The Gilded Rune (forgotten realms)

by Lisa Smedman

  Kier also glanced at the skyrider and dropped his voice to a whisper. “This mote was part of Underhome,” he said, looking steadily pinker as the skyrider’s potion did its work. “That box I found… Maybe it held more than just gold. Maybe there’s something else inside it. Something ancient.”

  Torrin doubted it. The strongbox had looked brand new. “Do you feel strong enough to stand?” he asked Kier. “We should go.”

  Kier rose to his feet; the potion had indeed completed its work. “I’m not leaving all that gold behind.”

  “Yes you are,” Torrin replied firmly. He nodded in the direction of the skyrider, still engrossed in his communications with his commander. “Verdagain has blessed us this day by providing us with an escort-one who’s going to be so busy taking me into custody for stealing a griffon, he won’t have time to explore the mote. I’ll come back for the gold later.”

  “How can you do that without a griffon?” Kier asked.

  “Remember my runestone? Once I figure out how to use it, I can teleport here any time I like.”

  Kier’s eyes gleamed.

  “In the meantime,” Torrin said, “we’ve got some quick talking to do if we’re going to persuade that guard not to lock me up and throw away the key. I don’t want to be behind bars when your little sisters are born.”

  “Little brothers,” Kier corrected. “Mother says they kick like boys.”

  “Sisters,” Torrin said. He winked. “I’m going to win our bet, remember? You’re going to be sweeping my room for a month.”

  Kier snorted. “If I lose, I’ll pay someone else to do it. I’m rich!”

  Torrin felt a gust of wind as the skyrider flew closer again.

  “You’re in luck, human,” the guard announced. “Captain Baelar has vouched for you. There’s still the matter of the stolen griffon to be dealt with, but for now I’m going to trust you. Is the boy strong enough to climb back up the rope?”

  “I am!” Kier said.

  “Then up to the top of the mote, the two of you,” said the skyrider. “We’re flying back.”

  Torrin bowed, elated. “My thanks!” he called back.

  “Don’t thank me-thank the boy’s grandfather,” replied the guard.

  “When will I get my mace back?” Torrin asked.

  “When we land in Hammergate,” he replied.

  Torrin groaned inwardly. Hammergate? He didn’t want to sit outside the walls for days on end, waiting his turn to be cleansed. Not with the door to the earthmote’s secret room standing open, and the gold inside it just lying around for the taking. Still, what choice did he have? “Fair enough,” he said.

  “Now climb,” the skyrider ordered. “The boy first, then you.”

  Torrin glanced down at Kier and saw that the boy’s eyes were twinkling. Torrin could guess why. “Don’t think you’re getting up to more mischief,” he warned. “I’m going to have my eye on you every single moment we’re in Hammergate. There’ll be no chats with outlanders and tallfolk, no trips to the Gatehouse Inn. Just days and days of sitting around, doing nothing, waiting for our turn in the temple pool.”

  Kier pouted in silence. It seemed to have finally sunk in that his adventure was at an end. Being poisoned hadn’t brought it home, but the prospect of several days of tedium had.

  With Kier safe, Torrin’s thoughts turned back to the gold below. A single bar would be enough to pay the tithe for his previous cleansing, if only he could recover the gold. Another bar would pay for the cleansing to come. And there had been far more than just two gold bars-more than enough to equip an expedition to the Soulforge!

  All Torrin had to do was figure out how to use the runestone-and quickly-before someone else visited the earthmote and found all that gold.

  Torrin placed both of his hands on the dusty counter and leaned in closer to the head stonecutter. “I swear, by Moradin’s beard,” he said vehemently. “There’s a small fortune in it for you. Just loan me one of your motediscs for the day and I’ll cut you in on the profits from my delve.”

  The foreman folded his burly arms across his chest. He was short, even for a dwarf, with a forked beard whose two braids had been pulled to the top of his head and clipped together-a peculiar style that no doubt raised more than its share of snickers. But judging by the defiant glint in the foreman’s eye, he enjoyed a good fight.

  “No credit,” he repeated. “Especially for humans.” He picked up his hammer and chisel and glared at Torrin a moment more, as if daring him to provide an excuse to use the tools on Torrin’s skull. Then he turned toward the workroom where knappers banged away at slabs of earthmote that had been secured to worktables with vises, so they wouldn’t drift away.

