The Gilded Rune

by Smedman, Lisa

  Vergadain pretended to tap the graybeard on the shoulder; his fingers poked into the waiting soul. “Excuse me, good sir, but could you hurry up and be reborn?” he asked. “We Morndinsamman would appreciate it. Come to think of it, we’d appreciate it even more if you could find a way to be reborn twice over!”

  Vergadain laughed at his own joke. The other deities joined in the merriment. Even the normally dour Clanggedin laughed so hard he had to transfer his paired axes to one hand, so he could wipe the tears of mirth from his eyes with the other.

  Moradin suddenly leaned forward, his attention rapt as he stared at the identical axes Clanggedin held. His eye wandered to Sharindlar, who still had a hand on her belly, and he broke into a smile.

  “My thanks, gods of the Morndinsamman,” he said. “You have given me my answer.”

  Heads turned.

  “They have?” Berronar asked.

  Moradin rose from his throne. The graybeard who’d been the butt of Vergadain’s joke was at the head of the line. In a moment more, his soul would step into the Soulforge and be reborn. Moradin took the ghostly greybeard’s arm, and turned him. The soul, feeling the Dwarffather’s hand on his elbow, startled and turned. Then his eyes widened, and he trembled. A look of rapture flushed his face, and his eyes leaked tears of joy.

  “Dwarffather!” he exclaimed.

  Moradin held out a hand. “Clanggedin,” he demanded. “I have need of one of your axes.”

  Clanggedin didn’t hesitate. He extended the weapon.

  Moradin took the axe and raised it. The soul of the graybeard glanced up at the blade, not in fear, but in puzzlement. “Dwarffather,” he said in a voice as soft as mist. “Have I displeased you?”

  “Quite the contrary,” Moradin answered. He looked into the graybeard’s soul and saw much that pleased him: a lifetime of hard work, honest words, and respectful worship. “I am going to reward you. Your soul will be reborn not once, but twice.”

  Moradin released the graybeard’s arm. “So be it!” he cried, bringing the axe down in a powerful swing. It cleaved the graybeard in two equal, identical parts—two halves of the same mold.

  Before either could fall to the ground, Moradin dropped the axe and caught each half of the soul in a hand. Like a father lowering a babe to bed, he gently placed them into the Soulforge, one at either end of it.

  “Be reborn,” he intoned, his breath fanning the fires of the forge. “Not as one, but two. As twins.”

  The souls disappeared from the forge, already on their way back to Faerûn. As they streaked like bolts of lighting toward the realm where mortals dwelled, thunder rumbled through the skies above a dwarf clanhold. In that clanhold was a dwarf woman whose womb would quicken not with one life, but with two.

  The Thunder Blessing had begun.

  “Gold is tried by fire; men by adversity.”

  Delver’s Tome, Volume X, Chapter 93, Entry 76

  TORRIN DREAMED.

  In the dream, he sat at one end of a massive feast table in the great hall of Underhome, a place he’d heard the bards sing about. In his dream, it was still whole, not yet in ruin and overrun by drow. The walls were intact, and the furniture and chandeliers were unbroken. The intricate tapestry against the far wall, depicting the Morndinsamman grouped around Moradin’s throne, was vibrant and unfaded.

  A host of dwarves was gathered around the table where Torrin sat, feasting and chatting. Though he spoke Dwarvish fluently, Torrin couldn’t make out a word they said. Their voices were muffled, indistinct. Nor could he see them clearly. Their bodies wavered like candle flames seen through thick, wavy glass.

  His own body was clear enough, though. Glancing down at himself, he saw that his chest was thicker, his legs shorter. The fingers that gripped his feast cup were short and blunt.

  He was a dwarf!

  Before he had time to rejoice at that, someone tugged at his sleeve. He glanced to one side and saw—clearly—a dwarf whose white beard trailed so far behind him that it stretched out of the door. The longbeard wore a blacksmith’s leather apron and leggings, and bracers of solid gold. The smell of charcoal smoke clung to him. He placed a wooden strongbox on the table in front of Torrin.

  “What’s inside?” Torrin asked, nodding at the box.

  “A puzzle,” the blacksmith said.

  Torrin opened the box. Inside was the runestone he’d purchased from Kendril—except that it was made not of stone, but of gold.

