The Gilded Rune (forgotten realms)

by Lisa Smedman

  At the opposite side of the cavern, a hole pierced the ceiling. A beam of rose-tinted morning sunlight shone down through it, illuminating the floor below.

  Torrin shook his head. Was that how Eralynn planned to leave the Wyrmcaves? By tiptoeing through a dragon’s lair? Yes, the dragon was blind, but its young could see. And Eralynn might not realize they were there.

  Torrin’s duty was clear. The Morndinsamman themselves must have placed his feet on the path. Solo delve or not, it was Torrin’s responsibility to warn Eralynn of what lay ahead.

  Back at the opening to the rubble-filled cavern, he saw that it was indeed Eralynn. She’d lit not one, but two candles. Their faint glow produced starlike reflections in the veins of clear quartz in the rubble-a sight Torrin might have admired, had it not been for the dangers of the Wyrmcaves. He’d expected to see Eralynn moving about, perhaps searching. But if she was on a delve, she was certainly going about it in a strange manner. She’d set the candles on the tablelike slab of stone on which she stood, and was standing next to them, her arms folded tight against her chest, her head bowed. A flask sat on the rock at her feet, a cup next to it.

  Torrin made his way toward her. Clambering over the loose stone, it was impossible not to make noise. By the time he had reached the spot where she stood, she was glaring down at him.

  “I told you not to follow me!” she cried. Her voice was furious, but her face looked anguished, rather than angry. Torrin noticed tear streaks in the dusting of grit that covered her face.

  He clambered up onto the slab of stone, noting that it was covered in puddles of long-cold wax that had once been candles. He prayed Eralynn wouldn’t shove him off; she looked so upset he half expected her to.

  “I didn’t mean to follow you,” he explained. “It was an accident. But that’s not what matters right now. There’s a dragon in the next cavern, not far from here. A red, by the smell of its breath. I came to warn you that-”

  “Get out,” she said abruptly.

  “But-”

  “Now. You’re intruding on something private.”

  “But the dragon-”

  “You think I didn’t know about it? What kind of fool do you take me for?” Eralynn said, shaking her head. “That red was blinded, years ago.”

  “Did you know that she’s got two young in her nest?” Torrin asked.

  “Of course. It’s a breeding year.”

  “You… knew?” Torrin bowed his apologies. Yet he couldn’t help but blurt out, “Then why delve now, of all times? Surely you could have come here some time when the dragon wasn’t sitting on its nest?”

  Eralynn heaved a heavy sigh. “No, I couldn’t,” she said. “I’m not here to delve. I’m here for the Remembering.” One hand clenched the heart-shaped pendant at her throat.

  “Oh,” Torrin said, suddenly realizing why Eralynn always seemed to vanish around the time of the Festival of Remembering. “This is where you disappear to each year, isn’t it? This is where your parents died. Here. In the Wyrmcaves.”

  Eralynn nodded. She stared off into the darkness beyond the candle glow, her eyes glistening. After a moment’s silence, words-and tears-began to tumble out. “My parents were part of a merchant caravan, headed for Harlending through the Deeps,” she said. “They had to travel slowly, for fear of breaking Mother’s glasswork. The others didn’t like that, especially when they got closer to the Wyrmcaves. The rest pressed on ahead, together with the guide. My parents missed the passage and blundered into this cavern-into the Wyrmcaves.”

  She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. “When the dragon attacked, my father used his magic to bring a portion of the ceiling down upon it. He didn’t realize this cavern housed a powerful earth node. It magnified his spell, and the entire ceiling fell.” She gestured at the rubble. “My mother was only partially buried. She survived long enough to tell the rescue party her tale. Then she died. Her body was taken back to the clanhold, in Eartheart. But this is my father’s only tomb. It’s why I come here each year.”

  “Despite the dragon,” Torrin said softly.

  Eralynn’s head jerked up. The fury in her eyes startled him. “ Because of the dragon. That red is the one that attacked my parents. The rockfall blinded her. One day, when I find the right weapon, I’ll finish her off.”

  “So that’s why you delve,” Torrin said.

  Eralynn stared out over the rubble, saying nothing.

