Artek sat up with a groan. Bite of garbage tumbled from his shoulders. It felt as if his body had been trampled by a stampeding herd of Vaasan thunderhooves.
"Where '… where are we?" asked a tremulous voice. It was Muragh. The skull still dangled from the belt of Artek's priestly garb.
"Good question," Artek said hoarsely. His darkvision adjusted, piercing the perfect blackness around them. They were in a small, rough-hewn cave. Beneath them was a heap of rotting refuse and rusting junk that had been tossed into the garbage pit so far above. Sudden panic clutched his heart Where were the others?
He shook his head, trying to clear away the disori-entation of the nightmarish fall. Then he remembered. After they had leapt into the pit, leaving behind the bloodthirsty priests of Malar, the hole had angled, and they had slid wildly down a steep stone slope, unable to stop their descent. Once again, Undermountain had pulled them deeper. Even Guss had been trapped, for the passage was too narrow for him to spread his leathery wings.
It seemed they had slid for hours, plunging ever deeper into the bowels of the world. Then, without warning, the tunnel had divided. Beckla, Corin, and Guss had fallen to the left, while Artek and Muragh had bounced to the right. The screams of the others had vanished in an instant. A few moments later, the harrowing ride had come to a jarring end. The tunnel had ended, and for a moment Artek had fallen through empty air. Then he had landed atop the garbage heap. Foul as the refuse was, he knew he should be grateful, for it had cushioned his fall, leaving him with bruises instead of broken bones.
Artek half-climbed, half-slid off the midden heap and stood stiffly. Sweat beaded on his brow. The darkness was hot and oppressive here. The weight of countless tons of rock pressed heavily from above. A sharp metallic odor hung upon the air, stinging his nostrils and burning inside his lungs. Then he heard a weird clicking sound that drew closer as he listened. He saw a dark opening in the far wall of the chamber-the source of the sound.
"Do you hear that?" Muragh asked nervously.
Artek nodded grimly. "Something is coming."
"Quick!" the skull whined in terror. "Hide us!”
"Wait a minute," Artek muttered. Tm the one who should be afraid. You're already dead, you know"
"And it's an experience I don't care to repeat," Muragh replied with a shudder. "Now move it!"
Much as Artek would have liked, there was no time to reproach the imperious skull. Moving silently, he padded toward the cave's wall and pressed his body into a shadow-filled fissure. The eerie clicking noise drew nearer. A red glow appeared in the opening in the far wall. A moment later, two creatures scuttled into the chamber.
Bugs-that was Artek's first thought But they were like no insects he had ever seen. They were easily as large as a man, but flat and round, with small heads and eight appendages, two of which ended in strangely shaped claws. Each seemed to have a lantern attached to the back of its head, and it was from these that the ruddy light issued. In all, they looked like weirdly distorted sea crabs. The blotchy carapaces that covered their backs were the exact color of rusted iron.
No, Artek realized in shock, their shells didn't simply look like iron. They were iron. And so was the rest of them. There was no doubt. His heat-sensing darkvision could discern the difference between living tissue and dead metal. Whatever these creatures were, they weren't alive at all, but some sort of mechanical devices. Yet they seemed to move with a rudimentary intelligence as they made for the garbage heap.
To Artek's further surprise, a tinny voice emanated from the pincer mouth of one of the creatures.
"Whrrr. Ferragans search for metal," it droned. "Good ferragans. Clkkk."
"Yes, search fallings from above," the other creature echoed in a metallic buzz. "Scrrr. Find metal. Squch be happy. Bzzzt. Good, good ferragans."
The crablike creatures-which were evidently called ferragans-scrabbled onto the garbage pile. Artek now saw that each bore two different types of claws: one shaped like a broad hammerhead, the other like a pincer with three multijointed prongs. With this latter claw, obviously designed for gripping, the ferragans began picking through the rubbish heap. When one found a piece of scrap metal, it reached back and placed it in a wire basket attached to its carapace, emitted a high-pitched clicking that sounded almost like gleeful laughter and then continued searching. Finally, their baskets full, the two creatures clambered off the pile.
"Clkkk. Good ferragans," they droned in mindless monotones. "Found metal. Whrrr. Good, good ferragans.'' The creatures scuttled from the chamber and were gone.
Artek crept from his hiding place. He considered following the ferragans, then decided against it. What would be the point? Where could they lead him that would be any better than this pit? Either way, he had lost the others-and himself. There was no telling how deep below the surface they were now. The darkness seemed to creep into his heart, snuffing out his wan hopes. He would never get back to the city in time now. In disgust, he cast off the priestly garb of Malar. With a desolate sigh, he sat down on the foot of the garbage heap, setting Muragh beside him.
"Why are you just sitting here, Artek?" Muragh said in puzzlement. "What's the matter with you?"
He did not answer the skull. Instead he stared at the tattoo on his arm. The sun had just passed the arrow. In the world above, night had fallen. Just twelve more hours, and all of this would be over.
"I wish it would just happen now, so I could get it over with," he whispered bitterly.
"You wish what would happen now?" Muragh asked.
"This," Artek growled, striking the tattoo with his opposite hand. "What's the point in waiting to die?" He shook Ms head grimly. "I wish I were already dead."
"Don't say that"
Artek stared at the skull in surprise. Muragh's reedy voice had dropped to a grim whisper. His lipless mouth no longer seemed to be grinning, but clenched in anger. His orbless eyes bore into Artek.
"Don't ever say that," Muragh repeated darkly. "You don't know what it's like. You can't know. You can't" The skull shuddered, though whether in terror or rage-or perhaps both-Artek could not tell. He shook his head, unsure what to say!
"Isn't this just perfect?" Muragh asked with bitter mirth, "Here you want to throw away your life, and I would give anything to have mine back. Even for just twelve hours. Whatever time I had left, even if it was only a minute, I wouldn't squander it. I would enjoy every second of it, and be grateful for what I had." Despite his lack of flesh, Muragh's expression was somehow rueful. "Life is always most wasted upon the living. The gods sure have a twisted sense of humor."
Shamed, Artek hung his head. Again, he had proven himself utterly thoughtless. He might as well have been a rich man throwing away a loaf of bread in front of a starving beggar. Finally he looked at the skull. "What is… what is it like to…?“
"What is it Like to be dead?" the skull finished for him. "Is that what you want to know?"
Artek nodded. For a long moment, he thought Muragh was not going to answer. Then the enchanted skull spoke in a low, eerie voice.
"It's horrible, that's what it's like. It's cold, and dark, and empty, utterly empty. Maybe it's better for those who have truly departed. Maybe they manage to find some kind of peace. I wouldn't know. Fm half in the world of the dead and half out of it. I dwell in the chill of the grave, but I still gaze upon the land of the living. It's torture. I can see the light and warmth that I can never feel again."