by Lisa Smedman
Torrin did as she’d instructed. Eralynn was the more experienced Delver, and he respected her greater knowledge. Some might find her too bossy, but it was her delve, after all. Torrin was simply along as an observer. He firmly pushed a ball of wax into each ear and stood where she’d indicated, then pulled from his pack the runestone he’d purchased from Kendril.
Eralynn walked toward the portal and raised her hands. As they entered the space between the circle of runes, thunder boomed out of the tunnel with such force that Torrin staggered back several paces. The faint lines of magical energy that glowed like veins on the backs of Eralynn’s hands flared outward, creating a shimmering blue wall of magical force in front of her. Even with his ears plugged, Torrin could hear the thunder reverberating back and forth between her magical shield and the bend of the tunnel.
A moment later, the magical shield faded away. Torrin dug the wax out of his ears. A chunk of rock fell from the ceiling of the tunnel, smashing to pieces on the floor. To Torrin, whose ears were ringing despite the protection, it sounded like a muffled thud.
Eralynn said something. Torrin only caught the last couple of words: “… not lethal,” she said.
“What?” he asked.
Eralynn grinned. She was busy tying back her hair, trying to rein in her mop of unruly blonde braids. As she pulled on a padded leather helmet, blue fire crackled in faint lines across the backs of her hands-the residue of the magic she’d just invoked.
“I said… not lethal,” she repeated. “When they built… portal, they… glyphs… look as though… portal led… important, somewhere… magical protection.”
Torrin shook his head and cracked his jaw. It didn’t help. The ringing in his ears was ebbing, but he still wasn’t hearing properly. “Is it safe to approach now?” he asked, realizing belatedly that he was shouting.
“Are you questioning my ability to deactivate a glyph?” she asked sternly.
He’d heard the whole sentence that time. “Of course not,” he said with a grin.
Eralynn’s leather armor creaked as she unslung the shield that was her trademark: a shield made from a single, enormous red dragon scale, rimmed with silver. Having found out where the portal led, Torrin could guess where she’d acquired that scale.
As Eralynn made her preparations, Torrin took a good look at the runes surrounding the portal. The inscription was a passage from an ancient dwarven saga: “Ready now, with swords in hand / Onward march, at my command / Soon, perhaps, to fight once more / Safe against the dragon’s roar.”
Torrin frowned. The first two lines were wrong. “Shouldn’t it be ‘Steady now, with swords in hand / Soldiers march, at my command?’ ” he asked.
Eralynn looked up from her preparations. “You’ve memorized the Faern sagas?” she said grinning. “You never cease to surprise me, Torrin. You’ve got a better memory for obscure poetry than most dwarves I know.”
“Is the inscription a clue to the incantation used to activate the portal?” he asked.
“That’s twice your hammer’s landed true,” Eralynn said with a wink.
“So what are the activation words?”
“I only said I’d show you a portal, and that I’d let you watch while I used it. You’re not coming through with me.”
“But-”
“The Wyrmcaves are no place to wander around in.”
“Exactly my point,” Torrin said, patting the mace at his hip. “It never hurts to have a second weapon, backing you up. Especially a magical one.”
“This is a solo delve, Torrin,” Eralynn replied. She pointed at the lip of the Rift, far above. “That’s your way back.” She glanced up at the sky. “It will be dark soon. I suggest you wait until morning to make the climb.”
“I’ll wait for you here.”
“No, you won’t,” she said, nodding at the portal. “That’s a one-way portal. I won’t be coming out of it again. The only way back is to hike back through the Deeps. I’ll see you in a few days’ time.”
“But you’ll miss the Festival of Remembering!”
The smile vanished from her eyes. “I prefer to be alone for that. And rest assured, honoring the dead is the observance that I never forget.”
Torrin bowed. “My apologies. I’ve offended you. That was crass of me, to imply that you’d neglect to honor your parents.”
“I may never have known them, but I carry them here,” Eralynn said, touching the heart-shaped glass pendant that hung at her throat. “And here,” she added, touching the spot over her heart. She blinked several times, her eyes glistening.
