The Gilded Rune

by Smedman, Lisa

  The Lord Scepter smiled and touched his brooch. “It was you who gave me the idea, Delver Ironstar,” he said. Then he turned back to the wizard, who was tucking his wand into his belt. The Lord Scepter handed the fellow a heavy looking coin pouch, but paused for a moment before releasing it.

  “Not a word of this to anyone,” the Lord Scepter told him. “Not even members of the Council.”

  “Of course,” the wizard answered. “My discretion is assured, as always.” As he left the chambers, he slid a sideways glance at Torrin.

  Torrin waited in dry-mouthed silence as the door closed. He could understand why a human wizard had been called to the Lord Scepter’s chambers. For one thing, dwarf wizards were few and far between. More importantly, they were more likely than a human was to tip the ore cart, and let tumble what had just been done.

  The Lord Scepter picked up the real runestone. “I want you to take this,” he said.

  “You honor me by entrusting it to me, Lord Scepter,” Torrin replied as he bowed.

  The Lord Scepter passed the runestone to Torrin. “What better place to keep it, than in a Delver’s pack?” he said. He gestured at the strongbox in a corner of his chambers, next to an opulent marble table. “Even a magically sealed strongbox is susceptible to thieves,” he said. “If those thieves are looking in the wrong place, there’s even less chance they’ll find what they’re after.”

  “What thieves?” Torrin asked, suddenly worried.

  The Lord Scepter’s eyes turned serious. “The duergar, for one,” he said. “Who’s to say they haven’t already pulled the same trick we’re about to—that they haven’t already sent spies to Eartheart, disguised as true dwarves. It would be easy enough to do.”

  Torrin raised a fist to his chest. “I’ll keep the runestone safe, Lord Scepter. By Moradin’s beard, I swear it.”

  “That you will, Delver Torrin. I’m certain of it,” the Lord Scepter said, staring up at Torrin. “One thing more. The brooch I gave you—I want you to keep it, as well. You will be my ears, in Drik Hargunen.”

  Torrin nodded, although the words made him thoughtful. Surely High Commander Steeleye would keep the Lord Scepter appraised of the squad’s progress. There was something more afoot here.

  “Is there anything in particular you hope to hear?” he asked.

  The Lord Scepter spread his hands. “Just keep close to the squad,” he said. “If anyone starts behaving … strangely, I want to know about it.”

  A nasty thought occurred to Torrin. “Do you think the duergar might try to infiltrate the squad?” he asked. “In disguise?”

  “That’s certainly something to watch for,” the Lord Scepter answered. “But there’s more to it than that. If anyone’s loyalties seem to be shifting, let me know at once.”

  Torrin nodded. There was clearly someone on the squad that the Lord Scepter didn’t trust. But whom? Torrin knew better than to ask. The Lord Scepter would have told him the name already, if he’d had any intention to reveal it.

  The Lord Scepter held Torrin’s eye a moment more. “I want you in Drik Hargunen,” he said. “With that squad. No matter how you get there.” His eye lingered a moment on the runestone in Torrin’s hand. “I assume you overheard the words that activated it, when our captive was being questioned?”

  Torrin nodded.

  “Good,” the Lord Scepter said. “But let’s pray that isn’t necessary.”

  He gestured at the door. “Now hurry, and find Baelar,” he added. “Convince him, as you said you could, to include you on his squad.”

  “As you command, Lord Scepter,” Torrin said. His heart pounded with excitement. It no longer mattered that the High Commander had overlooked him, that his officers and knights regarded Torrin as a mere pretender. The Lord Scepter himself had placed his trust in Torrin.

  Torrin hurried back to the headquarters of the Steel Shields, the most likely place to find Baelar. He spotted the captain striding through the building’s central chamber, under its great translucent dome.

  “Baelar!” Torrin called out. “A moment of your time. We need to talk about the scouting expedition.”

  Baelar didn’t reply. Perhaps, Torrin thought, his hearing had been damaged in the dragon’s attack.

  It was only after Torrin touched his shoulder that Baelar turned to face him. His face was flushed, his good hand balled in a fist. “How dare you!” he hissed.

