Escape from Undermountain

Outcasts

Artek and Beckla came to a halt before a high basalt archway shaped like a gaping mouth. Whether the maw was open in laughter or a scream was impossible to tell. Green mold clung to the stony lips, and black water dripped from jagged teeth. Distant sounds drifted through the archway: grunts, snarls, and high-pitched howls. They were almost like the noises of animals. Almost, but not quite. Beyond the mouth lay darkness.

'This archway marks the border of the territory of the Outcasts/ Beckla whispered. A faint blue radiance bathed her face, emanating from the wisp of magelight hovering on the end of her staff.

"The Outcasts?" Artek asked quietly. The oppressive silence seemed a living thing. It did not like the intrusion of their words. "Who are they?"

Beckla shook her head grimly. "What are they might be a more appropriate question."

Artek gazed at her in puzzlement. Quietly, the wizard explained her cryptic words.

"I think they were people once," she began. "But they were shunned by the world above and driven down beneath the city. I suppose it was because they were different. They were the city's malformed, its ill, its mad." She shook her head ruefully. "I don't know why people are so terrified of those who aren't exactly the same as everyone else. But they are. They fear difference, and hate it. I imagine that was what drove the Outcasts down. It wasn't their fault they were different, but it still made them pariahs. I think that over the years, one by one, the unwanted of Waterdeep retreated down into the sewers beneath the city, and many eventually found their way into the halls of Undermountain."

Beckla gazed thoughtfully into the darkness with her deep brown eyes. "There's a whole world down here beneath the city," she murmured. "One that those who walk the daylit streets above have no idea even exists."

Artek let out a grunt. He knew well what it was like to be despised simply because he was not like others. Would the Magisters have been so deaf to his claims of innocence had orcish blood not run in his veins? He could feel sympathy for the Outcasts, for those who had chosen to live in the dark below rather than be feared in the light above.

"So it's these Outcasts who have Lord Corin Silvertor?" he asked finally.

Beckla nodded, confirming his guess. "They're holding him prisoner deep in their territory."

"Well, I don't suppose a ragtag band of misfits will give us much trouble," Artek said gruffly.

At this, Beckla shook her head fiercely. "You don't understand, Artek. The Outcasts are not what they used to be. Anyone scorned by the world above is welcomed among them. But they hate those who are whole-those like us. And over the years that hatred has… changed them."

A chill snaked down Artek's back. "Changed them?" he asked slowly. "How?"

She gripped her staff with white-knuckled hands. "I think their hatred melded with some dark magic that lingers in these corridors even now, so long after Halaster created them. The very stones exude an evil enchantment like a foul odor. The Outcasts fled the world above because they were perceived as monsters. And over time, down here in the darkness, they have become just that. The atmosphere of Undermountain has twisted them. I've never laid eyes on any of the Outcasts myself-few who do so survive. But accord-. ing to the stories, they're not human anymore." Beckla could not suppress a shiver.

Artek stared at her in grisly astonishment. "So why wouldn't they just kill Lord Silvertor?" he asked. "From the description I got, Silvertor is young and handsome. If what you've said about the Outcasts is true, they would loathe him."

"Yes, they would," the wizard agreed solemnly. "But you don't know the whole story. The Outcasts don't kill those who intrude upon their territory." Revulsion choked her voice. "Instead they twist their bodies and minds, turning the intruders into Outcasts like themselves."

This time it was Artek who shivered. It was a horrible image. "How do you know all this, Beckla?"

The wizard flashed a wan smile in his direction. "I have my ways."

He frowned at this enigmatic answer, and she let out a soft laugh.

"Actually, it's no mystery," she explained. "I'm not the only one hiding out down here. And rumors tend to travel pretty swiftly through these dreary tunnels."

Artek nodded, temporarily satisfied with her answer. An uneasy feeling gathered in his stomach. He glanced down at the dark ink tattoo on his arm; the arrow was now halfway between sun and moon. Already six hours had passed. He didn't like the idea of meeting up with the Outcasts, but he had little choice. If he wanted to live, he had to venture into their territory.

He shot the wizard a questioning look. "Are you certain you still want to come with me, Beckla?"

That little golden box of yours might be the only way I'm ever going to get out of here." She crossed her arms, fixing him with an even gaze.

"You could just kill me and take it, you know."

Her lips parted in a crooked grin. "If I was going to do that, wouldn't I have done it by now?"

Despite his fear, he let out a laugh. "I suppose so."

