Before the slave’s hand could make contact with the rune, Torrin shoved him. The slave lurched forward, and his hand came to rest on a non-magical part of the wall, instead. Unfortunately for him, he stumbled into the duergar who’d elbowed him aside. Tubers spilled from the slave’s basket and bounced off the duergar’s head and shoulders before rolling down the stairs. Some tumbled off the edge of the staircase and spun away out of sight.
The duergar whirled and spat out angry words. Torrin couldn’t understand the dialect, and at first thought the duergar was berating the slave. One word, however, he recognized: “human.” The sneer on the duergar’s lips made it clear he intended it as an insult. And he was staring down at Torrin!
Torrin had no idea what was expected of a human in Drik Hargunen. Should he answer the fellow’s insult with one of his own? Bow meekly and ask forgiveness? The duergar carried himself as if he were someone important—a noble, no doubt. He wore an expensive-looking cloak and several gold rings, some of which were glowing to Torrin’s potion-enhanced eyesight. His spiky beard glowed with magic as well.
Torrin bowed his head. “My apologies,” he said in Dwarvish. “I tripped.”
The noble’s eyebrows rose. With his quill beard bristling, he shouted something at Torrin. Immediately, the slave fell to his knees, trembling. Above, one of the duergar who’d been crossing the bridge to the temple glanced back at what was happening and halted abruptly. On the staircase below Torrin—all around him in fact—other duergar had gathered. They were staring at him with each passing moment, nudging each other, and muttering.
Torrin swallowed. He bowed again at the highranking duergar and tried backing away down the stairs. But something pressed into his back, blocking his path. He glanced behind him and saw what must have been one of Drik Hargunen’s guards, wearing an iron breastplate and a small round helmet. He’d turned his quarterstaff sideways, to block Torrin’s path.
Meanwhile, the hooded duergar who had halted on the temple bridge waved his companion on and headed back to the staircase, his lance at the ready. He shouted something at the noble, who shook his head and gestured angrily at Torrin as the tips of the quills oozed a blood red substance that let off tiny wisps of sulfurous smelling smoke. Poison?
Things weren’t going at all well.
“I’m newly arrived in Drik Hargunen,” Torrin explained in Dwarvish, hoping the noble could understand him. “I meant no offense. I’ll just be on my way now.”
The gray-hooded duergar with the lance had reached the staircase. The knot of onlookers parted for him. Clearly, he was someone important, too. The lance alone looked valuable, with an intricately carved shaft and a large black star sapphire set into the shaft just below the blade. The gem had a crack running through it that had nearly split it in two. It reminded Torrin of something. Laduguer’s holy symbol was a broken crossbow bolt … Was the broken gemstone something similar? Was he a cleric of Laduguer?
“You there,” the cleric said in Dwarvish, pointing down at Torrin. “Slaver. Discipline your chattel.” He jutted his chin in the direction of the cowering slave.
Torrin was grateful for the cleric’s mistake. If they thought the grimlock was his slave, it would make things easier. Torrin had planned to pose as a slave trader, and the grimlock was opportunity to make himself look legitimate. He forced a scowl onto his face and kicked the cowering grimlock. “Apologize for your clumsiness, slave!” he bellowed.
The grimlock let out a howl.
The noble sneered and said something to the guard who stood behind Torrin. The quarterstaff nudged Torrin forward. He stumbled up a step.
The cleric flicked a hand, catching Torrin’s eye. “Stupid human,” he shouted. “Do you think you’re invincible—that you’ve been drinking dragon’s blood? Kill that grimlock, or your life is forfeit. Your slave has touched a klegesk! You’re both about to be quilled!”
Torrin blinked in surprise. Dragon’s blood? He suddenly noticed the cleric’s gnarled hand. That was no duergar. That was Baelar, in disguise! He’d just risked the entire mission to intervene, despite what Torrin had done earlier.
“Quit trying to protect your property, human!” Baelar commanded. “Throw him off the staircase. Now!”
Torrin was appalled. Surely there was some other way to escape than murdering an innocent slave! Baelar obviously didn’t like it much, either. Torrin could see the sadness in his eyes that belied his apparently firm, commanding voice.