  Torrin nodded down at the flask. “Can I join you?” he asked. “The Remembering isn’t something you’re meant to do alone.”

  “I was their firstborn, and a singleton. It falls to me, alone, to raise the glass to my parents.”

  “Not any more. I’m here.”

  Eralynn suddenly laughed. “Why not?” she said. “At least you’ll have actual names to speak, this year, instead of just ‘Clan Ironstar.’ ”

  Torrin smiled. He took a cup out of his backpack and held it out. Eralynn filled it from the flask, then filled her own cup. The smell of ale, flavored with honey and bitters-sweetness and sorrow, in one cup-filled the air.

  “Ambert and Vakna Thunsonn, I remember you,” Eralynn intoned as she raised her glass. “Your flames have been extinguished. Moradin grant that one day they be kindled anew.”

  Torrin echoed her words. Together, they drank. As he tipped back his cup, he glanced at the entrance to the cave and suddenly froze. Was that movement he’d just seen? He closed the eye that didn’t have the benefit of the lens. Yes. Movement. He was certain of it. Something gleamed dully in the faint light of the candle-the dragon’s scales.

  He tapped Eralynn’s shoulder and pointed at the entrance. “Dragon,” he mouthed. He pointed down at the still-burning candles, and at his nose. The dragon must have smelled the candle smoke. Fortunately, not only was the wrym too large to fit through the opening, she hadn’t heard them-yet.

  Eralynn nodded. Moving slowly, she set her cup down on the stone. Slowly and carefully, she drew her sword. She whispered something. Torrin heard the name Clanggedin Silverbeard, and realized she was readying for battle.

  He didn’t like the thought of that. “Isn’t there another way out?” he whispered.

  Eralynn shook her head.

  “Right,” he said, untying his mace. “That’s it, then. We fight our way out.” If he managed to strike the dragon on the head and shout the word that activated the magic in his mace at just the right moment, they just might live to see another delve. He pointed at the entrance where the dragon waited, likely thinking its prey hadn’t noticed it yet. “You on one side, and me on the other,” Torrin whispered. He handed her his cup. “When we’re in position, throw this. When the dragon hears the noise, and sticks her head in, I’ll stun her. Then you can finish her with your sword.”

  She shoved the cup back into his hand. “Stay where you are,” she said. “This is my fight.”

  “I won’t let you take on a dragon alone.”

  Her look grew cold. “You won’t ‘let’ me?”

  He stared back at her and quoted from the Delver’s Tome. “ ‘Unless it is the only way to complete the delve, no Delver shall abandon his partner, or allow him to face danger alone,’ ” he whispered.

  “This isn’t a delve,” she retorted, her face growing red. “Nor are you my ‘partner.’ You’re just a sadly deluded-”

  A bellowing roar cut off the rest of her insult. A gout of flame billowed into the cavern-the dragon’s fiery breath. A blast of heat washed over them, searing the bare skin on Torrin’s forehead and arms. The smell of singed mustache filled his nostrils. “Down!” he shouted. No need for silence any longer. The red had heard them arguing and knew they were there.

  Eralynn didn’t need to be told. She was already springing off the slab of rock. Together, they threw themselves prone in the lee of it, just as a second blast of flame flared across the cavern, even hotter than the first. Melted candle wax dribbled down onto Torrin’s bracer and ran down to his elbow, burning through his heavy shirt a
nd searing his right arm. He cursed and slapped at his sleeve.

  “What now?” he gasped. “If we try to get any closer, we’ll be cooked meat.”

  Eralynn coughed. The air was thick with smoke. “If we wait here, we’ll suffocate,” she said.

  Torrin touched the silver hammers braided into his beard as another roaring gout of fire filled the cavern. The air grew still more stifling. His entire body was bathed in sweat, his singed beard limp, and his hair plastered against his scalp. Eralynn didn’t look much better. Hot, sooty air rasped down Torrin’s throat like a sawblade as he tried to draw breath.

  “Torrin,” Eralynn said. “I’m sorry.”

  Torrin forced a grin. “Everyone has to die, sometime.”

  “Not that,” she said with a cough. “About what I said.”

  He waved a hand. “You can apologize later.” He coughed again. “In the next life, when we meet again.”

