THE STONEPLAGUE
The Lord Scepter raised a hand. Silence fell upon the room. “By show of hands,” he said, “who believes this human to be at fault, to have brought the stoneplague to our city?”
Torrin glanced quickly around the room and saw more than one Deep Lord—in fact, most of them—shifting slightly in their seats, starting to raise their hands. Torrin could contain himself no longer. “Lord Scepter!” he cried. “If you’re going to sentence me to death, I must know how to reply to Moradin, when he asks me to list my sins! I invoke the Treaty of the Hammer, which allows a condemned man—no matter what his race—to ask a single question, and have it answered.”
Silence fell. Heads turned.
“And your question?” the Lord Scepter asked.
Torrin drew a deep breath. “Is the stoneplague in our city?”
Several Deep Lords gasped behind their hoods. The two knights flanking Torrin bristled, their weapons ready. But, Torrin noted wryly, they seemed as interested in the answer as he was.
The Lord Scepter patted the air. “At ease, knights,” he said. His chuckle surprised Torrin—and more than a few of the Deep Lords, judging by the way the hooded heads turned. “He may be human, but he knows our laws. And more to the point, there is no harm in answering him.”
ALSO BY LISA SMEDMAN
HOUSE OF SERPENTS
Venom’s Taste
Viper’s Kiss
Vanity’s Brood
THE LADY PENITENT
Sacrifice of the Widow
Storm of the Dead
Ascendancy of the Last
WAR OF THE SPIDER QUEEN
Extinction
OTHER FORGOTTEN REALMS® TITLES
The Halls of Stormweather
Heirs of Prophecy
THE GILDED RUNE
©2012 Wizards of the Coast LLC
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Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe. Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ.UK.
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Cover art by: Marc Simonetti
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6129-0
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www.DungeonsandDragons.com
v3.1
Thanks, once again, to the members of my writers’ group, for their invaluable comments and advice: Matthew Claxton, John Hart, Guy Immega, Martin Iverson, Niko Kolm, Dave Manning, Samantha Markham, Laurie Ann Melnychuk, Andrew Reid, Fran Skene, Peter Tupper, and David Willis.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Interlude
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
About the Author
Welcome to Faerûn, a land of magic and intrigue, brutal violence and divine compassion, where gods have ascended and died, and mighty heroes have risen to fight terrifying monsters. Here, millennia of warfare and conquest have shaped dozens of unique cultures, raised and leveled shining kingdoms and tyrannical empires alike, and left long forgotten, horror-infested ruins in their wake.
A LAND OF MAGIC
When the goddess of magic was murdered, a magical plague of blue fire—the Spellplague—swept across the face of Faerûn, killing some, mutilating many, and imbuing a rare few with amazing supernatural abilities. The Spellplague forever changed the nature of magic itself, and seeded the land with hidden wonders and bloodcurdling monstrosities.
A LAND OF DARKNESS
The threats Faerûn faces are legion. Armies of undead mass in Thay under the brilliant but mad lich king Szass Tam. Treacherous dark elves plot in the Underdark in the service of their cruel and fickle goddess, Lolth. The Abolethic Sovereignty, a terrifying hive of inhuman slave masters, floats above the Sea of Fallen Stars, spreading chaos and destruction. And the Empire of Netheril, armed with magic of unimaginable power, prowls Faerûn in flying fortresses, sowing discord to their own incalculable ends.
A LAND OF HEROES
But Faerûn is not without hope. Heroes have emerged to fight the growing tide of darkness. Battle-scarred rangers bring their notched blades to bear against marauding hordes of orcs. Lowly street rats match wits with demons for the fate of cities. Inscrutable tiefling warlocks unite with fierce elf warriors to rain fire and steel upon monstrous enemies. And valiant servants of merciful gods forever struggle against the darkness.
A LAND OF
UNTOLD ADVENTURE
MORNDINSAMMAN SAGA, TABLET THE FIRST
“Better than gold is a tale rightly told.”
Dwarven Proverb
AT THE BEGINNING OF CREATION, THERE WAS NAUGHT but darkness and void. Then came light: a single lump of coal, glowing red.
Moradin the Creator breathed upon the coal, and it grew hot. He plucked it from the firmament with his tongs, and placed it into his forge. There it burned brightly, neither dimming nor diminishing in heat for a tenday.
Moradin scooped clay from the earth, and from it made a mold in his own image. He worked the soft clay with his fingers, denting it to create hollows into which molten metal would flow. A thumbprint became a face, surrounded by nail-scored lines for the hair. The chest was a deeper hollow, with more lines upon it that would be the beard. The body he made stout and solid, so that his creation might hold its ground in the face of adversity, as unmoving as a mountain. The legs were the length and breadth of Moradin’s thumb; the arms the length of his strong forefinger.
When the two halves of the mold were done, he set them by the forge to dry.
