The Gilded Rune (forgotten realms)

by Lisa Smedman

  He searched for the spot where the duergar had cut their rune. At first, he didn’t see it. Then he realized it must lie under the dome of spellfire. It was difficult to see through the crackling blue haze. Yet by staring at the spellfire intently, first through his goggle lens and then through his uncovered eye, Torrin could barely make out wide grooves on the cavern floor, filled with the same green-gold metal. Those were the rune lines the duergar had carved, filled with gold taken from Moradin’s lanced vein.

  “Moradin smite me,” Torrin whispered. “What am I supposed to do now?” He reached with a trembling hand to touch his beard. Once again, he winced at the unfamiliar feel of the blunt end.

  He was so close. Yet he might as well have been on the opposite side of Faerun for all the good it would do. That dome of spellfire was enormous. And deadly. If he went any closer to it, he’d likely be incinerated, reduced to ash before he got halfway there. Even though it was all the way across the cavern, the raw magic was taking its toll. A wizard protected by powerful magic might last a day or two before succumbing to the deadly wash of energy. Torrin would be lucky to last half a day.

  Should he retrace his steps? Try to find Baelar and the others? See if they could think of a solution? Yet doing that would mean admitting he’d been wrong. Admitting that he wasn’t capable of undoing the rune magic on his own.

  “Moradin,” he whispered. “Am I the one who is to be your savior?”

  No answer came. Torrin hadn’t expected it to.

  As he stood there with the runestone, wondering what to do next, a faint sound reached his ears: a clanging, like metal on metal. Was that really the clash of weapons? He paused, listening, and at last pinpointed the sound. He stared in that direction, squinting against the harsh blue light of the spellfire, trying to make out what was happening.

  There! At the side of the cavern! About a dozen moving figures emerged from a tunnel to his left that definitely hadn’t been there a moment before. It was likely that the tunnel mouth had been cloaked by an illusion. Torrin saw two groups, locked in combat. The glare of spellfire made their outlines wavering and indistinct, but Torrin could make out that those on foot were being pushed into the cavern by attackers mounted on what looked like giant spiders.

  Escaped slaves, being herded into the deadly spellfire by duergar?

  Then he heard a sound like the wail of an icy wind, and saw a cloud of what looked like swirling snow-flakes erupt around a standing figure who’d just landed a blow. Torrin had seen that magical effect before. And he knew the weapon that produced it-a frost axe.

  “By Moradin’s beard!” Torrin gasped. “That’s Baelar!”

  He jammed the runestone into his pocket. Then he sprinted, crystals crunching underfoot, to the spot where the battle raged.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Pure gold does not fear the fire.”

  Delver’s Tome, Volume I, Chapter 2, Entry 8

  Torrin raced to the battle, his mace in his hand, ploughing through the floating crystals that crowded the air like floating hail. He wanted to shout Baelar’s name, to let the dwarves know he was headed their way, but that would draw the duergar’s attention as well. In the hazy, crackling light, there was just a chance that they wouldn’t notice him, or would think him some shadow or trick of the light.

  As he drew nearer, he could see more clearly through the spellfire-hazed air. Just ahead, four dwarves battled three spider-mounted duergar. The dwarves were being pressed hard. They’d been forced out of the tunnel and into the cavern, where crystals on the floor made the footing treacherous. The crystals didn’t slow the spiders at all. One scuttled out of the tunnel and up onto the ceiling, where its rider rained arrows down at the dwarves. Another raced lightly along the wall and jumped down several paces beyond the entrance, flanking the four dwarves. The third spider leaped out of the tunnel and, as one of the dwarves stumbled and lowered his axe, grabbed him in its jaws.

  The dwarf screamed in agony as the jaws scissored shut. He suddenly went rigid, and his axe fell from his hand.

  Baelar ran at that spider, brandishing his axe. He shouted and swung. The blade sliced off one of the spider’s legs. Frost exploded in a cloud as what remained of the leg froze solid then shattered, wrenching a chunk of the body off with it. The spider released its hold on the dwarf and crumpled. Baelar’s second blow cracked its head wide open.