  Torrin jerked to a halt. “What—”

  “You were the only one who knew I once lived in … that place,” Baelar said, after a quick glance at the knights who bowed as they passed. “I trusted you with that confidence, as an illustration that any man might rise above what he had once been. And you used it against me by telling the Lord Scepter, of all people!”

  His accusing stare made Torrin feel odd. It was as if their relative statures had suddenly reversed, as if he was a mere boy, staring up at an angry grandparent.

  “I had to,” Torrin said. “You’re a natural to lead the squad—and you’d never have volunteered that information yourself.”

  “Of course not! You saw how the others reacted when they heard I’d lived in Gracklstugh.”

  “But the Council ordered you to go,” Torrin protested. “You were a spy.”

  “You beardless boy,” Baelar spat. “That part was a lie.”

  Torrin’s mouth fell open. He swallowed, suddenly sheepish. “At least the Lord Scepter made certain there was no shame attached to it, by saying you’d done it at the Council’s command,” he said.

  Baelar winced. “And how long do you think they’ll believe that?” he asked. “They’ll do the calculations, and realize that Bladebeard wasn’t even on the council when I was supposedly given my orders.”

  “He could have heard about it after the fact,” Torrin said. “And once the scouting mission is a success, and the curse is lifted, you’ll be a hero. No one would dare besmirch your honor.”

  “What does it matter what they say? They’ll know.” Baelar said, gesturing angrily. “And the men under my command won’t trust me. Not fully. Nor will High Commander Steeleye.”

  Torrin suddenly felt hollow with remorse. He suddenly understood the cryptic comments the Lord Scepter had just made about keeping an eye on any squad members who didn’t appear fully ‘loyal.’ The Lord Scepter had seen the wisdom of putting a captain who spoke duergar in charge of the mission, yet he still had his reservations about Baelar.

  And, thanks to Torrin, so would everyone else.

  Baelar shook his head. “What you’ve done can’t be undone,” he said. “There’s nothing I can do about it now. The part that really stings is that you betrayed my trust. And if you think that’s going to earn you a place on the squad—which will have trust as its very foundation—then you’re even less of a man than I took you for.”

  Torrin winced.

  Baelar glared up at Torrin. “No dwarf would ever do what you did, back there in the High Commander’s office. No dwarf with any honor. Honor is the marrow in our bones.” Ruefully, he shook his head. “That’s something no human will ever understand.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and walked away.

  Standing in the echoing hall, Torrin felt like a clod of dirt tossed into a puddle. All the pride he’d felt a short time before, in the Lord Scepter’s chambers, had just leached out of him. He stood as if rooted to the spot, not acknowledging the Steel Shields who passed by—officers who’d heard how he’d discovered that the duergar were behind the stoneplague; officers who honored him with their bows. Yet Torrin felt as empty as the dome above his head.

  “Baelar,” he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  But Baelar was gone.

  Torrin had been so certain he’d done the right thing. But had he?

  He was even questioning the belief that was at his very core. Was Baelar right? Was Torrin truly a dwarf? Or had he been deluding himself all those years?

  Perhaps it was all just wishful thinking, as the loremaster his moth
er had consulted had said. Perhaps knowing how to use the mace didn’t mean anything. Perhaps he was just what everyone said.

  Human.

  He glanced down at the bracers on his wrists. At the star that he’d believed with his whole heart, right up until that moment, marked him as a reincarnated soul from the fabled Ironstar clan. Did he truly deserve to wear them?

  Torrin closed his eyes and hung his head.

  “Am I truly a dwarf reforged, Moradin?” Torrin whispered. “Is it truly your will that I should continue to walk this path? I pray, Dwarffather, show me a sign.”

  The chamber brightened. Torrin opened his eyes and glanced up. The sun had risen directly above the center of the dome. It shone in through the dome’s central panel—the only clear pane of glass in the ceiling. A beam of sunlight transfixed the spot where Torrin stood. He looked down and saw that he stood on a pace-wide circle of mithril at the center of the chamber. The precious metal gleamed like a mirror under his feet, catching and holding his reflected image. A quirk of the reflective surface made it look as though Torrin was half his height, his body broader and thicker than it actually was. Short and stout: a dwarf.