  Torrin lifted it out.

  Suddenly, the runestone turned red hot. Torrin gasped and dropped it on the table, where it turned into a puddle of molten gold. The chest and table became an enormous pile of kindling, which went up in flames. The dwarf revelers who had been seated around it likewise burst into flame and melted in an instant to glowing heaps of slag.

  Torrin turned to the blacksmith, seeking an explanation, but the longbeard had turned into a statue. He stood, stiff and gray, with cracked-mud skin and eyeballs like chipped white marbles. Soon his statue crumbled into a heap on the floor, leaving only the apron, leggings, and bracers behind. A moment later, the bracers melted into twin puddles of molten gold, just as the runestone had.

  Curiously, though the blacksmith was gone, he still could speak.

  “You must help me,” the statue dwarf pleaded in a voice like cracking stone. “No one else can.”

  “How?” Torrin said. “How can I help you?”

  Silence whispered through the great hall, stirring up nothing but dust.

  Torrin awoke with a start, his heart thudding. That dream! What had it meant? Trouble, obviously—he could feel it—but in what form? And from where?

  He sat up in bed. The blanket lay in a heap in his lap. He stroked his beard fretfully. The blacksmith had worn golden bracers and had an impossibly long beard—he’d been a dream manifestation of Moradin. The Dwarffather himself was sending Torrin a warning. Something to do with the runestone. But what? Should Torrin use it? Not use it?

  He glanced at the shutters. No light came through the cracks. It was still night. The middle of the night, judging by the stillness that hung over the clanhold.

  He rose from the bed, splashed his face with water from the bowl on his bedside table, and dried his beard with a towel. A walk would help clear his mind, he decided. He pulled on his breeches and picked up a shirt, only half noticing, from the singed smell of the wool, that it was the one he’d been wearing in the Wyrmcaves. Ah well, no matter. At that time of night, he didn’t expect to run into anyone, anyway.

  As he pulled the shirt on, something sharp scratched his arm. There seemed to be a shard of something caught in the fabric of the sleeve, near a burn hole. Torrin poked a finger through the hole and dug out a jagged-edged fragment of metal the size of a fingernail, soft enough to bend. His eyes widened as he saw what it was: a thin piece of gold, obviously once molten but hardened.

  “Smite me with a hammer!” Torrin exclaimed, his hand trembling. “Was the dream real?”

  No, he realized. That wasn’t it. Thinking back to the Wyrmcaves, he remembered he’d felt something hot splatter onto his bracer and run down it, onto his left arm. Not candle wax, as he’d thought at the time, but molten gold.

  The cavern where the dragon had cornered Torrin and Eralynn had been heavily veined with quartz, a stone often found with gold. The dragon’s fiery breath had likely melted a vein of gold in the ceiling and caused it to drip onto the spot where Torrin and Eralynn had taken shelter. Some part of Torrin’s mind must have realized that, and woven it into the fabric of his dream.

  “Except,” Torrin told himself, “that it can’t be that simple. That dream was a message from Moradin. I’m sure of it.”

  He fingered the hardened splatter of gold. It held the answer to the question. Of that, he was certain. Yet the metal was mute. And he still didn’t understand what the dream message meant.

  Haldrin was the one to ask, Torrin decided. Haldrin was the most learned person that Torrin knew, aside from a loremaster. That
’s what came of being a scrivener—you picked up all sorts of odd bits of information from the texts you copied. What’s more, Torrin thought with a wry smile, Haldrin was also the most likely person to be awake at that time of night. He was always complaining about Ambril’s fretful tossing and turning. Odds were, his pregnant wife’s fretfulness had him up out of bed and pacing the halls, yet again.

  Torrin slipped out of his room and headed for the portion of the clanhold where Haldrin and Ambril resided. As Torrin walked, he felt slight vibrations under his feet. Though the Thunsonn clan had been generous enough to give Torrin a place to stay, his room wasn’t exactly in the best section of Eartheart. It was close to the smelters, which operated day and night. The smell of soot and hot metal lingered constantly in the air. The corridors there were narrow and rough cut, a far cry from the grandiose halls elsewhere in the dwarf city. Ceiling lanterns, their wicks trimmed low to save oil, filled the corridor with a reddish light that flickered like the dim light from a forge.

