Obrin said something sharp, gesturing with his axe toward the tunnel mouth.
“He’s right,” Garn said. “This isn’t the place to talk. Wait until we’re home.”
“Agreed,” said the fair-haired dwarf, also speaking in the common tongue for Icelin, Ruen, and Sull’s benefit. Apparently, Obrin was the only one of the Blackhorn family with an objection to using Common. “We’re all tired from the journey down.” Her eyes met Icelin’s as she spoke.
Icelin didn’t argue. Sull was safe, and for the moment, at least, it seemed the dwarves meant them no harm. If there were more drow lurking about, she wanted to get somewhere safe as quickly as possible. Then they would determine the dwarves’ intent.
The fair-haired dwarf moved to the edge of the river and picked up a stone. Bringing it to her lips, she spoke a phrase in Dwarvish then cast the stone into the river.
A faint rumbling sounded from deep beneath the water, echoing in the cavern. One by one, stones rose from the river, stained dark by water and algae. They hovered above the river, fastening together to form a rough footbridge.
“Watch your step,” Garn advised, leading the way across the bridge.
Obrin followed him, and Icelin and Ruen came last. Ruen was still soaking wet from his dip in the river, but he never missed his footing on the slick stones. Not for the first time as she scrambled over the rocks was Icelin grateful that she’d abandoned her linen dresses in exchange for breeches and sturdy boots.
When they were safely on the other side, Obrin took up a position at the rear of the group and Icelin, Ruen, and Sull fell into the middle of the group of dwarves.
Icelin threw her uninjured arm around Sull for a hug. When Sull’s familiar warmth enveloped her, Icelin felt some of the emptiness inside her filling up. She tried to push the fractured images of the lightning storm and the smell of burning flesh from her mind.
“What did you do to get yourself captured like this?” Icelin demanded of Sull in mock sternness. “You should have been able to escape those two.” She pointed to the dwarf women.
“Not just the two,” Sull protested. “All four of them came on me at once, said I’d desecrated their burial grounds while I was diggin’ through a mint patch. I told them we weren’t lookin’ to disturb the dead; we were after that Arcane Script Sphere.”
“I see,” Icelin said, patting his arm. “What was their response?”
Sull’s face screwed up in dismay. “They all drew their matchin’ axes and said I was comin’ with them. Once they had me underground, they were goin’ to send a group back to capture you two, assumin’ you didn’t come after us.”
“Since you did come, it saved us the trouble,” Garn said.
“What Sull told you is true. We didn’t come here intending to desecrate your burial grounds,” Icelin said. She hesitated, remembering what Garn had said earlier. He knew what they sought. “This isn’t about that, is it? It’s about the Arcane Script Sphere.”
The dwarves exchanged glances. A flutter of emotions passed between the siblings and their father. The moment passed quickly, and the fair-haired dwarf turned to Icelin.
“We can’t speak of the sphere, but we do believe you intended no harm to our burial grounds,” she said. “I’m Joya. My sister is Ingara. Sull told me your names—Icelin and Ruen.”
“Our thanks to you both for aiding my father and brother against the drow,” Ingara spoke up. She had a rougher voice than Joya, and her gaze was direct. “You might have taken that opportunity to gain the advantage over them, but you didn’t.” Obrin shot his sister an annoyed glare, but Ingara merely laughed. “We can’t afford to spit in the face of aid against the drow, Brother.”
“Your friend Sull offered us similar aid when a pair of spiders attacked us,” Joya interrupted when it looked as if Obrin might wring his sister’s neck. She grinned at the butcher. “He stood in front of us armed with a meat cleaver and a tenderizing mallet. It was so … gallant.”
“Overprotective as a mother bear, but Sull’s meat stew and vegetables will make you weep with pleasure,” Icelin said, grinning at Sull. The butcher blushed.
“Why did you aid us?” Garn said. The runepriest was not nearly as congenial as his daughters were. As they stood talking, he stared into the darkness of the adjoining tunnels with a distant, inevitable expression, as if waiting for more enemies to descend upon them.
Ruen, who’d been quiet for most of the conversation, and who watched the darkness with the same attentiveness as Garn, spoke up. “You had Sull,” he said. “If you’d died, we would never have found him.”