  The dwarf who’d been bitten fell in a stiff-limbed heap to the ground and didn’t rise. Baelar glanced at him, then pressed home his attack on the rider who’d just leaped off the spider’s back. Baelar’s next axe swing, however, passed through empty air as the duergar did a peculiar leap backwards, twisting as he jumped. The foe suddenly appeared behind Baelar. His axe descended in a deadly arc…

  But in that moment, Torrin reached the battle. “ Thuldnoror! ” he cried, swinging his mace. Thunder boomed as the mace smashed into the side of the duergar’s head, shattering the duergar’s skull like weakened stone in an explosion of blood and brains.

  Baelar stared at Torrin for a heartbeat, his eyes wide. He gave the briefest of nods and pointed at the rider who’d landed his spider behind them. “That one!” he ordered.

  Torrin scrambled to the spot where one of the other dwarves-Captain Blackhammer-was fighting the duergar rider who’d flanked them. Blackhammer was trying to lop the legs off of the spider as Baelar had done. But before he could, the duergar rider hurled his lance. Blackhammer dove under the spider and rolled, emerging beyond its claw-tipped legs. The lance clattered off the crystal floor and skittered away.

  “Stoneshield!” Baelar shouted from somewhere behind Torrin. “Close the tunnel!”

  Torrin could see Captain Stoneshield out of the corner of his eye. The gray-bearded knight punched a fist into the air above his head. An arrow that had just been shot by the rider on the ceiling shattered into harmless splinters as Stoneshield’s magic struck it.

  “But the others!” Stoneshield shouted back at Baelar. “They won’t-”

  “Now!” Baelar shouted. “Do it!”

  Torrin risked a second glance at the tunnel behind him. He spotted another dwarf inside it, sprinting for the cavern and shouting at them to wait. Three more duergar on spiders were close on his heels, about to overtake him. Baelar shouted again at Stoneshield to close the tunnel. Stoneshield continued to hesitate. At the last possible moment, just as the running dwarf burst into the cavern, Stoneshield slapped his hands together.

  The walls slammed shut, crushing the three spiders. Colorless blood squirted out in a spray from between the rock. A clawed foot caught in the rock twitched, then was still.

  Then an arrow plunged down into Stoneshield’s neck. He crumpled wordlessly, slain where he stood.

  Baelar shouted and hurled his axe. The weapon whirled through the air, blades flashing, and buried itself in the chest of the rider above. The duergar rocked backward, then slipped from the saddle to dangle from a stirrup, his twisting corpse spurting blood that froze to red hail as it fell. The spider scuttled away across the ceiling.

  Torrin reached the last rider just as that duergar’s spider crouched for a leap. Shouting “ Thuldnoror! ” once more, he slammed his mace into the spider’s twitching abdomen. Thunder boomed, rupturing the abdomen and sending blood, strands of guts, and fragments of bristle-haired chitlin everywhere. Spider blood splattered onto Torrin’s face, blinding him. He danced back, frantically wiping a hand across the lens of his goggles and spitting out the foul-tasting liquid. As he moved, he heard a scream above. He whipped up his mace to parry the expected blow, and heard the thud of a body landing beside him. Another wipe of his goggles cleared them. He saw it was the rider who’d fallen, pierced by his own lance. Captain Blackhammer stood a pace away, panting. He must have been the one who threw the lance. Baelar was cursing as he watched his prized axe, still buried in the body of the rider he’d thrown it at earlier, being carried away by the fleeing spider.

  Torrin grinned through the muck that covered h
is face. They’d done it! Killed the three duergar riders and their mounts, and sent the one surviving spider scuttling away. The squad had paid a heavy price, having lost Captain Stoneshield and the knight who’d been killed by spider venom, but three of them remained: Baelar, Captain Blackhammer, and a third dwarf who stood next to the spot where the tunnel had been, holding an axe in his hand.

  Torrin stared at the third dwarf, trying to place him. He must be a captain, yet Torrin didn’t recognize him. And he was holding his axe in an odd manner, straight out ahead of him like a wand. There was also something odd about the way the dwarf was smiling. He looked… smug?

  Torrin squinted, and the axe in the dwarf’s hand seemed to waver. That was a wand he was holding.

  Baelar glanced in the direction Torrin was staring. He startled. “That’s not one of-”

  A beam of green light streaked from the wand and slammed into Blackhammer’s chest. Blackhammer grunted, glanced down, and saw that his body was bathed in a sickly green light. A hole opened in his chest, and in the space of a blink it widened until it had split him in two. As the axe he’d been holding clattered to the floor, the sickly green glow flashed up to Blackhammer’s head and down to his boots, consuming him as it soundlessly burned. A heartbeat later, there was only a dwarf-shaped puff of greasy green smoke where he’d been standing.