Torrin swallowed. He knew what was expected of him. The mission depended on it. The lives of people like Kier depended upon it. Yet he just couldn’t kill the slave. Not when there was another way out.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. And he meant it. It was something else Baelar would have to forgive him for. He smacked a hand against the second magical rune on the wall beside him, the one that read “passage.” Instantly, he felt the familiar wrench of a teleportation spell.
As it whisked him away, he heard shouts. The noble’s beard exploded quills that left streaks of smoke as they sped toward him.
Torrin vanished from the bridge, the quills shattering against the wall where he’d stood.
Torrin landed face down in something warm and squishy. He came up sputtering and spitting, frantically wiping the stinking mess from his face. It smelled as though he’d landed in a latrine. The taste of it on his lips made him gag. He heard more than one large creature moving nearby, and low-throated grunts. He dragged a sleeve across the one lens of his goggles. Suddenly, he could see in the darkness.
He’d been teleported to what looked like a slave pen. The walls were gray granite; the floor in the corner where he’d landed was slippery with feces. Between Torrin and the padlocked iron grate that closed off the pen, three huge, muscular ogres stared at him, dull-eyed with surprise. One scratched its head, the chain connecting its wrist to the wall clanking as its hand moved. The other two bared vicious tusks. Drool dribbled from their mouths. Like the first ogre, they were chained to the wall. Yet that chain was plenty long enough for them to reach Torrin.
One of the ogres lurched at him, surprisingly fast. Torrin barely got his mace up in time. He swung it, shouting its command word. Thunder boomed as the weapon connected with the ogre’s reaching hand, smacking it aside. The ogre howled its rage and backed away rapidly, its hand tucked tight against its chest. Blood dribbled from the spot where its fractured fingerbones protruded through its flesh.
The other two ogres barely glanced at the injured one. They advanced more cautiously, fanning out on either side of Torrin, flanking him. Struggling to keep his footing in the slippery muck, Torrin backed up a step. If only he could reach for his runestone, he could teleport out of there! But it was inside his pack, and there was no time to get it out. He’d have to fight his way clear, instead. And he’d have to do it before the duergar official he’d offended on the staircase sent men after him. The duergar would know, after all, where Torrin had wound up. It was their rune that had teleported him there.
But first, he had to deal with the ogres. “It’s not your dinner time quite yet,” Torrin said to them through gritted teeth. He gripped his mace with sweaty hands—wary, yet confident in its ability to protect him. “Now then … Who’s next?”
One of the ogres moved a step closer. Torrin shifted his mace. The other moved closer still, crowding Torrin. Yet still they didn’t attack. What were they waiting for? Were they trying to goad Torrin into charging them, hoping he’d slip and drop his weapon? Ogres weren’t that clever. Or were they?
One of the ogres barked something over its shoulder at the injured one. The latter thrust its good hand out through the grate and slapped the wall outside. Belatedly, Torrin realized that the spot on the wall was glowing faintly. The potion Torrin had drunk was wearing off; the glow indicating the rune’s magic was so dim he’d missed it earlier.
As the ogre’s meaty hand slapped the rune, a wave of magical energy shimmered through the cavern. The ogres grunted in pain and fell to
the ground as it swept across them. The injured ogre let out a low moan as its hand struck the floor. Then the wave of magical force reached the back of the slave pen. As it struck Torrin, he felt as though his arms and his legs were suddenly boneless. He crumpled where he stood, the mace falling from fingers that could no longer grip. Helpless, he lay on his side in the muck, unable to move. Even breathing was a struggle. It felt as though his lungs were about to collapse in upon themselves.
“Mar … tham … mor,” he prayed, barely able to force the words out. “Aid … me …” His mind screamed at his body to crawl through the muck to his mace. But all he could do was lie there, as weak as a newborn.