Together, they stepped through the archway's gaping mouth.

While elsewhere the dank air of Under-mountain had been oppressive, here it was downright menacing. As they went, the darkness parted sluggishly before Beckla's flickering ball of magelight and closed turgidly behind them, like oily water in the wake of a ship. Artek found himself taking shallow breaths; he was reluctant to draw the noxious atmosphere into his lungs, as if once inside his body it might fester, filling him with its dark disease. He knew that they were not welcome here.

The two walked down a twisting tunnel; its walls were strangely curved and ridged. A dark, glistening mucus covered them, dripping onto the floor, which was nauseatingly soft and spongy under their feet. In all, the tunnel seemed as if it had not been hewn of stone, but was alive. Artek felt as if they had been swallowed by a gigantic creature, and were now moving down its long, sinuous esophagus. Hot bile rose in his own throat. He tried to force the queasy image from his mind, but had little success.

They had gone only a short way when the moist tunnel divided. They paused, and Artek pulled the heart jewel out of his pocket. The blue light glimmering in the center was stronger now. He moved a few paces down the right-hand passageway. The gem 'flickered. He retraced his steps, then padded down the left-hand tunnel. The glow inside the heart jewel steadied and strengthened.

"This way," Artek whispered.

Beckla followed after him, and the two moved down the slime-covered passage. Before long the tunnel forked again, and again. Each time Artek used the glowing heart jewel to determine which way they should take. Soon they found themselves in a labyrinth of networking tunnels, branching and rejoining countless times in a chaotically braided pattern. Artek began to wonder if they could ever find their way back out if they needed to. He did not voice his fear.

A distant thrum vibrated in the air. It was so low that they felt it more than they heard it, reverberating beneath their feet, almost like the sound of a beating heart. Otherwise, the winding tunnels were utterly silent. The grunts and howls that had drifted out of the mouth-arch had ceased. The quiet was even more disturbing.

"Where are the Outcasts?" Artek hissed when the silence became almost unbearable.

Beckla bit her lip nervously. "I don't know. But I almost wish they would just show themselves. I don't think facing them could be any more horrible than wondering and waiting."

There was nothing to do but keep moving. The tunnel opened up before them, and they found themselves in a smooth-walled chamber. Glossy shapes were embedded in the wall, livid and throbbing, like huge organs. Sickened, they hurried across the squelching floor and moved through a circular opening in the far wall.

Artek glanced at the heart jewel in his hand. The light m the center was so bright they hardly needed Beckla's magelight. The glow pulsed steadily, echoing the lost lord's heart. Silvertor was still alive. And by the rapid rate of his pulse, Artek guessed he was terribly afraid-as well he should be in this place. But the nobleman was close now, Artek was sure.

They rounded a sharp bend, then skidded to an abrupt halt. Something was embedded in the tunnel wall, something alive. It writhed beneath a translucent sheath of tough mucus, like an insect inside a chrysalis. In dread fascination, Artek and Beckla approached.

It was a person. For a moment, Artek thought it might be Lord Silvertor, but as they drew near, he saw that this was not so. It was a woman, some other prisoner of the Outcasts. She struggled vainly against the viscous bonds that held her within the wall. Her eyes bulged when she saw them, and she pressed her face against the clear sheath that covered her, stretching it. She opened her mouth, screaming. No sound came out, but Artek could understand her words by the movements of her lips. Help me, she was screaming. Please, by all the gods, help me.

"We've got to cut her free!" Beckla cried.

Artek reached for the saber at his hip. In horror, he froze. It was too late.

Slick tendrils snaked out of the wall and plunged into the woman's body. They pulsed like veins, pumping her full of dark fluids. She screamed, convulsing violently. All at once she fell still. As Artek 'and Beckla watched in revulsion, her body began to change. Her skin dissolved, revealing glistening muscles and organs beneath. As if of their own volition, her body parts began to undulate, rearranging themselves into hideous and alien new shapes. The woman twitched and shuddered. She was still alive, but she was transforming into something else.

There's nothing we can do," Artek gasped, feeling side. He grabbed Beckla's arm. "We have to go!"

The wizard nodded jerkily and stumbled after him. They careened down the tunnel, passing more prisoners embedded in the moist, fleshy walls. All were in the process of being transformed; all were beyond hope.

The tunnel opened into another chamber, one with pink walls and a ribbed ceiling. Thick green liquid bubbled in a pool in the center of the room. A caustic stench hung in the air, burning their eyes and noses. The jewel in Artek's hand flared brilliantly.

