The Gilded Rune (forgotten realms)

by Lisa Smedman

  “No!” Torrin exclaimed. “You said the ritual would work.”

  “Well, it didn’t,” Wylfrid said. He waved blearily at the tube. “If you don’t believe me, look for yourself.”

  Torrin picked up the tube and held it to his eye. He saw the same red light as before, still pulsing. With each pulse, his heart sank still lower. He’d been so certain the ritual would remove the curse, would allow Kier, at least, to be cured. He’d prayed it would be so. Yet his prayers had gone unanswered.

  Slowly, he lowered the tube. He stared at the bar of gold, still reeking with contagion. Still cursed.

  Was there nothing that would remove the curse? Surely a ritual that had been done could be undone.

  Somehow. By… someone.

  Suddenly, Torrin realized his next step. He needed to find out how the gold had become cursed in the first place. He needed to find the people who’d cast the spell, and force them to tell him how it had been done. Then the curse might be lifted.

  But how to do that?

  The answer lay in front of him: the gold bar. The gold had to have been placed in the earthmote by someone. Maybe that someone could be found, and could lead Torrin back to the curse’s originator. The earthmote itself would be a logical starting point, but Torrin doubted there were any answers there. The entire city had heard of the skyriders’ spectacular find. Whoever had hidden the gold in the earthmote would already know that it was gone. They weren’t likely to return to that hiding spot.

  There was one other possible source of information, however. The talismonger Mercuria, who’d given Eralynn one of the gold bars in trade, might have some answers.

  The lead was as thin as thread, but it was the only one Torrin had.

  Baelar let out a long, slow sigh as Torrin finished his tale. “So it was the gold,” he said. “But why? How?”

  “That’s what I hope to find out,” Torrin replied.

  He had caught up to Baelar, Kier’s grandfather, in a corridor that led to one of Eartheart’s armories. The skyrider must have been on his way to his post or returning from it. He carried his plumed helmet in the crook of one arm, wore the distinctive Peacehammer cloak, and had a battle-axe strapped to his back. He wore different armor than usual, however. The breastplate had a wavy, flamelike pattern embossed on its black surface. Baelar’s long gray hair was tightly knotted at the back of his head, and his beard was tucked into the leather bead bag that blacksmiths wore for protection against sparks.

  “I need your help,” Torrin continued. “I need a sending stone.”

  “What will you do with it?” asked Baelar.

  “There’s someone in Hammergate who might be able to tell us where the gold bars came from-a shopkeeper of disreputable character who was handing them out in trade. I have one of the gold bars in my possession, one the Peacehammers didn’t find. I’m going to use it to confront the shopkeeper and trick him into saying something that will lead us to whoever hid the gold in the earthmote. If we can track the gold back to its source, maybe we can learn how the curse was invoked, and how to remove it.

  “Obviously, I can’t take a Peacehammer with me. That will only scare the shopkeeper off. But you could listen in with your sending stone and pounce when the moment is right. And if I should be injured or killed, well…” He shrugged. “At least you’ll have the benefit of whatever I find out.”

  Baelar stood, thinking. “So that’s why the Council was convened,” he said at last, nodding to himself. “They’ve likely started rounding up the gold already. They’ll want that gold bar you’ve got. It’s my duty to report it.”

  Torrin’s breath caught. Had he made a mistake in confiding in Baelar?

  Baelar’s voice dropped to a low growl. “But if you’re certain you can learn more about whoever is behind this, and do everything in your power to ensure that no one but you and the shopkeeper touch that gold bar, and if you turn it in immediately afterward…”

  “I’ll swear a thousand oaths if I have to,” Torrin said. “One for every hair in Moradin’s beard. I’ll ask him to smite me with every misfortune imaginable, should I fail, even though the weight that’s already upon my shoulders is heavier than any anvil.” His jaw clenched, as he thought of Ambril and her babes, of Kier, of Maliira. “I’m responsible for enough suffering already.”

  Baelar sighed. “It wasn’t your fault, Torrin. Nor was it Kier’s. The gold would have been found, regardless of my grandson’s misadventure. The new earthmote had been noted. The Peacehammers had already been ordered to investigate it, after they realized its drift would carry it over the city. Our knights are skilled in the art of detection. They would have found the secret room themselves.”

