moment the two stared at each other, deciding who would make the first move.

Without warning, Darien let out a cry of pain. He hopped on one foot, clutching the other with his hand.

A pale, round form gnawed with yellow teeth at the flesh of his ankle: Muragh. With his left hand, Darien grabbed the skull and hurled it across the room. Muragh struck a wall with a sickening thud, then fell to the floor. After that, the skull did not move.