"Wish me luck," he said nervously.
The others all did so-except for Corin. Taking a deep breath, Artek turned to stride boldly toward the golden door across the room. As he left behind the strip of mottled green marble where the others were gathered, his boot stepped first upon a square of black. He took another step forward, onto a square of white.
Then he ran face first into some sort of a wall.
Like sunlight glancing off a clear window, a plane of white radiance flashed momentarily in front of him. With a cry of pain he stumbled backward, onto the black square.
"What in the Abyss was that?" he muttered in confusion, rubbing his throbbing nose. Whatever it was, it had hurt.
Beckla stood up, a curious frown on her broad face. "It looked like a magical barrier blocked your way," she said.
Artek tried moving onto the white square to his left. Once again a thin plane of white energy sprang into existence before him, blocking the way. The same thing happened when he tried to move to his right. Knowing what to expect, he did not smash his face against the magical barriers. Perplexed, he turned around and stepped back onto the swath of green marble that bordered the floor.
"Something very strange is going on here," he grumbled in annoyance.
Beckla's eyes suddenly went wide with surprise, and Guss let out a low growl of shock.
"You aren't kidding," Muragh said with a low whistle.
Artek turned back around, and an oath escaped his lips. As he watched, something appeared out of thin air on the far side of the room. Images flickered into existence, wavered like desert mirages, then grew solid. No, not solid, for Artek could still see dimly through their ghostly forms. They stood in two straight lines upon the two farthest rows of black and white squares, one creature per square, sixteen in all.
The eight in the first rank looked to be dwarven soldiers of some sort: long-bearded, horn-helmed, mail-clad, and bearing shimmering half-moon axes. Standing behind them in the rear row-one to each side-were two tusked, long-armed ogres; two silvery knights mounted upon black steeds and bearing gleaming lances; and a pair of stern-faced sorcerers in pointed hats. These six flanked two tall, imposing figures in the center of the back row. Flowing mantles fell from wide shoulders; glimmering crowns rested upon high brows; pale eyes gazed forward in steely authority. Proud they were, and crueclass="underline" a king and a queen.
With terrible certainty, Artek knew it was going to be no easy task getting to the gold door across the room. Even if he could find a way to avoid the glowing magical barriers between white and black squares, he now had an eerie army to contend with. At the moment, the ethereal figures stood motionless, gazing forward with impassive, unblinking eyes. Yet Artek suspected this would rapidly change if he drew near.
He fixed Beckla with a piercing look. "You had to wish us to the apprentice's lair, rather than to the apprentice himself."
She shrugged her shoulders sheepishly. "Oops."
Artek let out a groan of exasperation. "How did I know you were going to say that?"
Beckla drew her eyebrows together in a scowl. "Look, Ar'talen. I was a little pressed for time. The thanatars were about to chop us to bits, if you recall. We really didn't have the opportunity to debate whether I should wish for this or that. We're lucky we made it out of there at all." She gestured toward the phantasmal army. "I think it would be more productive if we all directed our energy to the problem at hand."
The wizard was right, but Artek shot her a nasty look all the same, just to let her know he was not happy. He crossed his thick arms across his black leather jerkin and studied the scene before him with dark eyes. "It's like some game the apprentice has prepared for us," he murmured to himself.
To his surprise, someone answered him. "It's not just some game," said a quiet voice. "It's lanceboard."
Artek turned around. It was Corin. The young lord gazed with his clear blue eyes at the eerie figures across the room. "Don't you see?" Corin went on timidly. "With those black and white checks, the entire floor serves as the playing board. And those figures over there are the opponent's playing pieces."
Artek turned back toward the gigantic lance-board. It made sense-the apprentice would not let just anyone enter his domain. They had to best the wizard at a game of lanceboard first. If they could do so, it was likely the apprentice would view them favorably. But something odd struck Artek. "If those are our opponent's playing pieces, then where are ours?"
Beckla swallowed hard. "I think we're them."
Even as her words chilled him, Artek knew they were right. No ghostly army had appeared on their side of the marble gameboard. They themselves were the only playing pieces they were going to get.
"Why don't I just fly across the room?" Guss asked.
Wings flapping, the gargoyle rose into the air. He was no more than three feet off the floor when a plane of white magic flashed above him. He fell back to the green marble, landing with a grunt.
"Oh, I suppose that's why," he winced, rubbing his scaly tail.
"Well, this is just wonderful," Artek growled in disgust, running a hand through his short black hair. "I've never played a game of lanceboard in my life. I don't even have the foggiest notion of the rules."
He looked to Beckla, but the wizard shook her head. So did Guss. Neither knew how to play the game. Artek's gaze drifted toward the yellowed skull he had set down on the green marble.
"Well, don't look at me," Muragh said defensively. "I was just a lowly priest of Lathander in life."
The others turned their eyes toward Corin. The young lord looked up in shock, his face drawn.
"No," he whispered hoarsely, slowly shaking his head back and forth. "Not me…"
Artek quickly moved forward and knelt besideb Corin. "You know how to play lanceboard, don't you?" he asked intently.
Corin opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. It didn't matter. Artek already knew the answer. Corin had recognized the gameboard and the playing pieces. Like every noble child, he had learned to play the game.
"You have to help us, Corin," Artek said gravely. He gripped the young man's shoulders. "You have to help us get across the room. You're the only one who can do it."
Corin tried to back away, but Artek's strong hands held him firmly. "But I can't," the nobleman gasped. "Don't you understand? If I make a mistake, you'll all be killed."
"And if you don't try, we'll all die for certain," Artek growled.
Tears sprang into Corin’s eyes, along with a look of terror. "You don't understand. I can't do it. I tried… I tried to be worth something, but I failed. You said so yourself." He shook his head. "He was right. He was always right. I suppose I deserved it," Corin sobbed.
In sudden dread, Artek gazed at the noble. A coldness crept into his heart, and dark realization into his mind. He gripped the young man's shoulders more tightly, searching his frightened face. "What did he do to you, Corin?" Artek asked. "By all the gods, what did your father do to you?"
Beckla, Guss, and Muragh stared at them in shock. A low moan escaped Corin’s lips.
"Tell me!" Artek demanded, baring his white teeth.
This time he did not wait for an answer. With brutal force, he spun Corin around. He gripped the lord's dirty silk shirt in two hands and tore it apart
"Ur thokkar!" he swore in the language of orcs.
Crisscrossing the skin of Corin’s back were countless pale scars. Artek had seen enough thieves flogged in public squares to know what the raised weals were-lash marks. As a child, Artek had often received the cruel abuse of his father's tongue, and once or twice, Arturg had even struck him. But never this. Never had he suffered anything like this.