  Torrin swore under his beard. He was knee-deep in irony. He’d invented the motedisc-not that anyone ever believed him when he told that tale. Four years after he’d discovered he was really a dwarf recast in a human body, he’d sought out an apprenticeship in a suitably honorable trade, as a stonecutter at a quarry near Glitterdelve. Wielding a hammer and a chisel all day throughout his teenage years had given him his bulging biceps. The smell of stone dust still took him back to the days before he’d taken up an adventurer’s life.

  One day, during an all-too-rare visit to the surface permitted during his apprenticeship, Torrin had noted that the chunks of stone that sometimes crumbled from an earthmote continued to float for some time, after calving off from the main body of the mote. Inspiration struck. What if, he thought, he could find an earthmote comprised of flint or chert-stone that split easily into sheets-and then split off chunks of it and shape them into circles. The shield-sized floating discs would be similar to the metal “driftdiscs” the drow crafted with their dark magic.

  It had taken some time to push past the stubborn resistance of Ryordin Hammerfist, the quarry master. He’d insisted, at first, that the idea “stank like something drow.” Eventually, however, he’d realized there was coin to be made-especially once the chips of earthmote were “tempered” in the magic of a particular earth node near Glitterdelve, ensuring that the magic that kept them bobbing about didn’t bleed away from the worked stone.

  The motedisc had been Torrin’s idea, yet he hadn’t seen a single copper of profit from it. And he couldn’t even afford to buy one.

  The motedisc factory was located at the very edge of Hammergate, at a spot that afforded a view of the Underchasm. As Torrin stepped out into the rain, he could see the earthmote that he and Kier had visited two days before. He stared forlornly at it, wondering how he was ever going to reach it again. His plan had been to secure a motedisc big enough to support him, then wait until the wind was blowing in the right direction. He’d rig a sail that would catch the wind and ride the motedisc to the earthmote.

  Today, the wind was perfect. But he was back to where he’d started-scratching his head and trying to figure out how the runestone worked, so he could use it to teleport to the earthmote, instead.

  “Depressing, isn’t it?” a voice asked from near his elbow.

  Torrin turned. Few people were on the streets on such a wet, blustery day. He glanced down at the dwarf who’d stopped beside him to also stare out across the Underchasm. His clothing was worn, his posture stooped. His head was balding on top, with scraggly hairs on the sides, and his movements were slow and stiff.

  The dwarf gestured at the Underchasm. “So much of our heritage, lost in the collapse,” he said sadly. Then he glanced up at Torrin’s backpack, and his eyes widened. “By Moradin’s beard!” he exclaimed. “You’re a Delver? Yes, yes, of course. I’ve heard of you. The human delver who spoke to the Council the other night. I hear you made quite the impression on the Lord Scepter.” He extended a hand, grunting with the effort. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. What was your name again?”

  Torrin reached down to clasp the dwarf’s hand. “Torrin Ironstar. Pleased to-”

  Something smashed into the left side of Torrin’s head. Stars exploded across his vision. As he collapse
d, he caught a brief glimpse of a human who’d snuck up behind him. The man held a weighted leather sap-a rogue’s weapon. Torrin fell to the ground, fighting to stay conscious, trying to reach his mace. He heard footsteps running away-the dwarf who’d distracted him while the rogue crept up behind.

  The rogue grinned, revealing a missing tooth. “Nighty night,” he said.

  He slugged Torrin a second time. Consciousness fled.

  “Torrin! Wake up. Gods have mercy, don’t let him be dead!”

  Kier’s voice finally pierced the heavy red throbbing that filled Torrin’s head. Torrin groaned.

  “Praise Moradin!” he heard Kier cry. “He’s alive!”

  Torrin winced. He felt cold, wet cobblestones under his right cheek. Rain struck his left temple, where he’d been hit with the sap, each droplet a tiny hammer of agony. The water trickled down into his mouth, carrying the taste of blood.

  He felt Kier’s small hands under his armpits, urging him to rise. He sat up, and nearly collapsed again. Vomit rose in his throat. He swallowed it down and blinked, trying to focus.