“That’s the only reason?” Garn said, shooting an assessing glance at Ruen. Icelin wondered if he found it as hard to read Ruen’s expressions as she sometimes did.
When Ruen didn’t immediately reply, Icelin said, “We would have helped you, no matter what, had you needed it, but you and your son hardly required our aid. The runes you cast were stunning,” she told Garn, remembering the sense of peace that washed over her when he’d cast the healing magic on Obrin. “I’ve never seen such stable Art.”
“And that’s why you’re hunting the Arcane Script Sphere,” Ingara said, turning her direct gaze on Icelin. “Sull told us why you were exploring the ruins, but he didn’t mention your wild magic.”
“It’s the work of her spellscar,” Ruen said. “We had information that suggested the Arcane Script Sphere could stabilize wild magic.”
“What made you think such information was worth a rothé’s tongue?” Garn said. “Coming from the surface, from the humans? And what made you think you could just take the sphere if you found it?”
“We don’t want to take it,” Icelin said, “just to examine it. We don’t even know if it will help me—”
“But if it does,” Ruen interjected, “that’s another matter.”
This time Obrin reacted to his words. He turned and made a sharp gesture, pointing at Icelin and Ruen and speaking rapidly in Dwarvish. His eyes flashed angrily.
Icelin stepped forward, holding up her hands. “Calm down,” she told Obrin and shot a glare at Ruen. “We’re not thieves. I swear it.”
“It’s not just that,” Ingara said. “You don’t know …” But before she could go on, Joya touched her sister’s shoulder and said something quietly in their native language. Ingara fell silent, but she looked unhappy.
“There are mysteries here,” Icelin said, addressing Ruen. “Did I mention I was sick to death of mysteries, too?”
“Gods’ patience, are we going to stand here arguin’ forever?” Sull said, his rough voice cutting into the tense silence. “At least let’s have a meal and some drink. Aw, why couldn’t you have kidnapped me after I’d gotten the rest of my spices?”
The butcher’s mournful expression made Icelin chuckle. She couldn’t help it. Glancing at Joya and Ingara, she saw them biting their lips to keep from grinning. Some of the tension eased out of the group, and they moved off down the tunnels with Garn in front and Obrin bringing up the rear.
“We’re not far from the city,” Garn said as they walked. “Our king, Mith Barak, will be able to tell you more than we can about what you seek and to decide if you should be punished for your crimes. But my daughters are right, we owe you thanks for your aid.”
The conversation subsided. Despite Garn’s promise, they marched for what felt like hours, and as the time passed, Icelin leaned more and more heavily on her staff. She didn’t want to be a burden, but the remnants of the drow poison lingered in her blood, and the wild magic had taken an even greater toll. She almost called out to Garn to ask for a rest when she saw the tunnel ahead widening. A string of adjoining passages met up with the main one, and voices drifted from the smaller tunnels.
Icelin gasped as the reek of sweat and blood hit her nostrils. On the heels of these grim heralds, a score and more dwarves spilled out into the passage ahead of them. They carried swords, shields, and maces—and litters. At least a dozen dead or injured were among the grou
p. Some of them had no visible wounds, but they shivered and convulsed as if in the throes of some horrible fever. Their bearers stumbled and struggled to keep them on the litters.
“Darlan!” Garn called to one of the dwarves.
Some of the party slowed and turned to greet Garn, and the next moment, Icelin’s group fell in amongst them. Icelin kept close to Sull and Ruen, but the dwarves on the litters drew her gaze.
“There are more dead than wounded,” she whispered to Sull, but the butcher had his eyes on the litters too and didn’t seem to hear her.
“What’s he saying?” Ruen asked Joya, nodding at Garn. “Was it more drow who attacked them?”
Instead of replying, Joya translated for them.
“What news from the Vehrenar Pass?” Garn addressed a red-bearded dwarf with a battered shield hanging from his bandaged arm. Blood soaked through the bandage and dripped onto the ground, but the dwarf didn’t seem to notice.
“We held it until the spiders attacked,” Darlan said, “swarms of them. They just kept coming, so we had to fall back.”
Standing in front of Icelin, Ingara shivered and clutched her axe. Obrin turned to his sister and gave her shoulder a quick squeeze.
