Escape from Undermountain

Descent Into Danger

The steep alley ended in a blank stone wall.

"No offense, but this doesn't exactly look like an entrance into Under-mountain," Artek noted dryly.

He turned to watch as Lord Darien Thai and Melthis picked their way down the slimy cobblestones toward him. Dawn was breaking over the rest of Waterdeep, but in this deep alley in the Dock Ward, the shadowed gloom of night still held sway. Artek wished he could climb out of this hole and walk the city's open avenues, to feel the light of the sun upon his face. However, it was down into the dark that he was to go.

That is why I am a wizard and you are a dungeon rat!" Melthis hissed acidly. He clutched his robes up around his ankles to keep them out of the foul muck of the alley. "Recall your manners, Melthis," Darien chided as the two came to a halt. "Ar'talen is our Mend in this, after all."

Artek shot the handsome nobleman a black look. Friend was hardly the word he would have chosen. Darien only smiled his smooth, arrogant smile.

Melthis approached the stone wall and began to mumble under his breath. After a moment the wizard tapped the back wall of the alley with his staff. Like ripples on a pond, concentric rings of crimson magic spread outward on the wall, radiating from the point where the staff had struck. The circles flickered and vanished, but one of the stones continued to glow with dim scarlet light. Melthis pushed lightly on the stone. There was a grinding sound, followed by a hiss of fetid air. A low opening appeared in the wall. The wizard shot Artek a smug look.

"You'll forgive me if I hold my applause," Artek said in annoyance.

Darien gestured to the dark opening. "All you need do is follow the passageway beyond, Ar'talen. It leads to one place only: the upper halls of Undermountain."

The transport device I gave you will return you to this place," Melthis added. "We will be waiting for you."

Darien smoothed his elegant velvet coat. "Remember, Ar'talen, you have only two days to return with Lord Corin Silvertor. And if you fail to find him," he said, green eyes flashing sharply, "don't bother to return at all."

Artek tried to swallow the bitter taste of rage in his mouth. "How do I know that when I do return you'll really have Melthis remove the tattoo?" he demanded.

"You don't," Darien replied flatly. "Yet what choice do you have but to (rust me?"

Clenching his hands into fists, Artek resisted the orcish urge to tear the nobleman to shreds. He glanced down at the tattoo on his arm. Slowly, inexorably, the wheel continued to spin around the grinning skull. The sun had completely passed the arrow now. Less than two days to find the missing noble. Less than two days to live.

"Be here," was all he said.

Crouching, he passed through the opening in the wall into a cramped tunnel beyond. Behind him, Melthis uttered a word of magic. The secret doorway shut with a foreboding boom, sealing Artek in tomb-like blackness.

For a long moment he stared into the thick darkness. Gradually his eyes began to adjust. Rough walls, loose stones, and scurrying insects appeared before him in subtle shades of red. He sighed in the dank air. During those long months locked in his cell, he had thought his ability to «ее in the dark lost forever, for his eyes had glimpsed nothing but impenetrable blackness. Now he knew that this had indeed been due to some enchantment bound in the stones of that cell. Like his thieving skills, his dark-vision was a gift from his half-ore father. And one for which he was now grateful.

In a hunched position, he began moving down the low tunnel. Countless times it bent and twisted, until he lost almost all sense of direction. Yet some deep instinct told him that he was steadily heading westward-in the direction of Mount Waterdeep. At several points he was forced to crawl on his belly over heaps of rubble where the tunnel had caved in. The foul air was oppressive, and he breathed it in shallow gasps through his open mouth.

Abruptly he came to a halt. The passageway, which had been level up to this point, suddenly plunged down before him at a steep angle. He eyed the slope critically. It would require some caution, but he could do it. Keeping his center of balance low to the floor, he inched his way over the edge of the incline.

His boot skidded on a layer of slime.