  Torrin fell to his knees, the silver hammers in his beard twinkling in the sunlight. “So be it, Dwarffather,” he vowed. “I shall serve as you command.”

  Torrin took a deep breath, steeling himself. He’d made his preparations. His Delver’s pack was secure on his shoulders, hidden by his cloak; his goggles were positioned on his forehead, ready for use. The magical potions and ring he’d coaxed out of Delvemaster Frivaldi were secure in his pockets and on his finger.

  He stood just outside the city, not too far from the spot where Eartheart’s massive stone walls met the edge of the East Rift. As a boy, he’d often visited the natural lookout point. In the distance, a Peacehammer rode his griffon, their shadow streaking across the glittering expanse of the Riftlake, far below. A haunting screee drifted on the wind.

  The sun was setting. The moment had come. He glanced around, making sure he was the only one on the lonely ledge. Then he kneeled. “Marthammor Duin,” he prayed, “Watcher over Wanderers, guide my steps. Find the way for me, and make my path smooth.”

  He pulled his goggles into place, closed his eyes, and formed a mental image of the library cubicle as Cathor had described it—a small chamber with a thick pane of glass that looked into the library proper. Below that connecting window was a counter with a glass top. When a patron of the library wished to study a particular tablet, the librarians would slide it into a drawer in the counter, and the patron viewed it through the glass. Runes etched into the countertop ensured that patrons didn’t use magic to reach through and touch a tablet; those who tried triggered lethal magical effects.

  Now that he knew the command words that activated the runestone, it should be possible, Torrin thought, to teleport into the cubicle. The temple’s library was open not only to duergar, but also to their allies—the handful of humans, deep gnomes, and derro that called Drik Hargunen home. The chamber would certainly bear wards against true dwarves, but someone like Torrin—a dwarf with an indisputably human body—should be able to slip through.

  “The library of the Runescribed Hall of Laduguer’s Graving,” he commanded the runestone. “By blood and earth, ae-burakrin, take me to it, now!”

  Spellfire flared around him, its blue glare bright against his closed eyelids. Torrin felt the twist as he slid between one place and the next. A moment later, he landed, still kneeling, on a rough stone floor. He opened his eyes. Through the one lens that remained in his goggles, he saw that he was in an unlit room with a ceiling low enough that his head would have brushed it, had he been standing. The room was covered in overlapping lines—a myriad of glyphs carved into the stone. The small chamber had a dwarf-high door in one wall and a window set into the opposite wall at what would have been the level of his chest. Below the window was a glass-topped counter.

  He’d done it! He was inside Drik Hargunen!

  Spellfire crackled around his knees, bleeding away into the floor. The stone under his knees was warm, but the warmth dissipated rapidly. Torrin scrambled over to the window and peered into the library proper. Duergar librarians bustled back and forth between the shelves, but none seemed to have noticed his arrival. So far, so good. He put the runestone inside his pack to keep it safe. Then he made his way to the door, and opened it a crack.

  A hallway ran right and left. It had doors similar to the one he was peering through, likely leading to other cubicles. Faint murmurs came from behind some of them, probably the voices of library patrons. At the end of the hallway was a black metal door, inscribed with a large glyph surrounded by a multitude of smaller inscriptions. In fact, the hallway was covered in glyphs, too. Any one of them might trigger a magical alarm or a deadly trap.

  Torrin reached up to stroke his beard, and halted as his hand touched blunt-ended braids. He’d had to remove Moradin’s hammers from his beard; the braids ended where he’d cut them. Likewise, he’d reluctantly left behind his bracers, lest their distinctive Ironstar rune give him away. His forearms felt naked without them. His mace, however, was at his hip. Though it was a mission that required stealth, he couldn’t very well walk through an enemy city without some protection.

  He pulled a thumb-sized vial out of his pocket, uncorked it, and drank. The potion would temporarily allow him to spot anything that was ensorcelled. It tasted faintly of mushrooms. He gagged it down with a shudder.

  Within a heartbeat or two, the potion took effect. Several of the inscriptions in the hallway acquired a faint, sparkling glow.