The ogres began to recover from the magical effect before Torrin. They were bigger than him, tougher. Though still shaky, they rose to their hands and knees. One of them crawled to Torrin’s mace and hurled the weapon behind it; it struck the grate with a loud clang. The other flipped Torrin over roughly. Torrin felt large hands ripping his clothing, pawing at his pack, and tearing it off his back. Claws raked his shoulder, and he cried out in pain. Blood streamed down his back. He struggled to rise, but a heavy hand slammed him down. He heard the ogres grunting, panting out a single word in Dwarvish over and over again as they tore at his pack and pockets: “Key, key, key.”
Torrin found enough strength to twist one hand out. “Key!” he shouted at them, trying to raise his magical ring. His other hand groped for the wrist of the nearest ogre, and the manacle enclosing it. He rapped his ring hand down sharply on the manacle and spoke the ring’s command word.
The manacle burst open, falling away from the ogre’s wrist.
Suddenly, the ogres were no longer mauling him.
Torrin rolled aside and sat up. He pointed to his finger, indicating the ring. “Key,” he said. He pointed at the manacle on the wrist of the second uninjured ogre, then made a beckoning motion. “You. Come. Key.”
The freed ogre stared down at its bare wrist with a sloppy grin on its face. The ogre beside it glanced at the first, then extended his arm to Torrin.
“That’s right,” Torrin said. “Play nice and I’ll help you.” He knocked his fist against the manacle, and it fell away.
The ogre with the shattered hand stood near the grate. It had Torrin’s mace in its uninjured hand, and was savagely taking out its anger by biting one end of it; its teeth ground against the iron-hard handle. Cautiously, Torrin made his way to it.
“Mace,” he ordered, pointing at the weapon, praying that the word was the same in the duergar dialect as it was in Dwarvish, and that the ogre would understand it. He gestured at the floor. “Put the mace down,” he said. He held up his fist and pointed at his ring. “Key,” he repeated. He was acutely aware of the other two ogres crowding in behind him, breathing down the back of his neck. He pointed first at the manacle, then at the locked grate. “Key.”
The ogre stared dully at Torrin for a long moment. Then it spat the mace out and held up its wrist.
Torrin expended another of the ring’s charges freeing the slave. Then he turned and knocked his fist against the padlock. The grate swung open on squealing hinges.
The three ogres stared at the open grate for one heartbeat, two … and then all tried to barge through it at once. After a brief scuffle, the two uninjured ones erupted out of the slave pen. The third ogre ran after them, clutching its wounded hand to its chest.
Torrin heaved a huge sigh of relief. He scooped up his mace and hurried to the back of the cave where his pack lay. The buckles were dangling, and the straps were shredded; but although the main flap had been ripped open, the ogres had gotten nothing out of the pack. Torrin plunged a hand inside and commanded the runestone to his hand.
He pictured the cubicle in the library he’d teleported into earlier. It was uncomfortably close to the stairs and the duergar official who’d confronted him, but that might be a good thing—the duergar wouldn’t expect Torrin to return there so soon. He’d clean up with water from his waterskin, put on fresh clothes from his pack, and try again.
With Marthammor Duin’s blessing, Baelar and the others would be inside the temple already, searching for the cursed rune. Maybe Torrin could do something to help them, rather than hinder them.
He pictured the empty cubicle. The image came clearly to mind. “The library of the Runescribed Hall of Laduguer’s Graving,” he said. “By blood and earth, ae-burakrin. Take me there.”
Nothing happened.
“The cubicle in the library—the one I teleported to a short time ago,” he repeated. “By blood and earth, ae-burakrin. Take me there. Now!”
Light flared beside him as a rune in the wall blazed to life. Torrin turned to look at it. “Thulkrin,” it read. “Blocked passage.”
Torrin’s heart sank. The runestone wasn’t going to get him out of there. The rune had obviously been put into place to put slaves from escaping—or from being stolen.
Slowly, Torrin lowered the runestone. The corridor outside would certainly be similarly warded, as would anywhere else the slaves passed through.
“By Moradin’s beard,” he whispered, “Now what?”
He’d better decide quickly, he thought. Judging by the shouts coming from farther along the tunnel, either the three escaped ogres had just been spotted, or the duergar he’d angered on the staircase had sent guards to collect the wayward “human slaver.” Either way, Torrin didn’t want to stick around.