Artek's hands shot out, but it was no use. The walls and floor of the tunnel were both dripping with slick slime. The ichor was the same temperature as the cool stones, and so his heat-sensitive eyes had failed to detect it. His boots and fingers scrabbled furiously against the slimy surface. He nearly made it back up to the edge of the incline, but then he lost his grip and careened headlong down the steep slope.

His curses rang off the walls of the tunnel as he slid rapidly downward. In vain he fought to slow his descent, wondering if at any moment he would strike a blank wall or some other obstacle with bone-crushing force. Out of control, he slid faster and faster.

As suddenly as it had begun, the slope ended, leveling into a flat passageway once more. With a surge of dread, he saw that his fear of a trap was all too prophetic. Just ahead, the tunnel dead-ended in a wall bristling with pointed iron spikes. Despite the level floor, he was so covered with slime that he continued to skid, hurtling with fatal speed face first toward the spikes.

With a yell, he reached back and fumbled for the saber belted at his hip. At the last moment he drew the blade and thrust his arms out before him, clenching his eyes against the coming impact. There was a deafening clang of metal on metal, accompanied by a spray of hot sparks. A brutal shock raced up his arms, jarring his shoulders painfully, as he came to a sudden halt. After a moment he opened his eyes. He looked up to see the tip of a spike a hairsbreadth from his hands. The sword was longer than the spikes, its tip striking the wall just before he struck the points.

Pulling his aching arms back, he slowly sat up and slipped the saber back into its scabbard.

"I guess that was the quick way down," he said weakly. He let out a nervous laugh of relief. Stiffly, he started to climb to his feet.

That was when the floor dropped out from beneath him.

Artek swore as he plunged downward. He had become stupid as well as rusty during his long imprisonment. Of course the spikes hadn't been the real trap. They were far too obvious. Their only purpose had been to distract him from the true trick-a weight-sensitive trapdoor. And it had worked perfectly. He flailed as he plummeted through cold air, wondering how many heartbeats he had until he struck bottom.

Out of the corner of his eye, a large shape loomed beneath him. Instinct took command. Like a cat in midfall, he snapped his body around and reached out. His fingers brushed across hard stone, slipped- then caught in a sharp crevice. His descent abruptly halted. Once again pain flared in his shoulders, but somehow he managed to keep his grip on the crack. Searching blindly with his boots, he found a toehold and took the pressure off his throbbing arms. He leaned his cheek against the cool stone, breathing hard. That had been close. Too close.

"How in the Abyss did I do this blasted thieving stuff for so long?" he groaned to himself.

He didn't know. But he only had to do this one last job, and then he could give it up forever.

Shaking the vertigo from his head, he gazed around, his darkvision piercing the gloom. He was in the center of a large circular chamber, clinging to the side of some sort of irregular stone pillar. Had he not managed to catch himself, he would now be lying on the floor over forty feet below, gruesomely wounded or-more likely-dead. Craning his neck, he gazed upward. He could just make out the trapdoor through which he had fallen, perhaps twenty feet above. It was still open, but utterly out of reach. Not that it mattered. His goal lay in the opposite direction-deeper into Undermountain.

A peculiar odor hung in the air, sharp and metallic, like the scent of the air before a storm. The smell troubled him, though he was not certain why. The hair on the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably. However, there was nothing to do but start climbing. He glimpsed two stone doors on opposite sides of the chamber, both closed. Hoping that one of them might lead to his quarry, he felt for crevices and protrusions and started inching his way down the pillar.

He had gone no more than five feet when the lightning struck. Two blue-white bolts of brilliant energy rent the darkness asunder. Each sizzled hotly as it struck one of the shut doorways, then crackled around the chamber, ricocheting wildly off the stone walls. A searing bolt passed inches from Artek's face. He cringed against the scant protection of the pillar.