“This can’t be all that’s left of your men,” Garn said, incredulous.
“Aye, it is,” Darlan said bitterly. “At the last, we had to collapse the tunnel. We’d have been decimated otherwise.”
A pair of dwarves shouldered past Icelin carrying another litter, but up ahead the tunnel narrowed, slowing the pace of the group and crowding everyone together.
A cold, clammy hand latched onto Icelin’s arm.
Gasping, she tried to jerk away, but the hand held her fast. It was the dwarf on the litter. He stared up at Icelin with a distant, fevered light in his brown eyes.
“Marella,” he said in a hoarse whisper. It sounded like a name. “Marella.” Then he uttered a stream of words in Dwarvish that Icelin didn’t understand.
“I’m sorry,” Icelin said. She looked to the litter bearers, hoping one of them spoke Common. “What did he say?”
“He asked you for water,” said one of the dwarves. “He’s out of his head, thinks you’re his wife.” The litter bearers glanced at each other helplessly then looked back at Icelin. There was something empty and remote in their eyes, as if it took all their strength just to carry their burden. They had nothing left in them with which to attend or comfort their companion.
Icelin fumbled the stopper from her waterskin with her free hand and held it to the dwarf’s lips. The dwarf released her—leaving five angry red marks on her skin—and slurped greedily from the bladder. Rivulets of water darkened his beard, mingling with the tears that dripped from his eyes.
“Marella,” he said again, pushing the waterskin back at her. He coughed once, violently, spraying water and blood all over himself and Icelin.
“It’s … all right,” Icelin said. She put away the waterskin and wiped the blood flecks from her face. “Try to rest. You’re almost home.”
The crowd started to move. Icelin walked alongside the litter until the tunnel widened again and the dwarves were able to hurry forward. Her last sight of the injured dwarf was his hand lifted in the air, vaguely reaching for her.
“Marella …” His voice echoed, lost and childlike.
Icelin took a wavering step as if to follow him, but she found she couldn’t move. She covered her mouth with her hand, suddenly afraid she might be sick.
“It’s all right,” Sull said from behind her. “You did what you could for him.” He draped an arm across her shoulders. Until she felt his warmth, Icelin hadn’t realized she was shivering. She didn’t need Ruen’s gift to tell her the dwarf was near death. She leaned into Sull’s body gratefully and let him support her as they walked on.
Finally, the two groups passed out of the long tunnel, and suddenly there were guards all around them, a dozen warriors heavily armored and grim looking. Icelin might have been afraid of the presence of so much steel and so many dour-faced dwarves, but the passage ahead temporarily distracted her, for it contained the largest door she’d ever seen.
Ten feet tall and made of solid iron, the gate to Iltkazar wedged perfectly into the stone, an immovable titan that Icelin couldn’t imagine an enemy ever being able to break down. That was assuming the enemy made it so far, past the armored dwarves and clerics who stood on either side of the door.
The clerics immediately went to work tending the wounded dwarves, but Icelin noticed a few of them watching her and her companions with steely glares as they approached the iron door. Was it her imagination, or did their displeasure deepen when they caught sight of her? It must be her staff—they recognized her for a wizard—or else they sensed the wild Art inside her.
Icelin shook those irrational thoughts away. Likely they were simply suspicious of outsiders. There was no point in dwelling on her fears. She had no control over how the dwarves felt about her or her companions, but they’d obviously brought them here for a reason, one that Icelin suspected had little to do with their desecrating a burial ground.
As soon as they started discussing the Arcane Script Sphere, the dwarves had become agitated. Icelin sensed their anger wasn’t directed at her specifically, but she’d known enough of secrets in her life to know when someone was hiding something from her.
Perhaps this King Mith Barak would be able to enlighten them.
A shattering groan lifted Icelin from her thoughts. The massive iron door creaked open under the direction of the guards, and Icelin had another cause for wonderment. The door itself was at least three feet thick, lumbering open by inches, guided by the grim-faced warriors.
Joya came up beside her. “Few outsiders are allowed to witness the Gate Guardians opening the outer door,” she commented.
“The outer door?” Icelin echoed, incredulous. “Are there more doors like this one between us and the city?”