Once the pieces of the mold were hard, Moradin lifted them and bound the two halves together with a strand of his own hair. He set a crucible upon his forge, and into it put the four noble metals: silver, gold, platinum, and mithril. Those he heated and stirred, until the mixture of molten metals was pleasing to his eye. Then he lifted the crucible from the forge, and poured the swirling liquid into the mold.
When the pouring was done, Moradin set his crucible aside and lifted the mold to his lips. He blew upon it, cooling it. Then he opened the mold, lifted the figure he had made, and cut off the sprue, leaving a mark in the middle of the figure’s belly.
He looked upon what he had made, and saw that it was good and true.
Berronar Truesilver, bride to Moradin, came to him then and placed a hand upon her husband’s arm. She, too, looked upon the casting. It was she who said that a man without a companion on life’s path was like a pick without a pail: each was equally needed to mine the earth’s wealth.
Moradin realized the wisdom of her words, and fashioned a second mold in Berronar’s image, with hips suitable for bearing children and breasts for suckling babes. And thus the second casting created woman.
For a tenday, the coal glowed in the forge. For a tenday, Moradin worked—pouring, casting, cutting, and cooling. From his forge sprang men and women, some with hair of gold, some with hair of silver, or hair a fiery copper red, or hair as dark as soot. Moradin took special joy in that adornment, and commanded his creations neither to cut their hair nor to let it grow unkempt, but to braid it and keep it in a manner similar to his own luxuriant beard.
He further commanded his people to spread across the land and multiply, for the riches of the earth were wide. He gave unto his creations the knowledge of mining, smelting, and smithing, of working stone and gemcutting, that they might prosper.
Moradin then breathed into their ears all the secrets of the earth, all the mysteries of the places deep in stone. He set them upon the face of Faerûn, and bid them always to worship him, to keep him as secure in their hearts as a gem within its setting.
Thus was the dwarf race forged.
1480 DR
THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING
“All that glitters is not gold.”
Delver’s Tome, Volume III, Chapter 24, Entry 502
TORRIN FROZE, ONE HAND ON COOL STONE, THE OTHER gripping his mace, as an eerie moan echoed out of the cavern ahead. Strong and insidious, it vibrated his body like a struck gong. The tunnel he’d been climbing leveled off ahead into a ledge overlooking a chasm hundreds of paces high and deep. A shape swept downward across the empty space beyond the ledge. A flying creature fluttered there like a flung cloak, its back as black as the darkness of the cavern, its belly as white as bone. Twin points of red—the creature’s eyes—glowed above a gaping mouth. A tail snapped like a whip in the creature’s wake, and then the thing was gone.
A cloaker, hunting.
“By my beard,” Torrin whispered. “That was close.”
His stomach felt loose and fluttery with nausea. His thoughts skittered about like frightened mice and took several moments to ebb. Even protected by his ring, Torrin had nearly succumbed to the cloaker’s magical call.
The moan came again, but from farther away. Then a third moan, still fainter, followed by the shrill cry of a cave bat, abruptly cut off.
Torrin felt nervous sweat trickle down his sides. Had he arrived at Needle Leap just a little earlier, he might have been the cloaker’s lunch.
Torrin stroked his braided beard. The touch of the tiny silver hammers at the end of each braid calmed him. He whispered a quick prayer of thanks to Marthammor Duin, the god that watched over adventurers like himself. Even though Torrin was human by birth, the dwarf god was clearly aiding him.
Torrin prayed that the god’s protection would also extend to the fellow he’d come to the desolate place to meet. Not only were there cloakers nearby, but the passageways through that section of the Underdark were thick with drow marauders. If Torrin had been given any choice in the matter, he would have taken the long way around to Needle Leap. But the dark elves had cut off the longer, safer route, leaving Torrin no other choice but to chance the jump.
He hoped that Kendril would fulfill his part of the bargain, and show up with the runestone. Arranging to purchase it had been a lengthy process—and an expensive one—involving numerous coded messages back and forth, via middlemen of questionable character.
No, Torrin told himself. Kendril had sworn, by Moradin’s beard, that he would deliver, and that was good enough. A dwarf would never renege on an oath like that. In a short time, the magical runestone would at last be in Torrin’s hands.
In the meantime, it was time to cross Needle Leap. Before the cloaker finished enjoying its meal.
Torrin crept out onto the ledge and studied the gap ahead, peering through the magical goggles that allowed him to see in the dark. The chasm extended as far above and below as the eyes could see, as well as to the right and the left. The gap between the ledge on which Torrin stood and the one that opened onto the tunnel leading to Helmstar was dozens of paces wide. And at the center of that gap was a narrow spire of stone—the Needle—whose mostly flat top served as an all-too-narrow landing point between Torrin’s ledge and the tunnel across from him.