  The sound of booted feet interrupted them. Two Steel Shields marched up the corridor. As they passed, they gave Torrin a baleful look, then bowed to Baelar. He waved the knights on with a gauntleted hand.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Torrin said in agreement. He thought a moment. “Perhaps I was meant to find that gold. Moradin led me to the earthmote, showed the gold to me, then gave me that dream. I am, after all, the one dwarf who can handle the gold without succumbing to its curse. I was reincarnated into this body because Moradin foresaw that I’d need this form, in order to save my people.”

  Baelar nodded, but appeared unconvinced.

  “Do you believe the Morndinsamman led me to that gold?” Torrin asked. “That Moradin himself has chosen me to save my people?”

  Baelar opened his mouth as if to answer, seemed to reconsider, and shrugged. “When Eralynn first introduced me to you, all those years ago, I thought you were delusional,” he said. “You are clearly not a dwarf, no matter how much you might try to look and sound like one.”

  Torrin’s shoulders slumped.

  “But the heart that beats within your chest is as stout as that of any dwarf, and as true,” Baelar continued. “I first realized that after Eralynn told me how you’d refused to plunder the tomb she followed you to. How you drew that magical mace of yours, and threatened to use it to bring down the ceiling of the tomb, burying the both of you, if she plucked so much as a single garnet from the walls. That gave her pause. And not just because her parents died in a similar manner.”

  Torrin smiled. “Eralynn still thinks I’m crazy.”

  “That she does,” Baelar replied, nodding. “As do I, much of the time. But you struck gold, if you’ll pardon the expression, in puzzling out the truth about those gold bars. You’ve saved many lives this day, and that’s a fact. There are veins of truth to be uncovered yet, I’ll warrant. The stoneplague won’t affect you, and that gives you a chance to dig up that truth, to find out what’s behind this.

  “But no time for chatter,” Baelar continued. “I’ll get that sending stone for you. And I’ll arrange for one of the Peacehammers-someone I trust-to listen in as you confront that shopkeeper.”

  Torrin’s eyebrows rose. “But I thought you yourself would-”

  “Not possible,” Baelar said. He patted his sword. “I’ve a cure to find.”

  “You know of a cure for stoneplague?” Torrin asked, startled.

  “Shh,” said Baelar, raising an armored finger to his lips. He beckoned Torrin closer. In a low voice, he said, “Dragon’s blood.”

  Torrin’s eyebrows rose. Had Baelar gone mad? “But that’s… just a children’s tale,” he said, choosing his words carefully so he wouldn’t offend the longbeard. “If dragon’s blood did everything the sagas claim-instantly healing all wounds, driving all poison from the body, making old men young again-the stoneplague would have been cured long ago. Why, there’d be no need for clerics!” Torrin shook his head. “Everyone knows dragon’s blood is just… blood.”

  Baelar’s jaw clenched. “Just as everyone knows,” he said in a low voice, “that the Soulforge is in the Dwarffather’s domain, and not here on Faerun.”

  Torrin swallowed hard. That stung. But the point was taken. What’s more, Baelar was the head of Clan Thunsonn, and Torrin’s pa
tron. He deserved respect.

  “My apologies,” Torrin said, bowing low.

  Baelar sighed. “You’re quite right, of course. It likely will turn out to be just a children’s tale. But I’ve got to try.”

  Torrin recognized the pained look in the old dwarf’s eyes. His own face was set in the same weary lines. “Where will you get dragon’s blood?” he asked.

  Baelar laughed. “Don’t you remember? You gave me the answer yourself, when you told me about your misadventure with the red dragon a few days ago. With a little luck, those wyrmlings shouldn’t prove too hard to kill. Their mother, however, will be another story. You and Eralynn were blessed by the Luckmaiden that day you escaped her.”

  “I suppose so,” Torrin replied.

