The dwarf’s eyes narrowed. “A beard and pretty bracers don’t make a dwarf.”
Torrin stared pointedly at the ruby set into the pommel of the dagger the other Delver wore on his forearm. “Nor does a pretty blade make a sharp wit,” he replied. “Sharpening it would be a better use of your time; you’ve clearly dulled it on me.”
Some of the dwarves at nearby tables chuckled. The face of the Delver who’d confronted Torrin grew even redder.
“Let him be, Nardor,” one of the others at his table called out. “He’s not worth your time.”
“You’re right,” Nardor said. “I’ve ale to drink.” Muttering one last insult into his beard, he returned to his table.
Torrin smiled at his fellow Delvers as he continued through the room, but despite the fact he’d held his own, he still felt the sting of the fellow’s taunt. One day, he’d just like to walk into the Delver’s Roost and not be challenged—just walk in, unnoticed and unremarked upon, like any other Delver.
An ale would help, he decided. He made his way to the everful cask at the center of the room, lifted his ceramic cup down from the hooks above—most of which held mugs of pewter or etched glass with gilded rim—and held it under the spigot. Frothing ale rose in his mug. When it was full he carefully turned the spigot back. He fished out the last coins in his pocket, counted out ten copper bits, and tossed them into the money jar.
He sniffed. The room smelled better than it had. Two months before, Torrin’s friend Eralynn had been blamed for breaking the spigot—an unfortunate occurrence that had flooded the room ankle-deep in ale. The bottom edges of some of the wall maps had been damaged, but fortunately the maps were only copies of common views of the East Rift and the surrounding lands. The flood hadn’t done any real harm, other than lending a musty odor to the carpet, but it had taken more than a tenday to dry the room out. And the other Delvers had yet another reason to whisper about Eralynn behind their beards, gossiping about how “unlucky” she was. They were always commenting on her spellscarred hands. Useful though the magic a spellscar granted might be, few among the Delvers were willing to overlook the fact that the “taint” on Eralynn’s hands was the same blue fire that had almost torn the world apart, nearly a century before.
No matter how Torrin had tried, he hadn’t been able to convince them that the flooded room wasn’t Eralynn’s fault, that it had been mere coincidence she’d been the last to use the keg the night it broke. The other Delvers, however, had listened with stoppered ears. Had Delvemaster Frivaldi himself come to Eralynn’s defense, it likely wouldn’t have made much difference. The others had already made up their minds that the flood was Eralynn’s fault—just as they’d decided, years before, that she’d been responsible for her delving partner’s death.
Torrin carried his mug to the table where the Delvemaster sat. The head of the local chapter of Delvers was one hundred and thirty-five years old with a waist-length beard, but he had a boyish look about him, just the same. His unruly black hair kept falling over his eyes, and he flipped it back with an impatient head toss. His eyes sparkled with suppressed mirth that threatened to bubble out of him at any moment.
Torrin repressed a pang of jealousy. With his human body, he’d be lucky to see eighty summers, let alone two or three hundred.
As Torrin approached, Frivaldi set down the blacksmith’s puzzle he’d been toying with, raised his slender fingers to his temples, and closed his eyes. “Say nothing, say nothing—yes, there it is,” he intoned. “I can hear your thoughts clearly now: ‘I’ve located it at last, Delvemaster Frivaldi. The Soulforge. All I need is the coin to equip an expedition.’ ” Frivaldi opened his eyes. “Am I right?” he asked.
“Close,” Torrin said. His mouth broke into a beard-splitting grin. “What I have found is a runestone that will teleport me directly to the Soulforge. May I join you?”
The Delvemaster nodded.
Torrin unslung his pack and settled on the three-legged stool across from Frivaldi. He pulled out the runestone Kendril had sold him. After glancing around to ensure that none of the others were looking, he unwrapped it and set it down carefully on the table between them.
The Delvemaster leaned forward and examined the stone. “Are you sure this runestone is what you think it is?” he asked. “Those runes say ‘earth magic.’ It looks more like something a wizard would use to summon an elemental spirit.”
Torrin shook his head. “It’s teleportation magic. The man who sold it to me said so. Ancient magic, the like of which we don’t see today.”