"He's got to be here!" he gasped, gagging on the stinging air. He spun around, searching the slime-covered walls.

"There!" Beckla choked, pointing.

They rushed to the far side of the chamber. A body was embedded in the wall, struggling beneath a taut, fibrous sheath. Artek peered through the covering, dreading what he would see. He glimpsed a young man with a pale face, golden hair, and terrified blue eyes. It was the lost lord-Corin Silvertor.

"I think he's all right," Artek uttered in relief. "It looks like the transformation hasn't begun."

"Then we've got to get him out," Beckla replied urgently. "And fast!"

Artek drew his saber and slashed at the glistening sheath. It was tougher than he would have guessed. He pushed harder, until at last the tip of the blade penetrated the membrane. Clear yellow fluid oozed out. Clenching his jaw to keep from gagging, Artek slid the saber down, cutting open a large slit, and more ichor spilled out.

"Give me a hand!" he cried.

Together, he and the wizard reached into the slit, grabbing hold of Silvertor. They strained backward. At first there was resistance, but then, with a sucking sound, the young man slid through the opening in a gush of thick fluid. At the same moment, livid tendrils sprang out of the wall, searching blindly for living flesh into which they could pump their vile secretions. Clutching the lord, Artek and Beckla fell to the floor, hastily rolling out of reach of the waving tentacles.

Breathing hard, they climbed to their feet, pulling Silvertor up with them. The young man wobbled precariously, then managed to stand with their assistance. Foul-smelling ichor dripped from his once-fine clothes of blue velvet and ruffled white silk. With trembling hands, he wiped the slime from his face. Even as Artek's swarthy looks denoted his orcish blood, so too the young man's fine, elegant features indicated his noble heritage.

Lord Corin Silvertor smiled weakly as he gazed at Artek and Beckla. "I must say, your tuning is impeccable/* he said in a haggard but cultured voice. "I know not who you may be, but I must thank you for rescuing me. I am forever in your debt. Know that I and my family will lavish great rewards upon you for this deed. Anything you wish of me, you have only to ask it"

"Anything?" Artek growled.

"Anything!" Corin agreed enthusiastically.

"Then shut up," Artek snapped. "We're not out of here yet."

"What's wrong?" the lord gasped, his blue eyes going wide.

Artek did not answer the question, but gazed around the chamber. "Can you hear them, Beckla?" he whispered.

She nodded slowly. "They're coming."

The word escaped Artek's mouth like a hiss. "Outcasts."

All around the room, large bubbles appeared in the soft floor and walls. They swelled rapidly like blisters, their outer skins shining glossily.

"I don't like the looks of this," the wizard said in a low voice. Artek only nodded.

"What's happening?" Corin cried anxiously, wringing his hands.

The other two ignored him. Reaching into a pocket, Artek pulled out the small golden box that Melthis had given him. He fumbled with the tiny latch, then swore as the box slipped from his sweaty hands. It fell to the slimy floor, slid, then came to a halt on the very edge of the pit of roiling green liquid.

Beckla shot him a scathing look. "And here I thought thieves were supposed to be dexterous and graceful."

"Everyone has their off days," Artek snapped.

With a wet, sickening sound, a blister in the opposite wall burst open. A twisted form climbed out, trailing sticky strings of ichor-an Outcast. It was a thing of grotesque distortion, all bubbling flesh, rubbery limbs, and glistening organs fused together in the vaguest mockery of a human form. Bulging eyes sprouting from a half-exposed brain focused malevolently on the three humans. The misshapen creature began dragging itself toward them.

Another straining blister exploded, then another, and another. All around the chamber, Outcasts pulled their slimy bodies out of the walls and floor. Each lurched, jumped, or slithered forward as best suited its own contorted shape. A score of lopsided mouths grinned evilly, revealing countless teeth as sharp as glass shards.

The Outcasts advanced, and Artek and Beckla retreated toward the boiling pit. Corin cringed behind them, whimpering softly. At least the twit was no longer blathering, Artek thought darkly. It was small consolation.

Artek came to a halt, his boot heel on the very edge of the pit. He bent down cautiously and snatched up the golden box before it could topple over the rim. Eyeing the bubbling vat warily, Beckla lowered the end of her staff into the green liquid. There was a hiss and a puff of acrid smoke. Hastily she pulled out the staff, and her eyes went wide. The end had completely dissolved away.

"I think we're in trouble, Artek," she gulped.