  “Small chance of that,” she gasped. “We won’t even recognize each other.”

  Torrin hung his head closer to the ground, trying to find cooler air. With all the smoke in the air, it was getting difficult to see. Eralynn struggled to rise, her sword in her hand, but another blast of flame forced her back to her knees.

  Then Torrin noticed something-a blue glow. Lines of magical energy were flowing toward the spot where he and Eralynn were crouched, converging on them as though they were the hub of a spoked wheel.

  “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “Something’s activated the earth node,” Eralynn said. “It’s channeling spellfire.” She lifted her hands and squinted at them through the smoke. The glowing veins of blue were no brighter than usual. “But it’s not me. Something other than my spellscar must be drawing it.”

  Torrin saw, to his surprise, that the beams of crackling blue energy were converging on the spot where he crouched. “It’s focusing on me!” he gasped back. “But I’m not spellscarred. Why would it-”

  Wracked with coughing, he couldn’t continue.

  “Your runestone!” Eralynn cried.

  Of course! Why hadn’t he made the connection before? The words on his runestone were “earth magic,” and they were at the heart of an earth node: one of the places where the invisible lines of elemental energy that ran the length and breadth of Faerun converged. And perhaps-just perhaps-it would be their salvation. Mages used earth nodes like stepping stones, teleporting from one to the next with a mere thought. Perhaps the runestone would allow even someone without knowledge of magical rituals to do the same. And not just from one earth node to the other, but to-as Kendril had said-“anywhere you want to go.”

  Torrin ripped off his pack and fumbled with the runestone. Immediately, the sparkling lines centered on it. A ball of blue light formed around the runestone, sending tingling shivers up Torrin’s arms.

  “What should I do now?” he shouted.

  “I have no idea!” Eralynn rasped out between coughs. “Try concentrating on somewhere else.” Yet another wave of heat and smoke boiled over them as the dragon exhaled again. “Anywhere else!” She cupped her hands around Torrin’s, and the blue glow intensified. Crackling veins sprang into bright relief on the backs of her hands.

  “Hold on!” Torrin shouted. He squeezed his eyes shut, one hand on his pack and the other holding the runestone. Out of here, he thought fiercely. Get us out of here. Take us-

  Fire curled over the slab as the dragon exhaled its most powerful breath yet, the flames licking down over the lip of the stone. As they seared Torrin’s scalp and smouldered his hair, he screamed in pain. “Home!”

  He felt a sudden wrench.

  A twisting sensation followed-a long spinning slide along lines of blue fire. Then a sudden thud, blessed coolness, and the press of wooden boards against his cheek.

  He lifted his head and saw Eralynn lying unconscious-but, praise Moradin, still breathing-beside him on the floor of his parents’ shop in Hammergate.

  “We made it,” he gasped.

  Then he collapsed.

  Chapter Six

  “Even the just may sin with an open chest of gold before them.”

  Delver’s Tome, Volume I, Chapter 73, Entry 5

  Torrin hissed in pain as something cold touched his forehead. He reared up, wincing at the sting, and a wet cloth fell from his forehead, into his lap. He glanced around stiffly, and saw that he was in the attic loft above his parents’ shop in Hammergate.

  “Welcome home, Daffyd,” a voice beside him said. Torrin glanced to the side and saw his mother. She picked the cloth up from the bed, dipped it into a basin of ice water, and wrung it out. “We’ve seen you, what-twice? — these past ten years, and suddenly you decide to barge in on us out of thin air.” She shook her head and feigned a laugh. “Decided to test the shop’s protective wards, did you?”

  “You’ve added wards?” Torrin asked. “Business must be good.”

  “As it turns out, no,” his mother replied, suddenly serious. “The dwarves have sealed the gate to Eartheart. None of them are venturing out to Hammergate any more. They’re all trembling, right to the tips of their beards, about this new disease. The stoneplague, they call it. Thank goodness it doesn’t seem to affect… us.”

  Torrin’s mother had aged since he’d seen her last. The hair that was pulled up in a neat bun was a solid gray, and the lines beside her mouth had deepened. She was also heavier than Torrin remembered-the stool she sat on creaked as she leaned forward. But although her tone was as chiding as ever, her touch was gentle as she laid the cold cloth on Torrin’s scorched arm.