  “What’s more, I’m not the only one to grasp at this straw,” Baelar said as he glanced up and down the corridor. “It’s gone unnoticed in the general commotion, but several of the Steel Shields and Peacehammers have vanished,” he whispered. “Some say they’ve abandoned their posts-taken their families and fled-but that’s not true. They’ve gone to the Wyrmcaves, chasing the very thing I’m seeking, and the dragons have killed them. But they didn’t know about the two young wyrmlings. Nor did they have a frost axe, or magical armor ensorcelled to shield against fire.” He thumped his breastplate and jerked a thumb at the axe strapped across his back, a weapon with an icicle-shaped sliver of clear topaz set into the top of its shaft, between the double blades.

  “I’ll succeed where all those others have failed,” Baelar continued. “I know my way around the Underdark. I have magic to silence my footfalls. That wyrmling’s throat will be slit, and I’ll be on my way back with its blood before the mother dragon even realizes it.”

  “But-”

  Baelar shook his head. “My mind is set,” he said. “And keep your mouth shut about where I’m off to. Just concentrate on your part of it. You’ve got your own quest ahead of you-learning where that gold came from. That, my lad, is what the Morndinsamman intended for you.”

  Baelar straightened. “Now let’s get you that sending stone and arrange for someone to listen in while you confront the shopkeeper. May Vergadain the Trickster grant you a silver tongue, and words that slide from it like silk.”

  “My thanks for the blessing,” Torrin said. Although he knew Baelar’s quest would likely prove futile, he returned the blessing. “And the same to you. May Clangeddin Silverbeard make your axe strike true. And may Marthammor Duin speed your steps.”

  Chapter Nine

  “As every thread of gold is valuable, so is every moment of time.”

  Delver’s Tome, Volume VI, Chapter 94, Entry 6

  Mercuria’s shop, at the edge of a cobblestone plaza, was in one of the oldest permanent buildings in Hammergate. According to Eralynn, the door that led to it was magical. Knock once with the left hand, twice with the right, and thrice with the left, and the door would open onto Mercuria’s shop. Any other combination, and it revealed the soakroom of a tannery, a place with a stench so vile no one entered if they could possibly avoid it.

  Torrin knocked correctly, and opened the door. The combined smells of sharp spices and dust filled his nostrils as he stepped into the cluttered shop. The shelves were packed with the varied ingredients of ritual casting: animal skulls of every description, rolls of bark, squares of fur, jars filled with powdered ore, ground horn, and dried berries. Herbs hung in bunches from the rafters. Needles from a dead pine branch covered the floor’s threadbare carpet, partially obscuring its faded pentagram. Nothing looked terribly valuable; the real merchandise was said to be stored in a distant location that was linked to the shop by magic.

  Behind the counter, the talismonger leaned back against the wall in his wooden chair. His gray hair was shaved close to his scalp, save for two tufts that sprouted like wings above the place where horns emerged from his temples. He glanced up from his book as Torrin entered, his blood red eyes lingering on the magical mace at Torrin’s hip. “Buying or selling?” he said.

  “Buying,” Torrin said firmly. He watched Mercuria’s eyes. They didn’t so much as stray to the sending stone that hung from a leather thong around Torrin’s neck. A simple enchantment had cloaked its magical properties. Hanging it around his neck in plain view would further make it seem an innocent ornament.

  “Who taught you the knock?” Mercuria asked.

  “The Delver Eralynn,” Torrin replied.

  The tiefling laid his book on the counter. “The magical rope worked to her satisfaction, I trust?”

  “It did,” Torrin answered.

  “What would you like?”

  “A nephew of mine has the stoneplague. He needs something that will halt the spread of the disease.”

  Mercuria smiled, revealing hooklike teeth. “Which will it be?” he asked. “A jar of Keoghtom’s ointment? A potion of life restoration? A regenerative ring?”

  Torrin knew that none of those would cure the stoneplague. Yet he played along. “How much for a simple healing potion?”

  “How much have you got?” asked the talismonger.

  Torrin opened his pouch and tipped out the gold bar Kier had given him. It landed with a dull thud on Mercuria’s counter. Torrin had smoothed off the end Wylfrid had cut; the saw marks were no longer visible.

  The tiefling didn’t even glance at the gold bar. “Not enough,” he said.