Joya’s soft, melodic laughter made Icelin think of elves and forests rather than iron and rock. “Nine doors lie between this spot and my city. The outer doors are a pair of iron giants. The inner six are iron, too, but cloaked in hizagkuur, one of our magical metals. The innermost is the mithral door, last protector of the Mithral City, our home.” The dwarf woman cleared a catch in her throat as she spoke these words. “Welcome to Iltkazar, Icelin.”
ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK
21 UKTAR
JOYA STEPPED AWAY TO SPEAK TO THE GATE GUARDIANS, leaving Icelin to stare in wonder as they proceeded through each of the nine mythical doors, for that’s what they seemed to Icelin—gates that would guard a giant’s lair or a dragon’s hoard.
“Did you know such places existed?” she whispered to Ruen and Sull. They walked at her side as silent shadows—well, perhaps Sull was not so silent, lumbering along with the clank of his cleavers as constant punctuation to his steps.
Sull snorted his amazement, never taking his eyes off the massive doors. “Lass, I’ve done butcherin’ for hundreds of folk in South Ward in my life. They bring me tales like this sometimes, and I listen with half an ear because I tell myself they can’t be true, just a lot of ruttin’ talk. Wish I’d listened, now,” he said quietly.
Icelin waited for Ruen to answer, but he appeared lost in thought. After their conversation in the tunnel, he seemed more distant now than he’d ever been. Even Sull shot an inquisitive glance at him. Then he looked to Icelin, but she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
Let him assume that we’ve been fighting again, Icelin thought. It won’t truly be a lie.
They passed through the mithral door, leaving the dozens of Gate Guardians behind and passing into a wider cavern, where the ceiling soared high above their heads. Being suddenly in the open space, Icelin felt as if some of the pressing weight lifted from her. The fear of being trapped underground started to leave her. It was impossible to feel too much trepidation with the city of Iltkazar spread out before her.
Torchlight gave way to glowing, silvery-blue
lichen that covered the ceiling, spidering in and out of cracks in the stone and hanging down in clumps throughout the cavern. Once Icelin’s eyes adjusted to the silvery radiance, she found it easier to see by than the flickering, smoky torch glow.
The light revealed a broad avenue of worked stone flanked by towering statues of dwarves, their shadows thrown far across the cavern floor. Massive staircases led to buildings carved out of the stone—homes, shops, and temples—while winding among them to the centermost cavern was a great river. Bridges arched over the flowing water. Green and blue lichen and other underground flora grew on the banks and at the bases of creaking waterwheels scattered throughout the cavern.
“The River Dhalnadar,” Garn said, pointing. “The temple to Moradin splits the river in the cavern’s heart. Facing the temple across the plaza is my king’s great hall. My daughter Joya will take you there. Obrin, come with me. Ingara—”
“I will see Vallahir first and then come to you, Father,” she said respectfully but firmly. Garn nodded, and Ingara moved off down the avenue.
“Ingara is to be wed,” Joya said when the rest of her family had gone. She led them along the avenue under the watchful, frozen gazes of the statues. “Since the attacks began, she hasn’t had time to properly see to the preparations.”
“Vallahir is her betrothed?” Icelin said. “It must be hard being separated from her beloved at a time like this.” Icelin thought she felt Ruen’s eyes upon her, but when she glanced at him sidelong, he was staring at the statues.
“Separated from—” unexpectedly, Joya laughed. “From Vallahir? Her beloved? Oh my, I’ll have to tell him that one—that I will.” Her shoulders shook with a sudden burst of mirth. “Forgive me, I should explain. Vallahir … Vallahir is a war axe.”
“A war axe?” Sull cried. “But she looked tender as a young girl when she said his … er … its name a breath ago.”
“Yes, well, that’s not really surprising,” Joya said, still fighting to contain her smile. “Ingara is a smith—the best in our family—and she takes her work very seriously. Vallahir is the name of the war axe she has forged as a gift for her husband on their wedding day. Arngam—that’s her betrothed—is also a smith and very gifted in forging hizagkuur armor. He’s at work on a suit for her, which she will wear at the wedding. They’ve not been in each other’s company for a tenday while preparing the gifts.”
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