Escape from Undermountain - Mark Anthony [111]
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.
Muragh's teeth had done little damage, but Darien had been thrown off balance and Corin did not waste the chance. His rapier flashed in a bright arc, severing Darien's right arm above the wrist. The Device bounced to the carpet, its steel prongs still whirling violently. Darien stared in horror at the gory stump of his arm. He clutched it to his body and stumbled back against a polished mahogany wall. The cruel arrogance in his eyes was replaced by terror as Corin advanced, leveling his rapier at Darien's chest.
Darien shook his head slowly, tears streaming from his eyes. "Please," he whined piteously. "Please, Lord Silvertor. I beg of you. Have mercy!"
Corin hesitated only a moment. "No, Darien," he said quietly. "Mercy is for innocents."
Darien opened his mouth to scream, but was cut short by the whiplike sounds of Corin's rapier. Corin withdrew the blade. For a moment it seemed his blows had done nothing-Darien stared forward with an almost peaceful expression. Then blood began to flow from a dozen wounds on his arms and torso. A line of crimson appeared around his neck. Cleanly severed, Darien's head rolled to one side while his body slumped to the other, and both fell to the floor in a rapidly growing pool of blood.
"Do forgive me," Corin whispered. The rapier slipped from his numb fingers as he stared at the grisly scene he had wrought.
Artek lifted the cursed saber. He willed his hand to release the hilt. To his amazement, the blade fell to the floor. Then he felt it: the first pinpricks of pain in his arm. His eyes locked on the tattoo. The sun was centered squarely on the arrow now. Sparks of crimson magic sizzled around the lines of dark ink, and he shuddered as blazing agony traveled swiftly up his arm, reaching toward his heart.
Now that he had finally come to the end, he found that he was not afraid anymore. Perhaps it was because he finally knew who he was. And it was Guss who had shown him, with his noble sacrifice. If a gargoyle could be good, then so could Artek. It didn't matter what one was created to be. What mattered was how one lived one's life. He knew now that he didn't have to choose between being good and being part orc. He could be both.
Artek threw his head back, calling out to the heavens. "Arturg! Arthaug! My fathers before me! I come to you!"
"No!" a voice screamed.
It was Beckla.
The wizard rushed toward him as he fell to his knees. She raised her hand. Something gold and crimson shone on her finger. "Gate!" she cried. "Open!"
As she spoke the words, a glowing square filled with billowing gray mist appeared before them. Deadly crimson magic crackled around Artek's tattoo. He arched his spine in agony. His heart jerked in his chest.
Filled as he was with pain, he almost didn't notice as Beckla grabbed his arm and thrust it into the shimmering gate. The