Torrin bowed again, mortified at having upset her. “Again, my apologies. I trip over my words, it seems, as frequently as an ale-addled longbeard trips over his braid.”
He was relieved to hear Eralynn chuckle. Her fist punched his forearm affectionately. She had, it would seem, forgiven him.
“Let’s just hope your experiment works,” she told him, nodding at the runestone. “I’ve already thought up a list of ruins I’d like to teleport to and explore. A long list.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep my part of the bargain,” Torrin said.
“I know,” Eralynn said. “You’re a man of your word. It’s nice to know I can count on that.”
“I’ll see you in a few days’ time, then,” Torrin told her. “Good luck with your delve.”
Eralynn nodded and motioned Torrin back. Then she drew her sword and approached the portal.
Torrin kept glancing back and forth between the runestone and Eralynn as she halted just in front of the portal. He heard her whisper in a voice too low for him to make them out. The tunnel beyond the runes blurred slightly, as though seen through streaked glass. Eralynn stepped in and vanished from sight, the glow on the back of her hands leaving a faint smear of blue static that crackled for a heartbeat, then was gone.
Torrin stared hard at the runestone. But, to his great disappointment, he could see no obvious change in it. He’d hoped that the magic within might be activated by the wash of magical energy from a portal opening, that some sort of henceforth invisible command rune might appear on the runestone’s surface, or that perhaps the runestone might orient itself with a particular compass direction, or some other clue manifest. Yet nothing like that had happened. His experiment had been a failure. And a costly one.
Once again, he was outside the city walls. Once again-for a third time-he’d require a cleansing to get back into Eartheart.
Sharindlar’s clerics were performing cleansings on dwarves at a fee of whatever the dwarf could afford, with the balance of each tithe being paid from the city coffers. Tallfolk, however, had to pay the full cost out of their own pockets. And try as he might, Torrin had yet to convince Sharindlar’s priestesses that he was a dwarf.
Thanks to Kier’s little adventure, Torrin owed the temple for not just one cleansing, but two-the silk ribbons around his wrist were a reminder of that. The second time he’d visited the temple, the clerics had made it clear that credit would not be extended to him a third time. Unless he could figure out how his runestone worked, he’d be stuck outside the gates until he found a way to get the gold from the earthmote.
Lowering the runestone, he walked up to the tunnel mouth tentatively, afraid he might activate the thunderclap that had sounded before. He traced his fingers along the runes. The stone felt cool and weathered, but gave no hint of magical energy. Nor did his runestone.
Had he only been imagining the feel of magic, the day that Kendril had handed it to him? Had Frivaldi been correct in his skepticism about the runestone’s worth?
No, wait. If he concentrated on it, Torrin could feel a tingle against his palm. He moved the runestone a little closer to the opening, and the feeling intensified. Something was definitely happening, although there was no visible change in the runestone. He moved his hand still closer. “Trial and-”
Thunder boomed out of the tunnel, knocking Torrin flat on his back. With his ears ringing and his head aching, he staggered back
to his feet. He suddenly realized his hand was empty. The runestone was gone!
“Moradin smite me!” he shouted. At least, he assumed he was shouting. He couldn’t even hear his own voice. Just a throbbing ringing that threatened to split his head like hammer-struck stone. He looked frantically about, but couldn’t spot the runestone anywhere. For one horrified moment, he thought it might have been hurled into the Great Rift. Then he realized where it must be. When the thunderclap had sounded, his hand had been partially inside the tunnel. Fortunately, objects that weren’t being held by a living creature couldn’t pass through a portal on their own. If it had fallen from his hand, it would be there still.
He moved closer. Yes, there it was. He could see the runestone just inside the tunnel. He plugged his ears again with wax, then unslung his mace and poked it slightly into the tunnel, bracing himself. So far, so good. The mace didn’t trigger the thunderclap. But try as he might, he couldn’t snag the runestone and drag it out. His mace seemed to be passing through it, as if the runestone weren’t there. Belatedly, he realized that the runestone was shimmering-partially there, and partially not.