Only it wasn't a pillar at all, he saw now in the blazing illumination. It was a gigantic statue hewn of seamless, dark red stone. At the moment, Artek clung to the shallow ridge just above its right shoulder blade. The statue's neck ended in a jagged stump, for the head had been knocked off long ago. But the torso and legs were muscled and powerful, like those of a god. The figure's hands-from which several of the fingers had been snapped off-were outstretched in a commanding gesture. It was from these that the two bolts of energy had emanated.

After a few terrifying seconds, the lightning bolts burned themselves out in hisses of sulfur. Artek blinked, but all he could see were purple afterimages. The lightning had temporarily blinded his darkvision. At last the dull red shapes of the statue and walls came back into focus. With a sigh, he started down once more.

Two more lightning bolts arced from the statue's hands to strike the doors and careen around the chamber.

Clinging to the statue's back, Artek narrowly ducked one of the jagged arcs of energy as it crackled past. This time when the lightning dissipated he remained still, staring into the darkness while he counted his heartbeats. He made it to a hundred before the blue-white bolts struck again.

Artek swallowed hard. This did not look good.

Even assuming he could make it to the statue's feet without being struck by the magical lightning, the interval between strikes gave him just over a minute to dash to one of the chamber's doors. This would be more than enough-provided the door was not locked. However, if it was, and he could not pick the lock in time, he would be standing directly in the path of the lightning when it leapt from the statue's outstretched hands again.

As if on cue, once more searing bolts of magic bounced around the chamber before vanishing. Artek racked his brain, but he could not see a surefire way around this trap. Had he been thwarted in his mission already? If so, he was rustier than he had feared. Think, Artek, he told himself urgently. You've got to think! It was no use. His mind was a blank. With a groan of frustration, he smacked his forehead against the hard stone of the statue.

He noticed two things. First, this idiotic action hurt. Second, it resulted in a hollow echo deep inside the statue.

Artek jerked his head back, staring at the statue in astonishment. Quickly, he began running his hands across its smooth stone surface. It had to be here somewhere. Then his fingers brushed a small, slightly raised circle in the center of the statue's back. That was it. He mashed the circle with his thumb. There was a grating noise, and he was nearly thrown off the statue as a small, circular door opened between its shoulder blades.

"Now this adds new meaning to the term back door," Artek quipped with a satisfied grin.

He scrambled through just as lightning sizzled around the chamber again. Pulling the door shut, he sealed himself safely inside the statue. After a long moment his eyes adjusted. He stood at the top of a narrow spiral staircase. Descending the steps, he coiled deeper and deeper, soon certain that he must be far below the statue. Still the stairs plunged downward. At last they ended in an iron door. It was not locked. Tensing himself in readiness, Artek pushed open the portal.

An empty corridor stretched beyond.

Glancing around, he saw no sign of sharp iron spikes, trapdoors, or lightning-shooting statues. He drew in a deep breath. Maybe he could actually relax for a second.

From a pocket in his black leather breeches, he pulled out the crystalline heart jewel. The sapphire light that pulsed in its center, though still dim, was brighter than it had been before. So Lord Corin Silvertor was still alive, and closer now, if some distance away. Holding the heart jewel out before him, Artek started cautiously down the corridor.

Soon he found himself amid a maze of dank passageways and shadow-filled halls. High archways opened to the right and left. Corridors doubled back on themselves or ended abruptly in blank walls. Some stairwells led to nowhere, while others delved deeper into the oppressive dark. It was not at all difficult to believe that this place had been constructed by a mad wizard. There seemed no reason or plan to the vast labyrinth, unless it was to lead those who wandered its ways inexorably downward.

As he went, Artek kept his eye on the heart jewel. A dozen times the light flickered and dimmed, and he retraced his steps until the blue gem began to glow more strongly once again. Then he would try his luck down another passageway or tunnel. It was hardly an elegant method, but it worked. Gradually the glimmer in the center of the heart jewel grew brighter. Slowly but steadily, he worked his way closer to the missing nobleman.