  “Where’s Eralynn?” he asked. “Is she all right?”

  “That dwarf woman you teleported in here with?” his mother replied. “The one with the strange hands?” Her lips turned down in a barely suppressed frown. “She’s spellscarred, you know.”

  “Really?” Torrin snapped back, falling back into his old habit of sarcasm. “How could you tell?”

  His mother ignored his retort. “She’s gone back to Eartheart, I suppose. Assuming she found enough gold for the cleansing. The temple is charging whatever the market will bear, I’m told.”

  Torrin winced, and immediately regretted it. The portions of his face that hadn’t been protected by the goggles or his beard stung from his burns. What stung worse was the news that Eralynn had just walked out on him. “When did she leave?” he asked.

  “Yesterday.”

  Torrin blinked. “I’ve been unconscious that long?”

  His mother’s lips tightened. “I was worried about you,” she replied. “But your dwarf friend said you’d be fine, once the backlash from the spellfire wore off. What were you up to? You didn’t blunder into a pocket of spellfire, did you?”

  “Nothing like that.” Torrin said, looking around the room. His toys and clothes had been packed away years before. All that remained of his childhood furnishings was the bed. Sunlight filtered through the room’s single grimy window-the one through which he’d snuck out onto the rooftop as a boy, to look down on the crowded streets below. Beyond the rooftops, he could see the high walls of Eartheart proper. There were more knights than usual patrolling the battlements. Making sure no one tried to slip past the quarantine, Torrin supposed.

  The attic was filled with crates and boxes. It had become a storeroom. But near the window was a crude drawing he’d done of himself, back when he was six-the year before he’d realized he was a dwarf born into a human family, and not a true human at all. The beardless boy that stared back at him from that drawing seemed as distant from the man he had become as the stars were from Faerun.

  “Where’s the runestone I was holding when I teleported here?” he asked.

  “Your friend put it in your pack-which is over in the corner there. Safe,” his mother said reassuringly.

  “And my mace?”

  After a moment’s strained silence, she answered, “Also safe.”

  “Praise Moradin.”

  His mother stared at the silver hammers in
his beard. “I see you’re still worshiping dwarf gods.”

  “Of course,” Torrin replied. “Why shouldn’t I worship my maker?”

  His mother closed her eyes and whispered something in a strained voice. Then she stared an age-old challenge into his eyes. “I’m your mother.”

  “I’ve never disputed that,” Torrin said.

  She held up a silencing finger. “For nine months, I bore you inside me,” she continued. “For seven years, you were a normal boy, with none of these flights of fancy. If I could only step back in time, I would never have taken that horrible weapon in trade.” She leaned forward, her eyes intense. “It was the mace that whispered its command word into your mind that day, Torrin. It had nothing to do with you. You’re not a dwarf.”

  Torrin sighed. Their conversation was familiar ground, so well trodden he could have been blindfolded and still followed the footprints of the words that would come. “The mace wouldn’t have spoken to me if I wasn’t of the Ironstar clan,” he said.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” his mother replied. “And if you don’t believe me, perhaps you’ll believe one of those ‘longbeards’ you’re in such awe of. Your father consulted a loremaster, one you’ll have a great deal of respect for. According to Loremaster Indersson, it’s entirely possible for a human-a full human, not a whiff of dwarf anywhere about him-to use a weapon enchanted with dwarf magic. An enchanted weapon will speak to any who wields it, even a human, if his will is strong enough and the need is great. The loremaster assured your father that Moradin would never send a dwarf soul back to this realm in a human body.”

  “Yet it happened,” Torrin said, staring out of the window. “And it was done for a reason. I know it.”

  “You know nothing of the sort!” his mother said.

  He turned back to her. “I know you would have died that day, if I hadn’t killed that robber. I know that no seven-year-old human boy should have been able to do what I did.” He rose, stiffly, from the bed.

  “Torrin,” she said as she caught his hand. “Just tell me why. Did you need to be something more than the son of shopkeepers? Was that not enough for you? You’re a grown man now. It’s time to leave your childhood fantasies behind. Your father’s not getting any younger, you know. He could use your help.”