“Ancient?” Frivaldi said as he sat back. “Those scratches look fresh. Almost as if someone made them deliberately, to make the stone look older.” He pushed the runestone back across the table. “How much did you pay for it?”
“Every coin I had.”
“Ah.”
“I just need to know how to use the runestone,” Torrin continued as he wrapped it up again and tucked it back into his pack. “A loremaster can tell me that. If our order could foot the bill, I could pay back the coin. Eventually. I know I’m onto something this time. This stone is special. I can feel it.”
Frivaldi sighed.
Disappointment settled on Torrin’s shoulders like a heavy stone. “You’re going to say no, aren’t you?” he asked.
Frivaldi smiled. “Not necessarily.” The Delvemaster picked up the tangle of interconnected wrought iron loops he’d been playing with. It was the most complicated blacksmith’s puzzle Torrin had ever seen: close to two dozen different rings, loops, twisted bars, and triangles, all interlocking. Frivaldi, however, undid it in a matter of moments, reducing the puzzle to a simple chain.
He peered past the chain at Torrin. “Got it?” he asked.
“Almost,” Torrin said—a word that was about as close to the truth as mud was to a diamond. “You went a little fast.”
“Think you can do it?” Frivaldi asked.
Torrin nodded, not wanting to admit otherwise.
Frivaldi clanked the pieces back together, resetting the puzzle, and put the tangled mass on the table between them. “I’m going to make you an offer. Untangle that, and I’ll give you the coin you need to pay for the loremaster.”
Torrin’s pulse quickened. “You’re serious?”
Frivaldi smiled. “Have you ever known me to say something I don’t mean?”
“Not in this lifetime,” Torrin said with a grin. He picked up the puzzle and worked the pieces back and forth, back and forth, pursing his lips ever tighter as the right combination continued to elude him. At one point he thought he had it—six of the center pieces fell apart from the rest to form a linked chain—but the next twist brought them back together again.
He persevered, his ale forgotten, only dimly aware that Frivaldi had risen to refill his own mug. Frivaldi returned to the table and sat down again, his arms folded across his chest. Torrin noted that a handful of other Delvers had followed. He heard them talking softly behind him, and the clink of coins changing hands. His determination grew as he realized they were wagering on the outcome. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple and dripped onto the table. He kept working at the puzzle, and working at it, but at last he realized it was no use. He threw the clanking mass down on the table in disgust.
The other Delvers laughed or groaned, depending upon the bet placed, and coin changed hands. As they drifted back to their seats, Frivaldi uncrossed his arms and picked up the puzzle.
“Go easy on yourself, Torrin,” the Delvemaster said. “This puzzle is something even the most deft-fingered rogue would have trouble with. It took me years to learn it.”
“You knew I’d fail,” Torrin said.
“I knew it was highly likely. More to the point, I hoped you’d learn that life rarely offers us instant, easy solutions to the problems we encounter. That was something I had to learn the hard way by trial and error—and some of them were expensive errors.”
Frivaldi set the puzzle aside and took a sip of his ale. “Did I ever
tell you about Durin, and the very first delve I partnered with him on, more than a century ago?”
Torrin nodded. It was Frivaldi’s favorite story. “Many times.”
“I thought he was a plodding old fool,” Frivaldi said. “All those stupid acronyms. Did you know he wrote an entire chapter of the Delver’s Tome—the one on standard delving procedures?”
“Yes. Basics of Reconnoitering and Exploration. BORE. The chapter you’re always quoting from.”
“What I didn’t realize, back then, was that his acronyms were deliberately ridiculous. They stick in the mind better, that way.”
“You also said you refused to heed them.”
“That’s true. And I’m still just as impatient as I ever was. But I don’t expect instant solutions, the way I once did. And when I delve, I always make sure I partner with someone who delves like Durin did. Someone slow and plodding, who thinks things through at least three times before proceeding—and then pauses to think them through again.” Frivaldi raised both hands, palms up, and moved them up and down, mimicking the motion of a scale. “It balances things. Quick and daring, versus methodical and cautious. Dugmaren lends his blessing to both kinds of Delvers. There’s a reason we have each, within our ranks.”
