"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 Ha-laster'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.
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 ho 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.