He wasn't certain exactly when he first noticed the sounds drifting in the musty air. At first they hovered on the edge of consciousness, filling him with a vague and nameless unease. Finally they resolved themselves into distant yet distinct noises: an echoing boom like that of a slamming door, the grinding of unknown machinery, and high, wordless cries that were either screams of agony or inhuman howls of blood-lust. Though the sounds were faint and far off, they were not enough so for Artek's comfort. One thing was certain-he was not alone in the maze.

Half-remembered stories drifted to mind, tales told to him as a child by his father, of the lightless warrens of the Garug-Mal. In turn, Artek's father, Arturg, had learned the stories from his own father. His name had been Arthaug, and he had been a high chief among the ores who lived beneath the Gray-peak Mountains. From time to time, the ores had raided human settlements at the foot of the mountains, capturing men and women and bringing them back to the ore warrens to work as slaves, digging and tunneling. It was upon one of these human women that Arthaug had sired Arturg.

Not long after this, Arthaug was deposed in an overthrow engineered by a rival orcish chief. Arthaug was forced to flee the warrens of the Garug-Mal, and he took young Arturg with him. Arthaug plotted for the day he would return to the Graypeak Mountains and become high chief of the Garug-Mal again. However, he died in exile-slain in a duel with highwaymen-without ever again laying eyes on the tunnels of his homeland. After his death, his half-ore son was left to fend for himself.

Fully grown at the age often, Arturg was brutish in appearance. However, he could pass for a human man, at least in dim light. Remembering the power of the brigands who had killed his father, he made his way in the overwork! as a rogue, though he never managed to rise far above petty theft. His companion was a human witch named Siraia, who died giving birth to Artek.

Arturg raised Artek alone, teaching his son all that he knew of stealth and stealing. When Artek was seven, Arturg was caught robbing a rich merchant in Elturel. There he was beheaded, and with him died the dream of Arthaug. For Artek considered himself human, and he had no desire to return to the Graypeak mountains to claim rulership of the Garug-Mal.

Yet it was not so easy for Artek to escape his inhuman legacy. Darkly handsome as he was, others still sometimes glimpsed the orcish blood that ran in his veins. And though, in time, he far surpassed Arturg in skill and success, he was still a thief, just like his father. In the end, his attempt to escape his heritage had been an utter failure, landing him in the prison of the Magisters. He had been stupid to think that he could ever change. He would not make that mistake again.

“This is what I am," he growled under his breath.

Gripping the hilt of his saber, he prowled down the dusky corridors of Under-mountain, forcing the old stories from his head. He had a nobleman to find.

Following the gleaming heart jewel, he passed through an open archway into a long, high-ceilinged room. Immediately his nose wrinkled in disgust. A vile odor hung thickly on the air. Something crunched beneath his boot. Kneeling, he peered at the object. It was a thin, papery tube, almost like a sheath of some sort. Examining it more closely, he saw dull green scales embedded in its surface. Alarm stirred in his chest. He had a bad feeling about this place. Hastily he tossed down the sheath.

It came from behind, a rhythmic whirring sound, along with a rasping hiss.

Artek spun on a heel. In the air before him hovered a brilliant green snake, leathery wings sprouting from its back flapping rapidly to keep the creature aloft. Crimson light gleamed in its dull reptilian eyes, and the thing opened its mouth, baring long fangs.

He dodged barely in time to avoid the stream of vitriol that sprayed from the snake's mouth. The black liquid struck the wall behind him, smoking and sizzling as it burned deep pits into the hard rock. Artek stared at the melting stone in shock.

There was another whirring noise to his left. He jerked his head around to see a second winged snake dart toward him through the air. The flapping sound grew louder, and dry hisses echoed all around. A dozen sinuous shapes drifted out of the shadows. Artek could only watch in horror as he was surrounded by flying snakes.

His hand crept toward the hilt of his saber, though he knew it would do him no good. The creatures closed in, their bodies coiling and uncoiling menacingly. The snake's venom had burned easily through solid stone. Artek could only imagine what it would do to living flesh. Even as he watched, the flying snakes opened gaping mouths, baring their hollow fangs, ready to spray.