"You don't say?" he said caustically.

The Outcasts closed in.

"Quick, Artek!" Beckla shouted. "You've got to open the gate!" She thrust her staff forward. A bolt of blue energy shot out, striking an Outcast only a few paces away. The thing let out an inhuman shriek, its flesh smoking, but it continued to lurch toward them.

"I hope I don't have to know any magic words to use this thing," Artek muttered. This time he wrenched the lid open by force, breaking the finely wrought gold latch.

Instantly a small silvery disk rose out of the box. The disk grew swiftly, floating in midair, until it was as wide as Artek's arms. Through its shimmering surface he could just make out an image: the stone walls of the alley where he had parted ways with Melthis and Darien Thai.

There was no time for hesitation.

"Jump!" Artek shouted.

He grabbed Beckla's and Corin's hands and threw himself toward the disk. At the same moment the Outcasts lunged for them, and a rubbery hand brushed Artek's arm. Then he broke the surface of the shimmering disk and fell through the gate, dragging the others with him. It felt exactly as if they had plunged into icy water. The dim scene of the alley wavered before them, drawing nearer, as if they were slowly surfacing from the bottom of a cold, deep pool.

Then, with a terrible wrenching sensation, the vision of the alley was torn away. The three spun wildly, as if caught in a fierce riptide. Artek cried out, feeling Corin's hand separate from his own, but his voice made no sound in the frigid void. The cold sliced his flesh and splintered his bones. Then all sensation vanished as the three plunged downward into endless darkness.

For countless centuries, the subterranean chamber had dwelled in dark and perfect silence. In all that time, no living thing had ever breathed the room's dank air, or disturbed the silken carpet of dust that covered the stone floor. Few creatures dared to live this far below the surface of the world. Here, within this forgotten chamber, shadows had always reigned.

Until now.

A throbbing hum resonated in the air, shattering the ancient silence. A brilliant silver line appeared in the dusky air, causing shadows to flee to the corners of the room and cower. Crackling, the silver line widened into a jagged rift. Three large shapes tumbled out of the gap. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the blazing gate folded inward upon itself and vanished. The sharp smell of lightning lingered in the stale air.

With a groan, Artek pulled himself to his feet and shook his head dizzily. Only once before had he ever felt this groggy, and that had involved a jug of blood-wine, a half-ore barmaid, and a dance called The Dead Goblin. After a moment, his darkvision adjusted, and he saw Beckla sprawled on the stones some distance away. Hastily he moved to the wizard, fearing that the fall had injured her, but his sharp ears caught a muttered string of strikingly graphic curses and oaths. He grinned, his slightly pointed teeth glowing in the darkness. Beckla was just fine.

Gripping the wizard's hand, he hauled her to her feet. Wavering blue light flared to life on the end of her staff, illuminating the chamber. Nightmarish friezes covered the walls, and grotesque statues lurked in the corners. Artek shuddered. Whatever this place was, it had been created by a mad and evil genius.

Beckla spoke with a frown. "Granted, it's been a while since I've been to the surface, but this doesn't exactly look like the streets of Waterdeep to me."

"I don't understand," Artek replied in confusion. "When I opened the gate, I saw the alley where I left Darien Thai. We were heading right toward it. And then…" He shook his head, trying to remember the disorienting seconds after they had jumped through the gate.

Beckla gazed at one of the friezes. The stone relief depicted a tangled mass of writhing bodies tumbling into a jagged pit. Nervously, she looked away. "I have a very bad feeling about this," she said grimly.

"You're not the only one," Artek gulped.

Beckla looked around in the dim light. "So what happened to the lump? I mean, the lord?"

Artek glanced about. "Silvertor let go of my hand as we passed through the gate," he said. "The fool could have landed anywhere nearby."

Suddenly, a cry of fear emanated from one of the shadowed corners of the chamber.

"Help! Help!" a voice wailed piteously. "I've been caught by a terrible monster! It's going to eat me! Please, somebody-help!"

Artek and Beckla exchanged looks of alarm, then dashed toward the corner. Artek's hand dropped to the hilt of his saber, while Beckla gripped her staff tightly. Artek swore inwardly. That foppish young lord was his one ticket to freedom-and to continued life. If the fool had managed to get into trouble already, Artek was going to… well, he wasn't going to kill Silvertor-he needed the lord alive-but he would come up with something extremely unpleasant.

