“A tenday?” Icelin couldn’t imagine it, separated from one she cared about for all that time. Once again, she was acutely aware of Ruen’s presence beside her, though she did not look at him this time. “It must be terribly lonely work,” she said to Joya.
“Oh no,” Joya said. They’d reached the river and had to climb a staircase wide enough for ten dwarves to walk abreast to get to a stone bridge. Pillars lined the bridge, chips of brilliant white crystal embedded in their dark stone. “Ingara is as closely connected to her smithcraft as she is to her family. Her thoughts are with Arngam while she works the forge, you can be sure of that. She’ll want him to have the greatest weapon her hands can shape, especially now,” Joya added, and the sadness that came into her voice distracted Icelin from the grandeur of the cavernous city.
Ruen must have heard the sadness too, for he spoke then for the first time since they’d reached the city. “You’re sealing off major routes to the city, there are giant spiders infesting the tunnels, and drow launch attacks practically on Iltkazar’s doorstep,” he said. “What is the city preparing for?”
Joya stopped in the middle of the bridge, gazing out over the city, her face cast in silver-blue light and in shadows. “Invasion,” she said calmly. “The drow of Guallidurth are coming at last to finish what they started centuries ago in the Night Wars. They’re coming to take over Iltkazar.”
One of the guards brought Zollgarza food and water. Lying on his side with his back to the cell door, the drow heard the jangle of keys before the door swung open. Metal scraped on stone as a plate slid across the floor. The guard plunked the water cup down after it and shut the door quickly. Zollgarza never moved.
At least they had unchained him after Mith Barak’s interrogation was over. When the guard’s footsteps receded, Zollgarza rolled over and stretched out a hand to drag the plate closer. A slab of rothé meat veined with fat swam in a puddle of chunky gravy. Nearby, a bruised potato had rolled off the plate when the guard slid it across the floor. Zollgarza’s lip curled in disgust at the dirt smudges staining the vegetable. The feeling intensified when his stomach growled, betraying him.
He picked up the dripping meat, bit off one end, and began the laborious process of chewing until the fatty bite was small enough to swallow without gagging. With his other hand, Zollgarza reached back and undid the leather cord that secured his black hair. The strands fell around his face, snaring in the gravy that dripped down his chin. Zollgarza ignored them and spread the leather tie on the floor beside him.
The only polite thing he could say about the gravy was that it was full of salt. As soon as he tasted the meat, he wanted to drain his water cup dry, but it was well worth the discomfort.
Keeping an eye on the door, Zollgarza dipped his fingers in the gravy and rubbed them on the leather cord, grinding the salty liquid in deep until the gravy smear had taken on a berry color and smelled slightly of dung. Zollgarza nodded, satisfied with his work, and shoved the plate away. One bite would have to sustain him, at least for now.
Next came his favorite part.
Combing his hands through the strands of his black hair, Zollgarza found the thin black ribbon tied around the shorter hairs at the base of his scalp. Four small needles pierced the ribbon. These he removed and placed carefully on the floor next to the puddle of berry-colored gravy. He sniffed the mixture, noting that the dung smell had grown stronger. The poison was ready.
Zollgarza retrieved the potato lying on the floor. It appeared to have been boiled, though half-heartedly. The tuber was still tough in places, which suited Zollgarza’s purposes. Carefully, he picked up a needle and drove the blunt end halfway into the potato. He did the same with the other three, lining them up in a row. Then, palming the potato in his right hand, Zollgarza dragged the needles through the berry-colored gravy until they were suitably coated.
The Quanzsit berry poison was Zollgarza’s own concoction and one of his favorites. The leather cord, treated with the poison and dried, was harmless. Expose it to salty liquids, like those found in his food, and the situation changed dramatically.
Zollgarza put the potato back on his plate, careful not to let the poisoned needles dip into the gravy still swimming around the meat. He fetched his water and drank it down while he waited for the guard to return.
Logically, he knew he couldn’t escape, even if he managed to get his weapons back from the guards. His only target now was Mith Barak and the sphere. If it meant his death, he would fulfill Lolth’s command and facilitate the invasion of Iltkazar.