"Duck!" a voice shouted.

Such was his terror that Artek did not even question the command. He dropped to the floor, curling into a tight ball. A fraction of a second later, a ball of blazing fire struck the flock of snakes just above his head. A blast of furnacelike air hit him. The creatures hissed and writhed as they were burnt to crisps, and the fireball dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. The blackened husks of the flying snakes dropped to the floor and did not move.

Artek uncoiled himself cautiously. Ashes drifted from the backs of his hands where the hair had been singed away, but he was otherwise unhurt. He clambered to his feet, then looked up to see a woman walking toward him.

Even if she had not just conjured a fireball, he would have mistaken her for nothing other than a wizard. A ball of blue light glowed on the end of the intricately carved staff she gripped, and myriad pouches, feathers, and bones hung from the leather belt around her hips. She was tall-a good head taller than Artek was-and sleek, with close-cropped brown hair. Her too-square jaw and crooked nose precluded prettiness, but there was something warmly compelling about her deep brown eyes. Her clothes were better suited to a young prince out hunting than a wizard or a woman-worn leather breeches, a full white shirt, and a gray vest. However, the garb was dirt-smudged and threadbare, as if she had been wearing it for a long time.

Artek gazed curiously at his mysterious rescuer as she halted a few paces away.

"I suppose that I should thank you for your help," he said cautiously.

"I suppose that you should," she said with a slightly smug expression.

"But in a place such as this," he went on pointedly, "it might be better to first ask how it was that you came upon me at just the right moment."

She shrugged her broad shoulders. "That was easy enough. I was following you, of course. I have been for nearly an hour now."

Artek frowned dubiously at this. "Call me a skeptic, but I'm not exactly a beginner in matters of stealth. And my ears are really rather good. I think I would have heard if you were following me."

"Not if I had cast a spell of silence around myself," she countered with a crooked smirk.

Despite himself, Artek laughed. He doffed an imaginary hat and bowed low, conceding his defeat.

Her brown eyes flashed with mirth. "The truth is, I don't run into many other people down here," she went on. "And monsters make for dreadfully dull conversation partners before you have to kill them. It gets a little lonely. So when I saw you from a distance, I decided to cloak myself in silence and follow." She eyed the burnt remains of the flying snakes. "And it's a good thing I did. Fine company you would be if you had been melted into a puddle of black slime."

With a shudder, Artek agreed.

"By the way," the wizard added, "my name is Beckla Shadesar."

Artek held his breath a moment. "I'm Artek Ar'talen," he said finally.

She gaped at him in open surprise. "You're Artek the Knife?" Hastily she checked the pouches hanging at her belt, counting to make certain they were all still there, and regarded him suspiciously. "You know, I think you once swindled my old employer out of a casket full of emeralds."

"It wouldn't surprise me," Artek replied dryly.

"So have you come down here to steal things?"

He shook his head slowly. "No."

To his surprise she nodded, as if she actually believed him.

"So why are you down here in Undermountain?" he asked carefully.

Her lips parted in a wry smile. "I think both of our tales might wait until we've had a bit of refreshment," she said in lieu of an answer. "I have a bottle of something I've been saving just for a special occasion like this."

Artek hesitated, glancing at the tattoo on his forearm. By the position of the sun in relation to the arrow, several hours had passed. However, he supposed a few moments of rest would do more good than harm. Besides, he was curious to hear the wizard's story.

"Lead the way, Beckla Shadesar," he said with a gracious gesture.

Artek followed the wizard through a door in the far end of the hall into a dusty corridor beyond. As they turned a corner, Beckla suddenly cried out in alarm.

"Artek, look out! It's on you!"

The wizard reached out her hands and shouted a word of magic. Blue energy crackled from her fingertips, striking Artek's side. He let out a howl of pain, dancing around in a circle, swatting at his hindquarters.