  As Torrin drew closer to Haldrin and Ambril’s chambers, a door to his right opened suddenly. Mara, Ambril’s sister, stepped out, nearly colliding with him.

  “Torrin!” she exclaimed. “You heard it, too?”

  “Heard what?” he asked.

  “She’s in pain.”

  Mara, wearing a misbuttoned robe over her nightgown, looked as though she’d also just gotten out of bed. Her auburn hair exploded in an unbraided tangle from the edges of her night coif. She stared in the direction of Ambril’s room, her eyes wide and alarmed.

  Torrin glanced in that direction. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “The babies,” Mara said. “They’re coming.”

  Oh, Torrin thought. So that was it. Mara’s cryptic comment at last made sense. Ambril must finally be giving birth. The sisters always seemed to know what the other was feeling or thinking—dwarf twins were like that. And Ambril and Mara were a typical pair. They never bothered to explain anything. They just jumped into a story mid-stride and looked at anyone who couldn’t follow as if they were simpletons.

  Mara’s husband Sandor followed her out into the corridor. He yawned and rubbed the small of his back. He looked exhausted, and had every reason to be. Ore hauling was heavy work. “What’s the commotion?” he asked.

  “Ambril,” Mara said tersely. Her expression grew strained. “It’s hurting. More than it should.”

  At last, Torrin heard a muffled groan from the direction of Haldrin and Ambril’s room. Mara winced, then hurried toward it. “Run to the temple,” she shouted back over her shoulder at Sandor. “Bring back one of the Merciful Maidens. We’re going to need her!”

  Torrin exchanged a glance with Sandor. “Would you like me to do it?” he asked, partially in sympathy, but also because it might be an excuse to see Maliira again.

  Sandor shook his head. “That’s all right,” he replied. “I can sneak back to bed once I’m back from the temple. I doubt Mara will even miss me.” He hurried away.

  Torrin’s dream nagged at him, and the anxiety in Mara’s voice had put him on edge. He yearned to be doing something to help, even though he knew he should go back to his room. A birthing was no place for a man—least of all, a man who wasn’t the husband. But then he spotted Kier up ahead, creeping down the hallway to his parents’ room. The boy peeked in through the door Mara had left ajar, his expression a mixture of curiosity and worry. Mostly worry.

  Perhaps Torrin could be useful, after all.

  He made his way to Kier’s side. The boy jumped as Torrin touched his shoulder, startled by Torrin’s approach.

  “Back to your room, Kier,” Torrin said sternly. “You’ll only be underfoot here.”

  As he spoke, Torrin glanced into the bedchamber. Ambril was stumbling across the room, alternately groaning and sobbing, supported by Haldrin on one side and Mara on the other. A sick smell wafted out of the door.

  “I’m not leaving,” Kier said. Unlike the adults, the boy was fully dressed. One hand was thrust into his pocket, worrying something. Likely his “lucky” stone, the quartz crystal with the double point.

  Mara glanced at the door. “Torrin!” she shrieked. “What are you doing here? Where’s the Merciful Maiden?”

  Kier ducked back out of sight.

  “Sandor’s gone to fetch her,” Torrin explained.

  “He’d better hurry,” Mara replied.

  Ambril groaned as a contraction shuddered through her body. She looked terrible. Her face had a grayish cast, and her nightgown was soaked with sweat. She gasped weakly between each brief, stumbling step. Her stomach, enormous with the twins, would have toppled her forward, had her sister and husband not been clinging to her arms.

  Even though Torrin hadn’t seen a birthing before, it didn’t look right to him.

  “Is Mother going to die?” Kier whispered.

  “No,” Torrin said. He put a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder. “As soon as the cleric arrives, your mother will be in good hands. The Merciful Maiden will shoulder her pain, and use her prayers to help the babies come. Your mother will be fine.”

  Ambril gave a low, creaking groan and sagged. Her arms slipped from Mara’s and Haldrin’s grasp, and she fell to her knees. Her entire body shuddered, and a rush of liquid puddled beneath her. Torrin smelled blood.

  Haldrin—a smaller, bespectacled version of his brother Sandor—spotted Kier peeking into the chamber. He glanced up at Torrin with a strained look on his face. “Get him away from here,” he shouted. He reached for the door and yanked it shut.