But he would die with gaping holes in his memories, questions he had no answers for. Zollgarza tried to quell these doubts, but they taunted him. Mith Barak claimed he wasn’t responsible for Zollgarza’s condition. Lolth’s touch was upon him, the dwarf said, and part of Zollgarza thrilled to the possibility that the goddess had reached out to him. Yet why alter him, rip out his memories? And what if the dwarf king lied?
More than anything, Zollgarza wanted Mith Barak dead. Pain lingered from the dwarf’s mental assault. Such a violation would not stand.
He heard the guard’s footsteps. Zollgarza set his cup on the floor and waited. A key turned in the lock, and the guard pushed open the door. When he saw Zollgarza sitting up, with the plate in his hands, the dwarf’s eyes narrowed.
“Decided to eat, did you?” The guard stepped inside the cell, his drawn sword leading. “Put it on the floor.” He waited while Zollgarza complied. “Now slide it over to me.”
Zollgarza slid the plate across the cell, jostling it so the potato slid off onto the floor. He put his hands in his lap, took a calming breath, and waited.
The dwarf bent to pick up the plate. Zollgarza exploded into motion, leaping across the cell in a breath. The guard brought his sword up, but Zollgarza was already too close. He grabbed the dwarf’s sword hand, jerking him off balance. They grappled, hands flailing, the dwarf’s blade flashing dangerously close to Zollgarza’s neck.
The dwarf was strong, stronger than Zollgarza had expected, but he was still off balance, trying to compensate for Zollgarza’s speed. As they struggled, Zollgarza tore one hand away and reached for the potato lying nearby. His fingers barely avoided the needles. How the goddess would have laughed if he’d managed to stick himself.
Unable to wield his sword with Zollgarza so close, the dwarf dropped the weapon, let out a loud bellow and dived on top of Zollgarza. Together they rolled on the hard stone floor, but somehow Zollgarza managed to hold on to the potato. Calloused, sweaty fingers came around Zollgarza’s throat. The dwarf bellowed again for the other guards.
Zollgarza knew if he didn’t act in that instant, he was dead. He aimed the needles and brought his hand up, stabbing the exposed flesh along the dwarf’s jaw.
Growling, the dwarf wrenched his hands from Zollgarza’s throat long enough to slap the improvised weapon out of his hand, scattering the needles across the floor. Zollgarza used the precious seconds to gulp in air. The dwarf reached up and pulled a needle out of his skin, examining the blood-smeared object. Zollgarza saw the understanding dawn in his eyes.
“Moradin curse you and all your kin,” the dwarf whispered. His words were slurred. The poison already had him.
Zollgarza dodged as the dwarf lunged for him and collapsed onto the floor. Convulsions wracked his body. The dwarf gasped for air as Zollgarza had done only a breath ago.
The guards were coming. Zollgarza heard their running footsteps. Too many, and they’d come too fast. He wasn’t even going to get out of his cell. He’d failed, and Lolth bore witness to that failure. Zollgarza snatched up the guard’s sword and held the blade to his own throat, letting out a howl of rage.
“Lolth, I am shamed!” he screamed. His palms dug into the blade. Skin broke and blood flowed, but Zollgarza could not bring himself to slit his own throat. Not unless he knew it was the goddess’s will. His life belonged to the Spider Queen. “I would die for you,” he cried, near tears. “If you gave me a sign, I would bury thi
s blade inside me. Stay with me, I beg you! Give me one more chance, and I will prove myself!”
The rest of the guards burst into the cell. Zollgarza barely heard them cry out at seeing their comrade prone on the floor, the drow standing over him with a bloody sword. He barely felt it when they tackled him and yanked the sword out of his hands. Blows rained down on his head and chest. Perhaps he was going to die now, Zollgarza thought. Perhaps this was Lolth’s will, after all.
Let it be done, then, Zollgarza thought.
He closed his eyes and let the dwarves have him.