That's not a snake," he gritted through clenched teeth. "That's the scabbard for my sword!"

The wizard affected a sheepish look. "Oops."

Artek glared at her. "You nearly set my rump on fire, and all you can say is oops?"

She crossed her arms. "Well, I'm sorry," she countered petulantly. "Sometimes I make mistakes. I'm only human, you know. I suppose you're not?"

Artek grunted. She couldn't know how close to the mark her question had hit. "I think I definitely need that drink now," he muttered.

It wasn't far. At the end of a dim corridor was an iron door. Beckla waved her staff, and the door glowed briefly, then swung open of its own volition.

"It's not much," Beckla said cheerfully, "but I call it home."

She wasn't joking. Beyond the door was a cramped and dingy stone chamber. It was decorated with flotsam and jetsam scavenged from the ancient tunnels and halls: worm-eaten furniture, threadbare tapestries, and dusty shelves overflowing with moldering books and scrolls. Beckla motioned for Artek to enter and then followed, closing the door behind them. She waved her staff, and the portal locked with an audible click.

"It keeps the wandering creatures out," she explained. "Otherwise, I'd never get a wink of sleep."

They sat on a pile of musty cushions, and Beckla rummaged in a nearby chest. I have some food, if you want it," she said. "It isn't great stuff, but considering that it's conjured out of thin air with a spell, I really can't complain." Then she held aloft a purple glass bottle. "Now this is the real thing. Dwarven firebrandy. I found it on some dead adventurers a while back. I think well get more use out of it than they did."

Beckla grabbed two clay cups, blew the dust and spiders out, and filled them with the clear fire-brandy. She handed one to Artek. They clanked the cups together, and the wizard downed her drink in one gulp. With a bemused smile, Artek followed suit. Instantly a delicious warmth spread outward from his stomach. Until now, his magically restored body had still felt slightly strange and alien, as if it weren't really his own. But the firebrandy melted his tense muscles, leaving him feeling extremely comfortable. Beckla refilled their cups.

"So are you ever going to tell me what you're doing down here?" he asked amiably. He sipped his fire-brandy. Suddenly, his mission did not seem quite so urgent.

Beckla giggled, slurping from her own cup. "Actually, there isn't that much to tell. It isn't all that easy to make a living as a wizard these days. And I've taken some jobs I'm not proud of to make ends meet." She sighed deeply, leaning back on the grubby cushions. "I have dreams, of course. Someday I want to have my own tower, and a personal laboratory so I can perform experiments, and devise amazing new spells that no one has ever seen before. I'd be one of the most famous wizards in all of Faerun." She shook her head ruefully. "But a tower and a laboratory cost gold-lots of it. And, unfortunately, that's one thing I haven't figured out how to conjure yet."

The wizard sloshed more firebrandy into their cups as she went on. "A year ago, I took a job working for a moneylender in the South Ward of Water-deep. His name was Vermik. He was vile-tongued and foul-tempered, but he paid well, so I put up with him. Vermik came up with a clever scheme. He had me ensorcell all the coins that passed through his shop to seem slightly heavier than they really were. That way he could shave gold dust from them, and no scale would reveal the trick. Though he took only a little from each coin, a great many went through his business every day, and he was making a killing. Until…" Her words trailed oft

"Until what?" Artek asked.

Beckla swallowed hard. "Until I transmogrified him into a green slime."

Artek choked on his firebrandy. "You what?"

"It was an accident," the wizard huffed defensively. "I didn't mean for the spell to go awry. He had a bad headache, and I was trying to help."

"Like you were trying to help me when you thought my sword was a snake?" Artek replied smartly.