  “Uncle? Uncle!” Kier cried shrilly.

  “I’m… all right,” Torrin said. The lie seemed to satisfy Kier. Shakily, Torrin rose to his feet and touched his temple. His fingers came away bloody. His head rang like a struck gong, but at least the nausea was ebbing. Moment by moment, he felt more steady on his feet. Those were good signs.

  He realized someone else was standing next to Kier-the foreman from the motedisc factory. He was staring down the street with a furious scowl, his stonecutter’s hammer still raised. “And stay away!” he shouted to an empty street.

  He turned to Torrin. “You all right, human?”

  Torrin nodded, wincing. “I think so,” he replied. He glanced down and was relieved to see his mace was still on his belt. The rogues hadn’t stolen it. Moradin had shown one small mercy, that day.

  Bearded faces peered out of the motedisc factory.

  “Back to work, you lot!” the foreman shouted. “The entertainment is over.”

  The faces disappeared.

  “Any excuse to slack off,” the foreman grumbled. He stomped back to the factory.

  Aside from Torrin and Kier, the rain-slick street was empty. There was no sign of the rogues. Torrin’s clothes were wet, but not yet fully soaked through. He hadn’t lain there long.

  Kier looked up at him with an anxious expression. “I saw him, too, Uncle,” he said. “A human. He was trying to get something out of your pack.” He pointed in the direction the foreman had shouted. “He ran off when the stonecutter ran into the street. He went that way.”

  Torrin clasped the boy’s shoulder, both to steady himself and to hold Kier back. The boy scowled as if he wanted to run after the rogue and teach him a lesson. “You showed the wisdom of a longbeard by not challenging him yourself,” he said. “Those two were professional rogues who knew their business; I was taken in by the old talk-and-tap.”

  “Should we call the Peacehammers?” asked Kier.

  “Too late for that,” Torrin said. “The rogue and his accomplice will already be long gone. And they didn’t get anything.” He jerked a fist over his shoulder. “Not from my pack, anyway.”

  Of that, Torrin could be certain. He might be a Delver of the second rank, but his pack was the same as any worn by a first-rank member. It would only release its contents to the Delver to whom it had been keyed. Anyone else who reached inside would feel only emptiness.

  “Why did they attack you?” Kier asked. “Was it-” he glanced around furtively and dropped his voice to a whisper-“Was it because of our delve? Do they know about the gold?”

  “I doubt it,” Torrin said. He gently touched his aching head. “I think it was my runestone they were after.”

  It all fit. The older dwarf had mentioned the Council meeting. And as soon as Torrin had confirmed that he was the one who’d appeared before the Council, the attack had come. Someone who was at that meeting must have commented on Torrin’s runestone afterward, either within earshot of the rogues or to someone they knew.

  It couldn’t have been Kendril’s brother Jorn or the cleric Maliira. Neither had been in the Council chambers when Torrin had spoken of his transaction with Kendril. Nor was it likely that Frivaldi had said anything to tip off the rogues. Torrin might be human, and only a second-rank member, but a Delver’s lips were sealed, when it came to fellow members of his order. And the clerics who’d examined the runestone were also bound by oaths to keep silent about the Delvers’ business.

  It had to have been one of the Deep Lords who’d let it slip.

  Accidentally, of course. The Deep Lords were honorable to the core. Stout and true… but perhaps, Torrin realized, not when a “human” was involved. And that’s what they had seen, when they had stared down at Torrin. A human.

  He sighed. “We’d best get cleansed and into Eartheart, Kier. And as quickly as possible. Darkness only knows what those two rogues might try next.”

  Chapter Five

  “A golden key will open every lock.”

  Delver’s Tome, Volume IV, Chapter 3, Entry 76

  Two days after his run-in with the rogues outside the motedisc factory, Torrin was easing his way down a rope toward the spot where his friend, Eralynn, stood. They’d begun their descent into the East Rift at dawn, and only at dusk were finally level with the floor of that vast canyon. High above on the Rift’s edge, the towers of Underwatch-a remote outpost of Eartheart-glowed in the light of the setting sun.

  Torrin dropped next to Eralynn, and spoke the command word that caused her magical rope to unfasten itself from the piton they’d driven into the rock above. The rope snaked down toward him, coiling itself neatly at his feet. He picked it up and passed it to Eralynn.