  Cathor had said the exit lay to the right. Moving cautiously, careful not to tread on any magical inscription, Torrin made his way to that door. He could stand upright there; the arched ceiling was at least a handspan above his head. He glanced around as he walked, taking care not to let his shoulders brush the walls, and found he could read many of the inscriptions. The duergar spoke a separate dialect, yet they wrote with the same runes as the dwarves. Most of the inscriptions appeared to be prayers—the name Laduguer was repeated over and over again. None of the names bore a magical glow, but Torrin took care not to touch them anyway.

  He reached the door without incident and eased it open.

  The door led to a balcony with an iron floor and roof that were bolted onto the wall of an enormous natural chimney in the rock. The vast vertical tunnel was honeycombed with corridors leading into the rock and fronted with similar balconies. Arching ramps, also made of iron, connected each balcony to a spiral staircase at the center of the chimney. Scores of bald-headed duergar moved up and down the central staircase, intent on their business, passing across the bridges to the corridors bored into the rock. They moved for the most part in silence, barely acknowledging each other as they passed. Their hobnailed boots clanked on the metal steps. The only other sounds were the hiss of the chill, soot-tinged air through the cavern and the steady thud, thud, thud of something heavy and mechanical far below. Huge inscriptions, each glyph taller than a cottage, spelled out words on the chimney walls: “Silence. Toil. Obedience.”

  Torrin rested his hands on the balcony’s grimy railing and leaned out, looking up. Just above was the rest of the Runescribed Hall of Laduguer’s Graving, temple to the god Laduguer. Its outermost walls were made of iron and bolted to the natural rock. They bulged out from the wall like an angular shield, protecting the corridors and rooms within. Two enormous metal doors, each bearing a brightly glowing glyph, marked the temple’s entrance. They were closed, likely locked and warded. Torrin hoped to get inside by subterfuge. His plan was to pose as a human slaver who needed the services of a cleric to scry out a particularly valuable escaped slave. But if that didn’t work—if he couldn’t convince Laduguer’s clerics to let him inside—there was always the magical ring that Delvemaster Frivaldi had loaned Torrin. All he had to do was knock, and any lock would open.

  Torrin stepped back, brushing the soot from his palms. I
t was going to be dangerous. But he had to try.

  He crossed the bridge to the central staircase and made his way up the wide metal stairs. Each step was a grill of metal, and the view below was dizzying. Torrin passed several duergar, each of whom lifted his or her normally downturned head to stare sullenly at him as he passed. Their eyes bored into his back as he climbed. The women were bare-cheeked, and the men wore beards that reminded Torrin of animal quills—each strand of hair was as thick as the spine of a feather and bristling stiffly from cheeks and chin. All had black eyes and dull gray skin. Torrin repressed a shudder. He reminded himself that it was their natural coloration and not the stoneplague.

  Other creatures moved up and down the staircase as well. Grimlock slaves, a full head taller than the duergar, walked bent over as if worn down by their servitude. They had normal noses and mouths, but no eyes—just empty sockets covered by flaps of skin. Large, cupped ears helped compensate for their natural blindness. Most carried heavily loaded baskets or other burdens.

  The grimlocks wore clothing little better than rags, tattered and stained. Lash marks—some healed, some fresh and weeping—covered their shoulders and backs. One grimlock stank of rotting flesh; maggots squirmed in an untended wound on his mangled hand.

  Torrin swallowed down his bile. The sight of how the duergar treated their slaves made him sick. He started to whisper a prayer for the wretched slaves’ souls, but halted himself just in time. With his eyes down, he plodded on up the stairs.

  Just above was the bridge leading to the temple. A pair of duergar wearing gray hooded mantles and riding boots and carrying lances over the shoulders had just started across to the temple. Torrin decided to wait until they had disappeared into the temple before trying to enter himself. He slowed down and let other duergar pass him. One hurried up the stairs, elbowing aside a grimlock. Already unbalanced by a basket filled with tubers, the slave stumbled sideways and threw out a hand to steady himself. He was about to touch one of two nearby runes that glowed with magic. Not the benign sounding burakrin, meaning “passage,” but the one that read bazcorl—“fiery death.”