She shot him an annoyed look but otherwise ignored the offending comment. "Anyway, I couldn't figure out how to change Vermik back. Personally, I think it simply brought his physical appearance in accord with the nature of his soul. Needless to say, his henchmen didn't appreciate the finer points of irony. In revenge, they came after my head. Because Fm rather partial to it myself, I decided it would be a good idea to look for a hiding place. I planned to lurk for a while in the sewers beneath Waterdeep. Then I stumbled on a way into Undermountain, and I figured there couldn't be a better hiding place." She held her arms out in a final gesture. "And here I am. I can't say that I like living in this pit. But at least I am living."

"A year is a long time," Artek noted. "I imagine Vermik has given up the chase by now. You could probably return to the surface."

"I would if I could," the wizard replied mournfully. "What I wouldn't give to breathe real air again-not this wet, moldy stuff that passes for air down here. I've heard there's a well a few levels up that leads to a tavern, but I've never been able to find the way there. Of course, the nobles have their own entrances into this hole, but they're well hidden. Besides, they only open if your blood is bluer than sapphires. Then there are the sewers. According to the rumors, the city's sewers lead all the way down here. Maybe they do, but once I spent five days slogging through sludge, only to end up right back where I started."

She let out a forlorn sigh. "But that's the problem with Undermountain. It's a whole lot easier to get in than it is to get out, as you're bound to discover yourself."

Artek reached into his pocket, fidgeting with the small gold box Melthis had given him.

"I suppose now it's my turn to tell you what I'm doing here," he said jovially.

Dimly, he noticed that his words were rather slurred.

His tongue seemed oddly thick. He took a deep swig of his firebrandy, hoping that would improve things, then began his story. By the time he finished, Beckla gripped her cup, staring at him in astonishment.

"You were locked in the Pit?" she said incredulously. After a second she burst into a fit of wild laughter. That must have been terrible!"

"It was absolutely awful," Artek agreed, snorting with mirth. He tried to bring his cup to his lips, but his hand wouldn't seem to behave properly. "They served us gruel with live maggots. And that was on good days!"

Beckla let out a howl of glee. She tried to refill Artek's cup from the purple bottle but missed altogether, spilling dwarven firebrandy on the floor. The volatile liquid quickly evaporated.

"So how are you supposed to find this missing nobleman anyway?" Beckla managed to gasp.

"With this." Artek pulled out the heart jewel and tossed it to the wizard. She fumbled with the glowing stone and finally managed to clutch it. "But he could be almost anywhere in this labyrinth. Even with the jewel, it could take weeks to find him." He thrust out his arm, pointing to the magical tattoo, grinning broadly. "And if I don't get back out in two days, this thing will kill me!"

This statement sent them both into breathless paroxysms of laughter.

"At least I have this," Artek choked through his mirth. He showed her the golden box. "When I find the nobleman, all I have to do is open this and a magical gate will appear, leading back to the surface."

Beckla gazed at the box with wide eyes. "Oooh. That's very nice!" She looked from side to side, then giggled mischievously. "Listen, I have a secret to tell you."

Artek leaned dizzily closer. "What is it?"

She bit her lip, then smiled crookedly, speaking in an exaggerated whisper. "I know where he is. Your lost lord. He's not far. I could take you right to him."

Artek sat up straight. Instantly the giddiness drained from him. That was the advantage of dwarven firebrandy, and the reason it was such a rare and expensive commodity. Its highly intoxicating effects ceased the moment one wished them to. He stared at her, his black eyes deadly serious.

"You know where Lord Corin Silvertor is?"

The wizard's face quickly grew solemn as she too willed away the effects of the firebrandy.

"I do."

Artek bore into her with his black eyes. He could see her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat, but she did not look away. Thief's instinct warned him that she was not telling him everything. But she was not lying. Of that he was certain. She did indeed know where to find the lost lord.

Take me to him," he said intently.

Take me with you," she replied in an even voice.

For a silent moment the two gazed at each other. Then a reluctant smile spread across Artek's face; this time, it was not from the firebrandy.

It looks like we have a deal, wizard."

Beckla beamed brightly in reply. She stood, gripping her wizard's staff. "All right, thief," she said crisply. "Let's go rescue us a nobleman."