Torrin sighed. “The only trouble is, I don’t have a delving partner,” he said. “Nobody’s willing to commit to my quest.”
“Not even Eralynn?” the Delvemaster asked.
Torrin shook his head. “One day, I’ll convince her. But for now, she’s … too busy with her own delves.”
“Perhaps you could join other delves,” Frivaldi said. “I’m sure there’s more than one among us who’d be pleased to have a partner so willing to take on a challenge. They know you’re just as committed to the Order of Delvers as any dwarf. Loyal as a shield brother.” He glanced around the room, then nodded at a gray-bearded dwarf sitting next to the curtained window. “Dorn, for example, could use some help. He’s hoping to find the tomb of Velm Dragonslayer. That’s a quest that will take more than one swing of the hammer.”
Torrin shook his head. Why couldn’t the Delvemaster understand? “No other delve will teach us as much about our history,” he said with dogged insistence. “The Soulforge is where it all began—the portal through which the dwarf race entered Faerûn. It can tell us everything about the origins of our people.”
“Lesser finds are also worthwhile,” said Frivaldi. “Every artifact we uncover, every scrap of lore, is a piece of the larger puzzle.”
“It will take more than ‘scraps’ to make the others overlook this,” Torrin replied, gesturing at his human body. “Unless I find the Soulforge, I’ll always be among the second rank.”
Frivaldi paused, as if weighing his words. “You’ll still be human, Torrin. And that means you’ll always be in the second rank, no matter how spectacular your delves.” He took a sip of ale. “Have you ever considered, Torrin, the fact that you might have deliberately chosen your ‘sacred quest’ for the very reason that it is impossible to achieve?”
Torrin clenched his teeth. Frivaldi might be the Delvemaster, but that was bordering on an insult. “I will succeed, this time. The Soulforge—”
“Is in Moradin’s domain.” Frivaldi said sharply, cutting him off. “How else would the god reforge our souls, if it weren’t?”
“Begging your pardon, Delvemaster, but you’re wrong. The Soulforge is here, on Faerûn. If you read the ancient sagas—”
“Yes, yes, Torrin. I’ve heard your ‘evidence’ before.”
“And one day,” Torrin persisted, “I’m going to find it.”
Frivaldi sighed. “I see more than a little of Durin in you, Torrin. You’ve got a stubborn vein running through you a league wide, and as hard as granite. Maybe you are what you claim to be, after all.” He rose to his feet. “I’ll leave you to think about what I’ve just said. In the meantime, I must go and prepare for tonight’s Council.”
“The Deep Lords are meeting tonight?” Torrin asked.
Frivaldi nodded.
“What’s it about?” Torrin added. “Are the drow massing at our gates? Has spellfire boiled up out of the Underchasm?” The retort bordered on rudeness, but Torrin was feeling more than a little petulant, after the blunt tone that the Delvemaster had taken with him a moment before.
“Hopefully nothing so serious as that,” Frivaldi said with a laugh. “I’ve only been told that a problem has arisen, and that the Lord Scepter has ordered the heads of each of the city’s guilds and orders to attend. You know as much as I do, at this point.” With that, he took his leave.
Torrin brooded over his empty ale cup, wondering how he’d ever scrape together enough coin to pay a loremaster. As he stared at the table, he suddenly realized that Frivaldi had forgotten something. “Delvemaster Frivaldi!” he called, turning. “Your puzzle!”
Too late. The Delvemaster was gone.
Torrin poked at the links, wondering if the Delvemaster had left the puzzle behind on purpose. Was he trying to tell Torrin that the answer to his puzzle was right in front of him, all tangled together? That if he just kept working at it, he’d solve the puzzle of the runestone on his own?
“Trial and error,” Torrin said, giving the puzzle another poke.
One link shifted against another, and a bar slid out of place. But if the puzzle was any closer to a solution, Torrin wasn’t able to see it.
“Better a friend at court than gold on the finger.”