He’d have to pass through the portal to reclaim it.
He stood, chewing his lip in consternation. He had promised Eralynn he wouldn’t follow her. He could wait for her in Hammergate, of course, then bring her back to the canyon floor and get her to enter the portal and fetch the runestone, but in the meantime someone else might claim it. Despite the care he and Eralynn had taken in coming here unnoticed, he couldn’t be absolutely certain that no one had followed them here. If they had been followed, the rogue who’d attempted to steal the runestone from Torrin earlier would be able to get his hands on it in Torrin’s absence-assuming he figured out how to activate the portal.
“I suppose it will be twice Eralynn will have to forgive me,” Torrin muttered, digging the wax out of his ears.
He’d already figured out the answer to the riddle. The key was to speak the two correct words that had been mis-scribed in the inscription above.
Torrin settled his goggles into place over his eyes, unslung his mace, and spoke the words: “Steady, soldiers.” Then he walked through the portal and felt his body wrenched between here and there.
The stench was the first thing Torrin noticed as he glanced around the dead-end tunnel he’d been transported to. A century might have passed since the portal was last used to trap a dragon, but the tunnel still smelled faintly of dung. He saw, to his vast relief, that the runestone lay at his feet, and that it was no longer shimmering. He picked it up and spent a moment examining it, but even though it had passed fully through a portal, there was no obvious change. Disappointed, he placed it in a pouch and secured the pouch in his backpack.
He spent a moment listening, but heard nothing-neither the sound of Eralynn’s footfalls nor any other sounds of movement. Readying his mace once more, he rounded the curve in the tunnel and entered the bolthole Eralynn had told him about. He had to crawl through it on his hands and knees; it was low enough that even a dwarf would have to stoop to pass through it. Torrin wondered how the soldiers of old had managed to move quickly enough through it to escape a dragon that was hard on their heels.
The bolthole led to a large cavern whose uneven floor sloped steeply down to the right and up to the left. Natural pillars of limestone joined floor to ceiling. Torrin sniffed the air. The smell of dung was stronger. Several of the limestone pillars had deep gouges on them-scrape marks left by something big that had squeezed between them at some point.
A dragon?
They weren’t recent marks, Torrin noted. The scratches had been blurred by successive layers of limestone. Whatever wyrm had passed that way had done so years before, maybe even decades before.
Torrin stroked his beard, debating which way to go. Despite his many journeys through the Underdark surrounding Eartheart, he had never ventured into the Wyrmcaves before. The dwarves had avoided them for millennia, since everyone agreed there were no artifacts to be delved there. Yet Torrin knew that they contained more than one exit to the surface-exits large enough for a dragon, and, presumably, climbable.
He licked a finger, held it up, and waited. After a moment, one side of his finger felt cooler-a faint breeze, coming from upslope. The breeze was fresher than the rest of the air down there, but it was as good a direction to choose as any, especially since it led in the opposite direction Eralynn had taken, judging by the boot scuffs leading downslope. Torrin whispered a prayer to Marthammor and slung his mace; he’d need both hands for the climb. Then he scrambled up the slope.
He wandered through the Wymrcaves for what felt like at least half the night, climbing up chimneys and down crevices, edging along ledges, wading through icy underground streams, squeezing through vertical fissures, and belly-worming his way through horizontal cracks. After all that, he had found himself once more at the upper edge of the sloping cave the bolthole connected to. He’d gone in a complete circle. Fresh air still sighed past him-from somewhere behind him-but he hadn’t been able to find its source.
He sat down, exhausted, on a grimy lip of stone. “You’ve led me on a merry chase for pyrite, Vergadain,” Torrin said, shaking his head. The trickster god was like that, sometimes.
There was nothing else to be done. Torrin had to go in the direction Eralynn had taken. With luck, he’d be able to sneak past whatever spot she was delving and respect her desire for privacy. Except that Vergadain wasn’t handing out luck. Not tonight.