  Captain Blackhammer was just… gone. Killed by the dwarf who’d just dropped the illusion that had been cloaking him. Not a dwarf, Torrin saw, but a duergar whose body was covered in tattooed runes.

  Their enemy grinned and shifted his wand.

  Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Torrin heard his heart thud in his ears. He saw Baelar dive for Black-hammer’s axe. He heard his heart thud a second time. Torrin started to shift his mace, and realized he’d never reach the duergar wizard in time. He heard his heart thud again. Saw green light blossom at the tip of the wand, which was tracking Baelar as he dove.

  Torrin felt a strange detachment. He heard his own voice shouting “No!” and felt his body, as if in a dream, leap into motion. His right hand-the one crackling with spellfire-reached out to block the beam as it streaked toward Baelar.

  Spellfire flared outward from Torrin’s palm, expanding into a glowing blue shield. The green light struck it and reflected, streaking back to the duergar holding the wand. The duergar’s mouth opened in surprise as he was consumed from within by the noiseless green fire, just as Blackhammer had been. A heartbeat later, only greasy green smoke remained. The smoke drifted away and was gone.

  Baelar rose shakily to his feet, Blackhammer’s axe in hand, and gaped at Torrin. “How did you do that?” he said.

  “I have no idea,” Torrin said in a faint voice. “It just… came to me.” He stared in wonder at his spellscarred hand. What else might it be capable of? If only Eralynn were alive, he might have asked her. The thought saddened him.

  “By the gods,” Baelar said, shaking his head. “You’ve just pulled me out from between hammer and anvil. One moment more…”

  “Yes,” Torrin answered.

  One thing was clear. The duergar whose spell Torrin had turned must have been the one Tril had asked about, back in the tavern in Sundasz. The half-elf had mentioned tattoos. Now Torrin understood what had frightened the rogues so. He could also guess where Vadyr had disappeared to-why magic couldn’t find him. Like Blackhammer, he’d been consumed by the wand’s foul magic. That was why Eartheart’s mages hadn’t been able to locate Vadyr, and why Torrin hadn’t been able to teleport to him. He was simply… gone.

  Baelar bowed until his beard touched the floor. “My thanks, Torrin Ironstar,” he said. “My profound thanks. You have indeed proved yourself as stout-hearted as any dwarf this day. And every bit as honorable.”

  Torrin nodded in reply. Then the trembles began. He clutched his mace tightly, by sheer will alone forcing the shaking to stop. There was still work to be done.

  “How did you find this cavern?” Torrin asked.

  “That was your contribution, Torrin. Your message got through. The Lord Scepter relayed the information to us. He’s no doubt listening, even now.”

  Torrin whispered a heartfelt prayer of thanks. “The rune that cursed Moradin’s vein,” he told Baelar, nodding at the center of the cavern. “It’s under that dome of spellfire.”

  Baelar nodded too. “I guessed as much,” he said. “Dangerous stuff. Still, it’s only necessary to survive long enough to dispel the rune’s magic.”

  “With what?” Torrin asked.

  Baelar pulled out a coin pouch that hung around his neck under his shirt. From inside it, he took a feather with a golden shaft and mithril vanes. Baelar held it near the base of the shaft, as if it were a quill pen. “Eartheart’s mages crafted this,” he said. “It can dispel even the most powerful magic. One flick of the wrist, and the rune will be erased.”

  “But we can’t even reach the rune,” Torrin protested. “We’ll be reduced to ash before we’re even halfway there.”

  Baelar stared at the dome of spellfire for a long moment. Then he turned and walked back to the duergar Torrin had killed. Torrin, following, heard the captain grunt in satisfaction. Baelar squatted and began pulling off the duergar’s boots. “Teleportation magic,” he said. “With these, I’ll be able to reach the rune in a heartbeat. By the grace of the Morndinsamman, I’ll live long enough to work the feather’s magic.”

  Torrin’s fingers were still tingling. He glanced down and saw that his entire hand was wreathed in spellfire. Even as he watched, the bright blue glow crept past his wrist.