  “Do we have much farther to go?” he asked.

  Eralynn shook her head. “We’re here,” she said with a jerk of her chin, indicating a spot farther along the canyon floor. “Wyrmtrap portal is just around that spur of rock.” She shoved the rope into her pack, then loosened the bindings on the short sword that hung from her belt. She also checked the throwing dagger that was strapped to her ankle over the leg of her loose-fitting, stone gray trousers.

  Torrin glanced around. They were some distance from Eartheart, which lay to the southwest, its own towers looking like a massive cluster of stalagmites on the lip of the great canyon that comprised East Rift. Hammergate was a smaller knob, pressed tight to one of Eartheart’s massive city walls. Directly west, the sun was a ball of orange light above the western wall of the Underchasm.

  Torrin shielded his eyes from the sun and tried to pick out the mote that he and Kier had flown to. Had anyone else visited it yet? Was the gold gone? The thought had gnawed at him, day and night, ever since his return to the city.

  “What are you looking at?” Eralynn asked.

  “Nothing,” Torrin lied. Eralynn was the one person, out of all of his dwarf friends, who came closest to being his shield brother. Or, to be more accurate, his shield sister. He’d been struggling with whether to tell her about his find. Did he really want to split the gold with her? It was a greedy thought, that, and one that made him feel guilty. He’d never thought of himself as a person who could be seduced by the lure of gold. Then again, every last bar of that gold would go toward equipping his expedition to the Soulforge. Surely that was a noble enough cause. What’s more, the Thunsonn clan would be getting a good share of the gold, in any case-Kier’s share. Some of it would wind up in Eralynn’s pockets. Eventually.

  Torrin followed Eralynn, stepping carefully over the clutter of stone that littered the canyon floor. They rounded the spur of rock that she’d indicated. Beyond it was an enormous, circular opening in the cliffside, obviously once part of the tunnel system of ancient Underhome. Ten times as tall as Torrin and equally as wide, the opening was ringed with a band of runes. Beyond those, the tunnel curved around to the right, out of sight. Its floor was littered with jagged bits of rock-debris
that had fallen from the ceiling, either during the creation of the Underchasm nearly a century ago, or in its aftermath.

  “I thought all of the entrances to Underhome were sealed,” Torrin said. He cast a glance at the towers above and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not going to let you defy the edicts!”

  “ ‘Let’ me?” Eralynn said. Her eyes narrowed, and her fists went to her hips.

  Torrin swallowed. Eralynn might be only as tall as his chest, but her rages could knock the stoutest dwarf back a pace or two. Still, Torrin stood his ground. “The Lord Scepter has decreed that-”

  Eralynn laughed, startling him. “Oh, Torrin. Sometimes you can be so… ridiculously stubborn.”

  He smiled, relieved to see that the storm had broken before it had begun. “Well, I am a dwarf, after all,” he said with a shrug. “We have a reputation for that.”

  Eralynn smiled. “You don’t need to worry,” she said reassuringly. “We’re not going to do anything illegal, amusing though that might be. This portal led out of Underhome, not into it.”

  “Are you finally going to tell me where it goes?”

  Eralynn’s eyes glittered with anticipation. “The Wyrmcaves.”

  “The Wyrmcaves!” Torrin gasped. “Why would our ancestors build a portal that led there?”

  “As a trap,” she replied. “Whenever a dragon attacked, Underhome’s soldiers would pretend to flee through this portal. It links to a cavern barely big enough to accommodate a dragon, with a connecting bolthole just large enough for the soldiers to escape through. All they had to do then was wait for the dragon to die.”

  “Clever.”

  Eralynn laughed. “Not quite clever enough. Some of the smaller dragons escaped. According to some of the runelore I’ve read, that may be how the Wyrmcaves became a lair to dragons in the first place.”

  “The wrym biting its tail full circle, hmm?” Torrin said. He stepped forward to examine the runes.

  Eralynn grabbed his arm, yanking him back. “Wait!” she warned. “It’s protected by magic.” She released his arm and handed him two pieces of candle wax. “Use these to plug your ears and stand over there. And brace yourself.”