Ruen stood in the open plaza, glancing between the temple to Moradin and the king’s hall. Carved out of a protrusion of rock, half the temple remained in its natural state, while the other half had been shaped into a columned facade. The building looked as if a sculptor had merely discovered the temple in the shape of the stone, rather than an architect had built the place.
He was surprised to see the plaza empty, though there was evidence of a trade market. Disassembled stalls and some wagons scattered across the open areas, but no one was around to tend them. An eerie quiet had taken root.
They’d encountered a similarly oppressive silence on their way here. Buildings sat empty, their windows dark. Portions of the city must have been evacuated in anticipation of the drow threat, Ruen concluded. The city truly was preparing for war.
Joya escorted them across the plaza to King Mith Barak’s audience chamber. Another columned entrance greeted them, but this time the four pillars were statues of dwarves. Ruen guessed by their dress and the jewels embedded in their stone armor that these were the previous kings of the dwarven realm.
A guard dressed in crimson and rust-gold livery was leaving the chamber in a hurry as they entered, and in her haste nearly bowled over the group.
“Stand aside,” she said gruffly. Her eyes found Joya and softened. “Welcome back,” she said. “Your family is well?”
“Yes, they’re all well and returned to the city,” Joya said. “What’s the matter, Dorla? It’s all right,” she added, when the dwarf shot a suspicious glance at Ruen and Icelin. “I’ve brought them to see the king.”
Dorla’s expression didn’t brighten at this news. “The prisoner tried to escape—poisoned one of the guards.”
Joya’s mouth tightened, but beyond that, she showed no emotion. “Is there anything I can do for him?”
“He’s dead—nothing anyone can do,” Dorla said curtly. “I’ve told the king—he’s in a state. You might want to postpone your visit,” she said with a meaningful glance at Joya.
“I’m sorry,” Joya said. “I’m afraid my business can’t wait. Did he leave the hall while we were away, Dorla? Other than to go to the dungeons?”
Dorla grunted. “What do you think?”
“I see. Well, we won’t keep you,” Joya said. “I know you’re very busy.”
“Busy gathering up the dead—aye, it’s consuming all my hours these days,” Dorla said bitterly.
Ruen stepped aside to let the dwarf woman pass.
“How bad is it?” he asked when they were alone again.
“Dorla is the master armswoman, head of the king’s personal guard and aid to the Warmaster of Iltkazar,” Joya said. “When she looks like that, it’s bad. Our best estimate is that the drow outnumber us four to one.”
“Four to one?” Icelin cried. “How can that be? The city is so large. There’s room for thousands, tens of thousands, down here.”
“Yes, but have you noticed the way your footsteps and voices echo in these great caverns?” Joya said. She’d turned her back on them, so Ruen couldn’t read her expression, but he heard the ache in her voice. “They’ve been empty for a long time. Come,” she said, before Ruen could ask any more questions. “The king is waiting. It’s best we get the audience over quickly.”
Joya led them through the doors. From the outside, the king’s hall had looked immense, but inside, perhaps because of Joya’s words, the soaring, empty space struck Ruen anew. Lit by torchlight that barely reached the barrel-vaulted ceiling, the hall was a cold place, filled with shadows and lonely echoes.
At the far end of the room, a throne sat on a raised dais, flanked by a series of pillars engraved with Dwarvish runes. Ruen couldn’t be sure, but by the arrangement of the letters, he thought the writing contained names. Several symbols repeated down the columns, perhaps indicating members of the same clan. More silvery-blue lichen draped the tops of the pillars, casting them and the throne in a cool silver glow that contrasted with the warm torchlight in the rest of the hall.
On the throne sat the oldest dwarf Ruen had ever seen. Enhanced by the light of the lichen, his beard and hair were pure silver. His hands where they gripped the throne had a grayish tinge, and there were hollows carved out of his cheeks and dark shadows around his eyes. He stared straight ahead and did not react to the group’s presence until they’d reached the dais. Slowly, his gaze focused on them, sharpened, his eyes flooding with shrewdness and power.
There is life in him yet, Ruen thought. His body is a statue, but his mind is alert and dangerous.