  “Baelar, wait,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  Baelar, still tugging at the duergar’s boots, shook his head. “No. It’s my duty,” he replied. “Besides, you don’t know how to use the feather.”

  “It sounds simple enough,” Torrin said. “Just a ‘flick of the wrist,’ you said. And I know you’re no wizard. That means any dwarf could use it.”

  Baelar rose, holding the teleportation boots. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again. “No,” he said firmly. “I’m old. If it’s my time to be reforged, then so be it. You, on the other hand, are still a boy-by dwarf standards, that is. And you have no guarantee of living again. If anything were to happen to you, Kier would miss you terribly. And we both know how angry Eralynn would be if I ‘sent you to die.’ I’d never hear the end of it.” He started to chuckle, then noticed the anguished look on Torrin’s face.

  “What’s wrong?” Baelar asked suddenly. “What happened?”

  Torrin pulled Eralynn’s pendant out from under his shirt. “She’s dead,” he said. “There was no time to tell you before now.”

  For several moments, the two men stared at each other in silence. Then a tear slid down Baelar’s face, into his beard. “How?” he whispered.

  “The stoneplague,” he replied.

  “I see.”

  Torrin turned to stare at the dome of spellfire, giving Baelar a moment of privacy to grieve. Still not looking at Baelar, he spoke. “Long ago, back when the stoneplague first came to Eartheart, Moradin spoke to me in a dream. ‘No one else can help me,’ he said.” He stared at the dome of blue fire. “This is my destiny.”

  “No, Torrin,” Baelar said. “It’s not.”

  Torrin turned and saw Baelar with the metal quill in hand and the duergar’s teleportation boots on his feet. “Raise a glass for me, won’t you, at the next Festival of Remembering,” he said. Then he blinked out of sight.

  Torrin whirled to face the spellfire and lifted his hands to shade his eyes from its harsh glare. He spotted Baelar at once, a black silhouette against the blue blaze. And he immediately realized something had gone wrong. Baelar hadn’t teleported into the dome of spellfire; he wasn’t even close to the spot where the rune had been inscribed. As Torrin stared, tense with worry, the dwarf vanished from sight and reappeared a few paces from where he’d been standing, no closer to the rune. Baelar blinked away a third time-trying once more to teleport
to the rune-and reappeared almost exactly where he’d started, once again.

  “By Moradin’s beard,” Torrin breathed. “He can’t reach it. Something’s preventing him.”

  Baelar’s shout of frustration echoed back to Torrin across the cavern. Giving up on teleportation, Baelar hunkered over. Like a man battling his way forward against a hurricane, he began to march. Torrin, watching, clenched his fists and counted Baelar’s steps. One… two… three…

  Baelar wavered. Then he sagged to his knees. Blue spellfire raged around his silhouette, feeding like flames on his hair, his clothes.

  “No!” Torrin shouted. He plunged a hand into his pocket and yanked out the runestone. Sparks of spellfire immediately leaped from the crystals at his feet, streaking up to the runestone like bright blue fireflies. “By blood and earth, ae-burakrin. Take me to Baelar!” Torrin cried.

  Fuelled by spellfire, the runestone activated so quickly that Torrin barely managed to complete Baelar’s name. With a twist that left him dizzy, he landed next to the fallen man. Torrin stumbled sideways, crystals crunching underfoot. The rune was still several paces away, yet Torrin was deep inside the dome of spellfire. Baelar was a barely visible heap at his feet, obscured by zigzagging streaks of crackling blue. The spellfire washed over Torrin like heat from an over-stoked forge as streams of smoke erupting from his smoldering clothes. The hole the duergar had bored in the floor was several paces ahead and to the right, adding its own heat to the air. He bent over and grabbed Baelar with his free hand, but saw that he was already too late. Baelar was dead. His hair and clothes were gone, his skin already turning to blue-tinged ash.

  The sight sent a sharp pang of dismay through Torrin. Yet there was no time to grieve. Leaving the body where it lay, he scooped up the magical feather instead. The metal shaft was so hot it glowed and burned his fingers. He hoped it wasn’t about to melt.

  Torrin squinted his eyes almost shut, peered into the blazing inferno, and spotted the rune that had been carved into the cavern floor between the growth of crystals. It was enormous, perhaps five or six paces long, and filled with molten gold through which tidal ripples flowed, bulging its surface as they flowed first in one direction, then another, as if seeking an exit.