At some point in the past, there had been a rope bridge across Needle Leap. But the rogues and outcasts who called Helmstar home had cut the bridge down years before. Moldering strands of rope hung from the pitons that had once secured them. Torrin had a rope, but he had been told not to trust the easily fractured rock. After noting how loosely anchored the rusted pitons were, he thought it wise advice.
Instead, he’d jump. There was just enough room on the ledge to get a good running start, but the gap between the ledge and the Needle was wide. Too wide for more than one young daredevil who had learned it at the cost of his life, after being so unwise as to accept a dare. Even with his longer human legs, Torrin estimated, he’d only just be able to make it. On top of that, the stone here was dewy with condensation from the damp air. Slippery. It would be a treacherous leap.
Torrin slid his mace into the loop on his belt and ensured that his backpack was snug; he didn’t need it sliding about and throwing off his balance. He whispered a quick prayer to the Watcher over Wanderers and kissed, for luck, one of his beard’s tiny silver hammers. Then he ran.
A leap … and he was sailing through the chill air, with nothing between himself and the jagged rocks far below. With his arms windmilling for balance, Torrin threw his body forward into a run the moment his foot touched the Needle. Still sprinting—one step, two, three—he leaped a second time.
Sudden movement to the right and far below caught his eye. The cloaker was winging its way upward! The distraction threw off his landing, and he stumbled badly on the distant ledge, his lead foot twisting off the edge. He crashed down, half on and half off the ledge, sliding backward. He scrabbled for a crack, any crack, to jam his fingers into. No use—he couldn’t stop his momentum! Rough stone scraped his cheek and wrenched the goggles away from his eyes, sending them clattering onto the ground beside his head. Blinded, he slid until his clawing fingers were all that kept him from going over the edge. The rest of him dangled in empty space.
“Marthammor,” he gasped, knowing that in a moment more his trembling hands would betray him. “Why have you forsaken me?”
Hands seized his left wrist, just below his bracer, and pulled hard. As he was dragged bodily up and onto the ledge, Torrin at last found a knob of stone with one foot. He hiked himself up the rest of the way and rolled onto his back. Safe!
The hands released his wrist. Panting, Torrin lay arched uncomfortably over his backpack, sweat trickling down his temples. He felt the rough hands of his rescuer touching his beard and then patting their way down across his shoulders, chest, and legs.
“You’re no dwarf,” his rescuer rasped. “You talk like one, but by the feel of your limbs, you’re human.”
Torrin sat up. He felt around for his magical goggles and heaved a sigh of relief when he found them. They allowed him to see only in shades of black, white, and gray, but that was far better than blindly stumbling about the Underdark.
He looked up at his rescuer. The fellow who’d just pulled him to safety was a dwarf with patched, dirty clothes and a beard in need of combing. He had shoulders even broader than most, but moved stiffly. He wheezed like an old forge hand, his chest audibly rattling as it rose and fell. His breath smelled slightly off, with an odor like damp clay. His eyes, however, were the most disturbing. They were a pale, pitted white, like c
hipped marbles—and they weren’t moving. The skin at the corner of each eye was deeply creased. In normal light, it was likely a painful red.
“You’re blind!” Torrin gasped. “How did you know I was—”
A hand, as rough as chipped stone, grabbed Torrin’s neck. A dagger point pricked his throat, silencing him. “Who are you?” the blind dwarf rasped.
Torrin swallowed. Carefully. “Torrin Ironstar,” he replied. He started to raise an arm to show off the star on his bracer, then remembered the dwarf wouldn’t be able to see it. “Are you Kendril, son of Balund?”
The blind dwarf frowned. Then he laughed and released Torrin’s throat. He felt for his sheath with one hand, and slid the dagger into it. “I am,” he replied, sighing heavily. “Just as well, really, that you’re human.”
“Actually, although I may not look like it, I’m a dwarf,” Torrin corrected. “Moradin recast my soul in a human body this time around. I’d have told you that during our negotiations, but I didn’t think you’d trust me if I did.”
“Pull my beard another time, human,” Kendril said with a grunt. His head cocked slightly to one side. “Did you hear that moan? There’s a cloaker somewhere nearby. And we’ve business to conclude.”
Torrin stood and glanced down over the edge. He was on solid ground—but someone needed to tell his pounding heart that. He couldn’t see the cloaker, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still down there, somewhere. “You’re right. We should get back from the edge. Are you able to find your way?”
“I found you, didn’t I?” the blind dwarf said, wheezing. Feeling his way along with one hand on the wall, Kendril led Torrin into the tunnel. After a dozen or so steps he halted. “This should be safe enough, for now.”
Grunting with what sounded like pain, Kendril reached stiffly inside his shirt and pulled out a worn leather pouch. He teased open the pouch strings with shaking fingers and pulled out a fist-sized oval of bloodstone. He felt for Torrin’s hand and pressed the stone into it. “Here’s what you paid for.”
The Gilded Rune Page 1