“Gold is gold, though it be in a rogue’s purse.”
Delver’s Tome, Volume III, Chapter 93, Entry 62
TORRIN RUSHED DOWN THE TUNNEL, AWAY FROM THE shouts. He soon realized the ogres’ cave was just one of many slave pens. He kept passing similar caves, each with a padlocked grate.
The corridor looked as though it had once been part of a mine. The walls were cut stone, and heavy timbers shored up the ceiling. Inscriptions were everywhere. Large runes marked the entrance to each slave pen—likely similar to the one the ogre had activated. Other runes had been carved into the timbers and walls, still others into the floor. Whether they were magical or merely directional, Torrin had no idea. But he took no chances. He jumped over all of them.
As he ran past their slave pens, the ogres, orcs, and goblins confined within ran forward, some shouting at Torrin, others banging their manacles against the grates. Torrin rapped his fist against as many manacles and padlocks as he could—each of the locks fell open as his ring worked its magic. Freed slaves poured out, whooping with glee. Others shouted for him to free them, too. But as much as he’d like to, Torrin couldn’t free them all. There just wasn’t enough time. Nor did he want to use up all the charges in his ring. According to Delvemaster Frivaldi, the ring had held twenty-eight charges when he’d given it to Torrin. And Torrin had used up … How many by now? Twenty? Twenty-two? He’d lost count. He had better not use it again unless he had to.
By the sound of the shouts, the duergar guards were drawing closer. Hopefully, the milling knot of freed slaves would slow them down.
As he leaped over a rune on the floor, the jump carried him a little too close to one of the smaller slave pens. Its lone occupant, a snout-nosed orc with braided hair and ears that suggested he was at least part human, thrust a hand through the grate and caught Torrin’s arm. When Torrin tried to yank free, the orc’s filthy claws dug painfully into his arm.
“Free me,” the orc grunted in Undercommon, a pidgin language cobbled together with words from more than a dozen underground-dwelling races. “I pay.” Still holding Torrin, he dug a palm-sized sheet of ragged-edged metal out of the filthy leggings that wrapped his lower legs. He held it up. “Gold!” he panted. “I pay.”
The shouts behind Torrin were getting ever closer. “Let go!” Torrin cried. “There’s no time.” He wrenched his arm free and ran. Blood dribbled down his arm from the scratches the orc had gouged in it.
The orc’s pen turned out to be the last. Torrin ran on into a section of mine that had no side caves. He reached a spot where the tunnel bra
nched, and chose a direction at random. More side caves appeared, those ones filled with stone-cutting equipment: picks, shovels, drill bits, and ore buckets on shoulder yokes. It was an active mine, not an abandoned one. That explained the slaves.
Suddenly, Torrin realized that the shouts behind him were staying in one spot. It was likely the duergar guards had run into the fleeing slaves. Nearly out of breath, Torrin slowed to a walk. Just as his breathing was returning to normal, he heard a clicking noise, like the sound of claws on stone, coming along the tunnel he’d just run through. The clicking grew louder, closer. He ducked into one of the side caves and hid behind some ore buckets, readying his mace. Peering out, he saw a spider the size of a dining table scuttle into view across the tunnel’s ceiling. A duergar sat in a saddle cinched to its bulging abdomen. The hood of his gray mantle hung down, brushing the floor. He wore riding boots and held a lance like the one Baelar had been carrying, with a fist-sized gem set into its blade.
The spider scuttled out of sight, and silence returned. As Torrin eased himself out from behind the ore buckets, one of them shifted slightly, threatening to fall. He caught it. To his surprise it was made of stone, not metal, and was terribly heavy. Grunting, he eased it back into place. As he did, what felt like a lip of hardened slag on the edge of the bucket bent easily under his hand. Gold? He reached for a pick and tested its point on the slag. The metal scratched easily.
He was certain: it was gold.
Had the bucket been used to carry molten metal from the River of Gold? That would explain why it was made of stone. It would also explain why a guard bearing religious regalia was down there in the mine.
Perhaps the slaves would be worth talking to.
The Gilded Rune Page 25