Artek and Beckla reached the opposite corner of the chamber. The wizard's magelight pierced the gloom to reveal Lord Corin Silvertor, flailing wildly in midair, hanging by his coat from the jaws of a huge beast. His pale face was agape with terror. In the shadows behind him loomed a terrifying, evil shape that looked like a cross between a lizard and a wolf. For a frozen second, Artek stared in horror. Then laughter rumbled in his chest. Next to him, Beckla burst into peals of mirth.

"What's wrong with you two?" Corin cried fearfully. "Can't you see that the dastardly monster has got me! So far I've been able to hold the foul beast at bay with my bare hands, but I don't think that I can stave it off much longer! You've got to help me. Please!"

This was too much for Artek and Beckla. They leaned against each other, shoulders shaking, howling with laughter. Corin gaped at them in terror and confusion. Then, aided by Beckla's glowing blue magelight, realization gradually dawned on him.

The monster was made of stone. In the soft light emanating from Beckla's staff, the thing was clearly revealed to be a statue. Cracks covered its dusty shape, and one of its gnarled legs had been snapped off and lay nearby. The collar of Corin's velvet coat had snagged on a sharp tooth in the statue's gaping lower jaw, suspending the nobleman in midair. Apparently it had caught him when he tumbled out of the gate.

"Well, isn't this awkward," Corin said sheepishly.

"For you, at least," Beckla snorted.

The nobleman gave her a wounded look but said nothing.

Artek scrambled up the basalt statue and perched on its flat skull. He drew a dagger from his boot and cut the fold of blue velvet that had snagged the stone tooth. With a yelp, Corin fell to the floor, and Beckla helped the stunned lord to his feet. The nobleman did his best to arrange his expensive clothes, but they were torn and smeared with dark slime. He brushed his long, pale hair away from his high forehead.

"You could have warned me before you cut my coat, you know," he said indignantly as Artek lightly hopped down from the statue.

"I know," Artek said amiably, slipping the dagger back into his boot.

Corin’s blue eyes grew large at this impertinence. He stared at Artek and Beckla, then swallowed hard. "You two aren't dangerous, are you?"

Beckla smiled nastily. "As a matter of fact, we are."

Fear blanched Corin’s boyishly handsome face.

Artek shot Beckla an annoyed look, then turned back toward the nobleman. "Don't worry, Silvertor. We may be dangerous, but we came here to rescue you. This is Beckla Shadesar. You can tell she's a wizard by her peculiar notion of humor. She's on the run from her old master, who she turned into a green slime. And I'm-" He licked his lips nervously. Why didn't this ever get any easier? "I’m Artek Ar'talen."

A strangled sound of fear and surprise escaped Corin’s throat, and he hastily backed away. "You're Artek the Knife?"

"Oh, get over it," Artek growled.

Apparently this was easier said than done. Corin shrank against a wall, hand to his mouth, staring at his rescuers in turn, as if trying to decide of which he should be the more afraid. Artek turned his back on the nobleman; they had other matters to worry about.

"So where do you think we are?" he asked Beckla. '"The gate could have transported us anywhere on the continent of Faerun."

She shook her head. "I'm not certain. But I have an idea. And I don’t much care for it."

"What is it?"

“I’ll show you."

The wizard bent down and picked up a loose pebble from the crumbling floor. Laying it on her outstretched palm, she murmured an incantation. A pale white aura flickered around the pebble. Beckla drew in a deep breath, then blew on the stone. The aura vanished. The pebble was dark and ordinary once again.

"I was afraid of that," Beckla sighed.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" Artek asked dubiously.

She scowled at him. "As a matter of fact, you are. I just cast a spell of teleportation on the pebble."

"But it's still here."

"Exactly. That's because the walls of this place are imbued with an enchantment to prevent anything from magically transporting in or out."

"Wait a minute," Artek protested in confusion. "The walls of what place?"

Beckla spoke a single grim word.

"Undermountain."

Artek swore an oath. Instinctively, he knew the wizard was right. This place had the same oppressive feel as the rest of Undermountain. No, it was even stronger.

"The enchantment is Halaster's doing," Beckla went on. "The mad wizard wanted to make certain no one found an easy way out of his maze."

"So how deep are we?" Artek asked hoarsely.

"Let's find out," Beckla replied without relish.

She whispered another incantation over the pebble, and it began to glow again. With a final word of magic, she cast the pebble into the air. It did not fall, but floated high above them.

"The ceiling represents the surface world, and the floor the very bottom of Undermountain," Beckla explained. The pebble will tell us where we are now."