  “Yes it is,” replied Torrin. “A simple healing potion’s just fifty Anvils. That bar is easily worth that.”

  “The price has gone up.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. The price has gone down. Healing potions don’t work. I’ve just offered you the equivalent of fifty Anvils for something that’s worthless against the stoneplague, and you won’t touch my gold.”

  “I don’t need your gold.”

  “No, you don’t, and I’ll tell you why,” Torrin continued. “I’ve spoken to the other Delvers. They tell me you’ve been handing these gold bars out to customers, whenever you need to make up the difference on an expensive trade. You’ve been claiming to have no coin, no gems in your coffers, just gold bars. You want to get rid of them. Why is that?”

  Mercuria just stared at him, his red eyes like two glowing coals.

  “I think we both know the answer,” Torrin continued. “The stoneplague. The gold bars are causing it. They’re cursed.”

  Mercuria’s eyebrows rose. His surprise almost looked genuine. “Really?”

  “Don’t even pretend you didn’t know,” Torrin said.

  Mercuria rose from his stool as swiftly as an uncoiling serpent. He whipped out a black iron wand, tipped with what looked like a fang, and pointed it at Torrin’s chest. In that same moment, Torrin wrenched the magical mace from his belt and raised it.

  They stared at each other across the counter.

  “You aren’t going to use that wand,” Torrin said. “There’s something else staying your hand, other than my raised weapon. You need to know something-whether or not I’m the only one who knows you’ve been distributing those gold bars.”

  “I won’t insult your intelligence further by asking that question,” Mercuria answered. “Obviously, someone else knows you’re here, and quite obviously they’ll tell the Steel Shields I’ve murdered you if you don’t come back. What’s more, you’re not going to use that mace, since you need me alive in order to learn anything. But you were wrong, when you accused me of knowingly spreading the stoneplague. I knew there had to be something wrong with those gold bars, but not that. Otherwise, I’d never have touched them, no matter how much profit was involved.”

  “If that’s true, you’ll have no problem telling me who gave you that gold,” Torrin said, still brandishing his mace. “Tell me who traded you those bars, and I’ll keep my mouth shut about your role in this.”

  “Swear it,” said Mercuria. “Swear by Moradin’s beard you’ll keep your word.”

  Torrin hesitated. Swear a false oath? Would the Dwarffather understand?


  The tiefling snorted. “I thought so,” he said. “You’re lying. Even so, I’ll tell you.”

  “So who was it, then?” Torrin asked. “One of the drow? Was this a plot to weaken our city, so that they could attack it?”

  Mercuria shook his head. “The gold came from a human, actually. He seemed desperate to divest himself of it. He practically gave the gold to me, at a fraction of its worth by weight. He goes by the name of Vadyr. Assuming he’s still alive, you’ll find him in Helmstar. That’s where he said he was from.”

  Interesting. Helmstar was where Kendril had come from, too.

  “What makes you think this Vadyr fellow might be dead?” Torrin asked.

  Mercuria shrugged. “You’re not the first to come sniffing around after his gold,” he said. “A duergar came into the shop a few days ago, also wanting to know where I’d gotten the gold bars from.”

  Torrin’s eyebrows rose. A duergar in Hammergate? Torrin knew the history of that race well; he’d read about it extensively. The duergar had once been dwarves and were still distantly related, but they were a race of evil disposition and foul habits. They’d arisen in Faerun between four and eight millennia before, in the wake of the disastrous Mindstalker Wars. When the city of Barakuir fell, the surviving dwarves of Clan Duergar were taken prisoner, and enslaved. Centuries of illithid experiments had warped their descendants’ bodies, minds, and souls. The twisted caricatures turned their faces away from the Morndinsamman to worship a cruel and corrupt god. By doing so, they condemned their very souls. Moradin would accept a drow at his forge long before he’d accept a duergar.

  The duergar were sworn enemies of the true dwarves. Any duergar who dared show his face in Eartheart-or Hammergate, for that matter-would be slain on sight. Torrin wondered how one had managed to find his way to Mercuria’s shop.

  “Did you tell the duergar about Vadyr?” Torrin asked.