  Kier’s shoulders shook.

  Torrin steered the boy away down the corridor, toward his room. “Don’t take it personally, Kier,” Torrin said to the boy. “Adults do strange things when babies are being born. Soon enough, your father will be laughing and happy, with a baby girl in either arm.” He waited. “Your sisters.”

  Kier didn’t rise to the bait. He trudged along in front of Torrin, sniffing back tears. Torrin heard running footsteps, and pulled Kier aside as a Merciful Maiden hurried past them in her red robe and blue sash.

  She didn’t return Torrin’s nod of greeting. She ran to the bedchamber, holding the holy dagger used to cut the cord that linked mother and newborn child. Her prayer had already begun. “Revered Mother, hear me,” she said. “Lend your blessing this night. Have mercy on the mother-to-be and her children …”

  The door opened on screaming and Haldrin’s panicked shouts that the cleric do something and do it now. It closed again, muffling Ambril’s cries.

  Torrin guided Kier into his room and closed the door behind them. Like the rest of the rooms in the clanhold, the bedroom was small, barely big enough for a bed and a small chest of drawers. The floor was covered with toys. A small army of cast-lead dwarf warriors lay strewn in front of three paint-scuffed wooden dragons. Chipped glass “gemstones” lay beside a brightly painted wooden chest, and a toy drum and bell-shaker were near the door.

  Torrin stepped carefully over an articulated toy dragon with a clockwork mechanism in its belly and sat with Kier on the bed. The blankets, he saw, had been mounded over Kier’s imitation Delver’s pack, to make it look as though the boy were still in bed. Torrin pretended not to notice the fact that Kier had been out on another of his illicit late-night rambles. It was not the time for a reprimand.

  “Show me your new dragon,” Torrin said, nodding at the toy on the floor. “What’s his name? Does he breathe fire?”

  Kier snuffled back a tear and shook his head. “Lightning,” he said. He picked up the dragon and showed it to Torrin. “See? He’s blue, not red.”

  “Oh. I see that now.” Torrin’s mind, however, was on what was happening down the hall. Perhaps Ambril’s worrying hadn’t been all a flight of fancy. Perhaps she’d sensed quicksand, instead of bedrock, under her feet. If she didn’t survive the birthing …

  Torrin heard the toy dragon’s wing creak, and realized he was gripping the toy too tightly. He passed the dragon back to Kier and whispered
a prayer to Sharindlar, begging the goddess to intervene.

  “What did you say?” Kier asked.

  “Nothing,” Torrin demurred. “Just thinking out loud.” He picked up the wooden chest. “You’d better clean up, Kier,” he said. “When your mother comes to show off the babies, she’s going to step on your toys.” One of the fake gemstones rolled away from his hand. Torrin bent down to scoop it up, and spotted a pouch under the bed. He picked it up, intending to put the gemstone inside.

  Kier bounded off the bed. “Don’t!” he cried. “I’ll do it, Uncle Torrin. I’ll pick them up!” He clumsily jerked the pouch out of Torrin’s hands. Something heavy fell out of it and landed with a thud on the floor: a bar of gold.

  Kier looked as though he were about to cry as Torrin picked up the bar. Torrin didn’t need to ask where it had come from.

  “Kier,” Torrin said. “I had a thought, just now. Perhaps the gods led you to that secret chamber in the earthmote. Maybe they knew your mother would need not just a blessing from the Merciful Maidens this night, but expensive healing potions afterward.”

  Kier brightened immediately. “Do you think that’s enough to pay for them?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Torrin replied, tousling Kier’s hair. “Your mother will have you to thank for her well-being, Kier.”

  The boy beamed.

  Torrin slipped the bar of gold back inside the pouch and rose to his feet. “Wait here,” he said. “I’m going to see how your mother is doing.”

  Torrin slipped out and closed the door behind him. He hurried back to Ambril’s bedchamber. His pace quickened as he heard sobbing coming from behind the closed door. Worried, he knocked. No one answered. After knocking again unsuccessfully, he let himself in.

  Ambril lay on the bed, pale and still. The smell of blood was even stronger, almost overwhelming. Blood dripped from the bed onto the floor. Torrin’s heart lurched. When Ambril moaned, he whispered his thanks to Sharindlar that she was still alive.