The wizard made an intricate gesture with her hand. The pebble began to descend. It continued to sink slowly as they watched in growing alarm. At last it came to a halt halfway between floor and ceiling.

"Is that very deep?" Artek asked nervously.

Beckla nodded. "If we were still in the halls where we met, the pebble would be no more than a foot below the ceiling." A haunted look crept into her brown eyes. "I don't think anyone has ever been this deep in Undermountain before. At least, not any who lived to tell about it."

Cold dread filled Artek's stomach. "But that's impossible,'' he said emphatically. "You said that we couldn't teleport out of the maze. You didn't say that a gate would fail as well!"

"A gate is different from a teleport spell, Artek." Beckla fixed him with a piercing look. "It should have worked. What did you do?"

"It wasn't me!" he said defensively.

"Well, somebody did something."

At this Artek nodded, scratching his chin. "You're right. And there's only one person who might be able to help us understand exactly what happened."

As one, Artek and Beckla turned to glare at Conn.

"What?" the lord gasped in shock, clutching a hand to his chest. "You can't possibly believe that I had anything to do with this."

"No, I don't," Artek replied gruffly. "But I think it's time we heard your story all the same."

Corin mopped his face with the ruffled cuff of his coat. The effort did little besides smear around the grime, but the nobleman was oblivious to this fact.

"Let's see," Corin began. "It all started when Lord Darien Thai invited me on a hunt into Undermountain. I had never ventured into Halaster's halls before, and I was thrilled at the prospect. It's all the rage these days, you know."

Artek and Beckla rolled their eyes but kept listening.

"The hunting party set out from Lord Thai's private entrance into Undermountain," Corin went on, his enthusiasm growing. "We were a grand sight. A dozen strong, and all bearing bright swords. Of course, I had my trusty rapier here." He patted the slender blade at his hip.

Artek barely managed to stifle a snort. A real monster wouldn't even feel the bite of that rat-sticker. Nobles, he thought derisively-they were all fools of fashion, and nothing more.

"I was having an absolutely marvelous time." Corin’s bright expression darkened. "That is, until I got lost. It was my own fault. I lingered behind to examine a fascinating stone vase-I think it was Third Dynasty Calishite-while the others continued on ahead. When I tried to catch up, the rest of the party was nowhere to be seen. We had been making for a place called the Emerald Fountain. I tried to find the fountain, hoping to meet the others there, but it was no use. And then," said Corin, shuddering, "the Outcasts captured me."

"Wait a minute," Beckla interrupted. "Why were you going to the Emerald Fountain?"

"It was Darien's idea," Corin answered. "He said it was a magical font, and that if I drank from its waters, I would gain wisdom beyond my years. I could do with a little extra wisdom, as I am to take the seventh seat on the Circle of Nobles in two days' time."

"It's not wisdom you would have gained from drinking from the Emerald Fountain," Beckla said darkly. "Death is all you would have found in its green waters."

"But Darien's my dearest friend!" Corin protested. "Why would he tell me to drink from the fountain if it wasn't safe?"

Artek bit his lower lip. That was a good question. Tell me something, Silvertor," he said. "If you were not present when the vote was held, who would ascend to the Circle of Nobles in your stead?"

Corin shrugged. "Why, I imagine Lord Thai is the next in line. But what does that-oh!" The young lord's eyes went wide with sudden realization.

Artek nodded. This was all starting to make sense. He plied Corin with more questions about Darien Thai and the hunting trip and soon pieced together a story. While he wasn't certain if it was exactly right, he knew it couldn't be far from the truth.

Without doubt, Lord Darien Thai wanted the vacant seat on the Circle of Nobles for himself He had invited Corin on a hunt into Undermountain, secretly planning for the young lord to meet with an unfortunate "accident," after which nothing would stand between Darien and the seat on the Circle. Yet Darien had not counted on Corin getting lost before the foolish young lord could be disposed of.

That's where I came in, Artek thought angrily. Darien did not want to take the chance that Corin would somehow manage to stumble on a way out of Undermountain in time for the vote. He needed someone to go below and finish the job. All along it had been Artek's task not to rescue Corin, but to make certain that he never returned from Undermountain. The golden box from Melthis had not malfunctioned at all. The gate had taken them exactly where Darien had intended-deeper into Undermountain.

"Guhr og noth!" Artek swore. It was an orcish oath, learned from his father. Rage boiled in his blood at the one possible conclusion.

Lord Darien Thai had betrayed him.