Delver’s Tome, Volume II, Chapter 98, Entry 274
TORRIN NERVOUSLY STROKED HIS BEARD AS HE WAITED outside the Council chamber. The murmur of deep voices came from behind heavy oak doors embossed with the crossed axes of Clangeddin Silverbeard. To either side of the closed doors stood a Steel Shield guard, one of the thousands-strong contingent of dwarf knights who patrolled and protected Eartheart. Each stared with cold eyes at Torrin, openly suspicious of the “human” who had been summoned to Eartheart’s inner sanctum.
Two more Steel Shields flanked Torrin, their plumed helmets level with his chest.
Torrin had been forced to leave his Delver’s pack behind, together with his mace. He was, however, permitted to keep his wrist bracers, after a thorough inspection proved them to be non-magical. He’d polished them until the iron shone, and made sure they were turned so that the star embossed on each was visible. The Deep Lords could think what they might of Torrin, but he wore his bracers with pride. He was a true reincarnation of the long-vanished Ironstar clan.
A knock sounded from inside the doors—the signal that the Council was ready for him. Torrin squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “I am your tool, Dwarffather,” he whispered. “Temper my heart. Give me courage, so that I might speak bravely.”
The doors opened, revealing a large, circular chamber. Ringing its periphery were the Deep Lords who governed Eartheart. The benches they occupied were raised from the floor, three rows high, with a spot directly opposite the door for the Lord Scepter Mariochar Bladebeard. Every seat was filled, and every eye was on Torrin as the Steel Shields escorted him through the doors.
The Deep Lords wore black silk hoods that hid their faces and beards—a means of protecting their identities from the likes of Torrin. They stared at him through eye holes in the hoods. The Lord Scepter was the only one whose face was bare. He scowled down from his seat; his dark eyes as hard as flint, and his steel grey beard plaited in three braids like a pitchfork. His thread-of-gold official robe all but engulfed his stocky body, but his breastplate was visible beneath it—polished mithril reflecting the light from the massive chandelier that dominated the ceiling. The sweet smell of beeswax candles filled the chamber. The room echoed with the whispers of the assembled Deep Lords.
Torrin halted on the spot where he’d been told to stand during his briefing. He bowed deeply. Below his feet was an enormous sigil whose tightly contained magic, he’d been warned, would burn him to ash in an instant, were he to make any threatening moves. Had the Deep Lords been
able to see into his heart, they’d have realized how unnecessary that warning was. His appearance before them was his duty, one he took as seriously as would any other dwarf of Eartheart. It was yet another reminder of how hard Torrin had had to work every day to earn the trust of his own people.
As Torrin rose from his bow, the Lord Scepter raised a gauntleted hand. The whispers stopped. “You are the human Daffyd Raltin, who now calls himself Torrin Ironstar?” he said.
“I …” Torrin hesitated, wary of giving offence. It wasn’t his place to correct the Lord Scepter, but he would speak the truth. He had sworn an oath to Moradin to do just that, no matter what the cost. Feeling the eyes boring into him from every side, he carried on. “I am Torrin Ironstar, a member of the Delvers, an order in the service of Dugmaren Brightmantle.”
A buzz of whispers followed. Once again, the Lord Scepter silenced them. “Delvemaster Frivaldi said you had some information about the plague that you wanted to share with us.”
Nervous sweat trickled down Torrin’s sides. He resisted the urge to touch the silver hammers in his beard. “It’s about the quarantine you imposed yesterday,” he said. “A few days ago I had … dealings with a fellow dwarf who was suffering from the illness that the proclamations described.”
Angry shouts filled the air.
“Why was this human permitted into our chambers?”
“He brings plague among us!”
“How dare he!”
“Plague!”
“Arrest him! Lock him away!”
“Execute him, before it spreads!”
The knights on either side of Torrin stepped back a pace, at the same time distancing themselves from him and flanking him, their axes at the ready. They glanced at the Lord Scepter, waiting for orders. Torrin stood utterly still, careful not to even twitch a finger, acutely aware of the magical symbol under his feet.
“Enough!” the Lord Scepter said. The word sliced through the angry shouts like a blade through ripe fruit, reducing them to a splatter of mutters and whispers. “We will hear what this human has to say, then decide his fate.”
The Gilded Rune Page 3