The realization that it must be close to dawn filled Torrin with even greater weariness. He needed to rest. He decided to lie down, just for a few moments. He cast about for a suitable spot and found a horizontal fissure big enough to squeeze into. He settled into it, his mace in one hand, determined to rest for just a little while. Within moments, however, he was sound asleep.
The sound of something scraping against stone awakened him. He lay in the darkness, his heart pounding. The scrape came again-closer-and as he heard it, Torrin realized the air had changed. The lizard smell was stronger. Barely daring to breathe, he slowly turned his head and saw, through his goggles, an eye as large and as round as a dinner plate.
A dragon!
A pant of warmth enveloped him-the dragon’s breath. The burned-meat stench of it made his nose prickle and his eyes water. But the dragon hadn’t spotted him yet. A moment later, Torrin realized why. The dragon’s “eye” was actually a gaping hole where an eye had once been. The dragon was blind! Yet surely it would smell him, soon enough.
Torrin’s mace was still in his hand. Its magic just might be enough to lay even a dragon low, but he’d never be able to spring out of the crevice and ready his weapon in time to get in a blow. He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing it was likely he was about to die. Moradin, he prayed silently, I convey my soul to your forge. May you find it worthy of recasting anew. And if you would, O Dwarffather, let me be reborn among the clans, this time around. For I have served you well, and…
Just a moment. The cavern felt… different. Torrin opened his eyes. The dragon was gone! It had passed him by! He could hear it slithering away.
Slithering in the direction Eralynn had taken!
Torrin reared up, banging his forehead on the stone above. He heard a sharp crack. Cursing his stupid mistake, he rubbed his forehead. There’d be a bruise there, soon enough, but that wasn’t his main worry. Feeling slightly lower, he touched his goggles. Something sliced into his finger, confirming his fear. The right lens of his goggles had broken.
He rolled out of the fissure and shook the broken glass out of his goggles, still cursing. He carefully checked that there were no more shards. Being temporarily blind in one eye due to the lost lens would be an inconvenience, but being permanently blind would be a disaster. Then he pulled on his goggles. He struggled downslope, seeing only out of his left eye, all depth perception gone. He had to be careful, lest he make a mis-step that would alert the dragon to his presence. Then again, that might not be such a bad
thing. If the dragon turned to attack him, Eralynn would hear the sound and be forewarned.
He maintained a cautious distance behind the dragon for some time, fighting down the sick feeling in his stomach and feeling nervous sweat soak through his shirt. He had to keep close enough to the wyrm to see where it went, but far enough back that it wouldn’t hear or smell him.
At one point, Torrin passed a fissure in one wall that opened onto a large cavern whose floor was covered in chunks of rubble. As he passed the fissure, Torrin spotted a faint blue glow inside the cavern, momentarily silhouetting a dwarf figure. The glow had to be coming from Eralynn’s hands, appearing and disappearing as she moved about. A moment later, Torrin saw a soft yellow light as a candle was lit.
Why would Eralynn be lighting a candle, when she could-as all dwarves were able to do-see in the dark?
Still, who else would it be but Eralynn?
So far, she’d been lucky. If she’d struck steel to flint sooner, before the dragon had passed that spot, it might have smelled the candle smoke.
Torrin hesitated, wondering what he should do. Warn Eralynn? Reveal the fact that he’d followed her through the portal, despite her orders not to? Eralynn must have known there were dragons down there, he reasoned. They were the Wyrmcaves, after all. She’d been prepared to enter the Wyrmcaves alone-and she’d made it abundantly clear that it was a solo delve. Torrin had to respect that.
He decided to follow the dragon. He was certain it would eventually lead him to an exit.
A short time later, Torrin heard the whooshing flap of leathery wings. He crept to what turned out to be the opening to an enormous cavern, and peered inside. The dragon had taken flight and was making its way to a ledge at the far end of the cavern. When it landed, Torrin heard a series of high-pitched shrieks from the ledge. Two heads peeked out from a rounded heap of baked mud: the dragon’s young.