“What have you brought me, Joya?” asked the king. Ruen heard the note of challenge, almost anger, in his voice, but if Joya noticed it, she didn’t react.
“King Mith Barak, I bring you these three named Icelin, Ruen, and Sull. We encountered them on the surface when my father was sealing one of the upper tunnels,” Joya explained. “One of them desecrated a burial ground near our temple, but later they aided my father and brother against the drow. They risked their lives for my family and are all skilled in battle.”
The king’s expression did not change, but he inclined his head in acknowledgement of Joya’s words. “Why bring them to me? Why didn’t you punish them for their crimes on the surface?”
Joya hesitated. “They claim they are looking for the Arcane Script Sphere.”
Hearing that, the king’s countenance transformed. His eyes narrowed—the silver-blue irises burned, though Ruen was sure it must be a trick of the light. He stood up, towering over them from his place on the dais. Color flooded his cheeks, filling the hollows and suffusing his face with a vibrancy that bordered on frenzy.
“Explain,” the king said. His voice was soft, calm, and completely at odds with his expression. “You,” he said, nodding at Icelin, “the one carrying the staff. You seek the sphere?”
Ruen glanced at Icelin, but he couldn’t draw her gaze. How would she answer? Echoes of the king’s exhaustion reflected in her face in lines and shadows. She needed to rest. It had been a mistake to allow the dwarves to bring them all the way down here. They should have fought while they had an advantage. Now they were at the king’s mercy in this city deep beneath the earth.
“King Mith Barak,” Icelin said, her voice ringing out clear and sweet. Despites his jests, Ruen had always thought Icelin had the loveliest voice. “I mean no harm or disrespect to the dwarves of Iltkazar. I seek the sphere because I have heard it is a stabilizing force, a powerful conduit for arcane magic. This is of great interest because wild magic—the result of a spellscar—is killing me.”
The king eyed her speculatively, but his gaze still burned with that same unsettling intensity. “Is this true, Joya?” he said, not taking his eyes off Icelin.
“I was not aware that she is dying,” Joya said, “but I see no reason to doubt her. In the tunnels, I witnessed one of her spells go wild. The magic shattered through a drow wizard’s spell shields as if they were nothing—a humbling sight.”
“Shattered them?” Mith Barak said, his tone sharp. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, my king.”
“Impressive. So you think the sphere will help you, girl?” Mith Barak asked. He stepped down from the dais and approached Icelin. Despite the fact that she was taller by several inches, Icelin looked small and fragile in the presence of the king.
Her tongue, however, had never been fragile, not since Ruen had known her. “I don’t know,” she s
aid. “All I know for certain is that I’m spellscarred, and so is my companion in the hat, though his curse comes in a different form. We have been seeking the means to cure ourselves, and the Arcane Script Sphere is the first true hope we’ve had.”
The king glanced at Ruen and then back to Icelin. “What is his curse?”
“In my view, he’s an insufferable, overprotective nuisance, a thief, a brawler, and a brooding grump. More than that he must tell you at his own discretion,” Icelin said.
“That’s kind of you,” Ruen muttered.
“And the big man?” the king said. “What’s his tale?”
“Oh, him?” Icelin jabbed a finger at Sull. “He’s my butcher.”
A faint smile creased the king’s face—brief it was and gone immediately—but it was enough to make Joya blink in surprise. Ruen shook his head in grudging amusement. Icelin would charm them all, given enough time.
The king raised his hand and made a beckoning gesture. Instantly, a pair of guards advanced from the shadowy corners of the hall. Ruen hadn’t even known they were there.
“Bring a table and food enough for these guests,” Mith Barak commanded. “I’ll speak with them further, once they’ve rested.” He looked Icelin up and down. “You do seem as if you’re about to fall over,” he said gruffly, but not without pity in his silver eyes. They were silver, Ruen thought. It wasn’t just a trick of the light.
ILTKAZAR, THE UNDERDARK
21 UKTAR
SERVANTS ENTERED THE HALL CARRYING PLATTERS OF food and drink, and two of the guards brought in a plain wooden table and chairs for four people, Joya having excused herself to go find the master armswoman.
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