The Gilded Rune

by Smedman, Lisa

  “Gods smite their dark hearts,” Torrin said through his clenched teeth.

  The rusted nub of an iron bar protruded from the wall, just above the broken throne of Moradin’s statue. At first Torrin took it to be a reinforcing bar that had held the statue upright, but then he realized dwarf stonemasons would have done better work than that. Not only that, but the ceiling above was stained with soot, as if someone carrying a torch had stood in that spot for a while.

  Torrin grabbed the iron stub and gave it a tug. The wall pivoted with a grinding noise, revealing a small hidden chamber. It was dark inside. Torrin took a moment to pull on his goggles.

  His stomach gave a lurch as soon as he saw what was within. A pace or two in front of him lay Kier on the floor, next to a wooden strongbox half-filled with gold bars, each the size and shape of a stick of butter. Each was easily worth fifty gold coins. More gold bars were scattered across the floor. A fortune! Easily enough to pay for Torrin’s cleansing, a loremaster, or anything else Torrin desired.

  Torrin’s elation was gone as quickly as it had come, however. Kier was hurt. He needed help.

  Torrin stepped into the room and kneeled beside the boy. Immediately, a piercing cry like a woman’s scream filled the air. The sound came from a cluster of tiny white mushrooms that had rooted in a rotted beam that had fallen from the ceiling long ago. Also rooted in the beam were larger mushrooms of a vivid purple, with hairlike filaments waving above their spotted caps. Poisonous mushrooms—and Kier must have touched them.

  “Mother of Safety!” Torrin cried. “By your sweet mercy, let the boy be alive!”

  Torrin lifted Kier. The boy’s body was not yet cold—a hopeful sign. Gold bars clinked as Torrin kicked them out of the way. There was enough gold here to make a rogue weep, but Torrin cared nothing for it any longer. All that mattered was Kier.

  He shouldered open the secret door and ran up the stairs, the boy limp in his arms. The purplish mushrooms were small—a fully grown specimen of the violet fungus stood twice the height of a dwarf—but there had been dozens of them in that room. Kier, praise Sharindlar, was still breathing, although the raspiness of his breath alarmed Torrin.

  When Torrin got to the top of the stair, he saw the rope jerking sharply. He wondered what fresh crisis that implied, then realized that it was likely the skyrider who’d followed him to the mote, giving the rope a tug.

  “Down here!” Torrin cried. “Bring your medicine pouch. We need help!”

  Moments later, he heard wingbeats. The skyrider’s griffon came into view, tossing its horselike head and ruffling its feather mane as it hovered just outside the opening. The Peacehammer riding it had black hair, a beard whose lower half was encased in a tight golden tube, and a nose that looked as if it had been flattened in a fight.

  When he saw Torrin he raised his crossbow. “Set the boy down, thief,” he ordered. “Gently, or I’ll put a bolt through your chest.”

  “It’s not what you think,” Torrin said. “I’d never harm Kier. The boy’s my nephew.”

  The skyrider snorted. “And I’m his mother,” he said as he sighted down the crossbow. “Put the boy down. Now. And when you’ve done that, you can unlash your mace and toss it to me. You’re under arrest, for the theft of a griffon.”

  Torrin set Kier down. Gently. He fumbled at the straps that held his mace. “The boy’s been poisoned,” he said. “He touched a violet fungus. He needs a healing potion.”

  “Your mace,” the skyrider repeated. “Toss it to me.”

  Torrin at last got the weapon free and threw it to the skyrider, who caught it in one hand and deftly tucked it into a loop in his saddle.

  “This boy’s grandfather is a Peacehammer,” Torrin told the skyrider. “Baelar Thunsonn. The boy took his mount—you must have seen the Thunsonn crest on the saddle. That’s why I borrowed the other griffon—to fetch the boy back so he wouldn’t be shot down for breaking quarantine. Please! If we don’t heal Kier quickly, he’ll die!”

  The skyrider hesitated. Still holding his crossbow in one hand, he reached into the saddlebag behind him, never once taking his eyes from Torrin. He pulled out the medicine pouch that all skyriders carried, and pulled a metal vial from it. “Catch!” he called, tossing it to Torrin.

  Torrin snatched it out of the air. He wrenched the cork out of the vial with his teeth and spat it aside. He squatted and gently lifted Kier’s head. He parted the boy’s lips, noting with more than a little alarm that they were turning blue. He poured in the potion and tipped Kier’s head back, hoping that the liquid wouldn’t slide down the boy’s airway and choke him.

  Torrin heard the flap of wings and felt a gust of air from their downbeat. The skyrider was backing his mount away from the entrance. He had raised something round to his mouth and was speaking into it: one of the magical “sending stones” that allowed the Peacehammers to communicate with their commanders in Eartheart.

  Kier coughed. Faintly. A moment later his eyelids fluttered open. He looked blearily around. “Uncle Torrin,” he said weakly. Then he retched, and threw up.

  Torrin gently wiped Kier’s mouth with his sleeve. “That was a close one, lad,” he said. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

  Kier struggled to sit up. “I found gold, Uncle!” he cried. “A king’s fortune in gold.”

  “Indeed you did,” replied Torrin, “but not nearly enough to be worth your life.” He glanced at the skyrider, who was still speaking into his magical stone. “Now keep your voice down. We don’t want others chiseling in on our delve.”

  Kier also glanced at the skyrider and dropped his voice to a whisper. “This mote was part of Underhome,” he said, looking steadily pinker as the skyrider’s potion did its work. “That box I found … Maybe it held more than just gold. Maybe there’s something else inside it. Something ancient.”

  Torrin doubted it. The strongbox had looked brand new. “Do you feel strong enough to stand?” he asked Kier. “We should go.”

  Kier rose to his feet; the potion had indeed completed its work. “I’m not leaving all that gold behind.”

  “Yes you are,” Torrin replied firmly. He nodded in the direction of the skyrider, still engrossed in his communications with his commander. “Verdagain has blessed us this day by providing us with an escort—one who’s going to be so busy taking me into custody for stealing a griffon, he won’t have time to explore the mote. I’ll come back for the gold later.”

  “How can you do that without a griffon?” Kier asked.

  “Remember my runestone? Once I figure out how to use it, I can teleport here any time I like.”

  Kier’s eyes gleamed.

  “In the meantime,” Torrin said, “we’ve got some quick talking to do if we’re going to persuade that guard not to lock me up and throw away the key. I don’t want to be behind bars when your little sisters are born.”

  “Little brothers,” Kier corrected. “Mother says they kick like boys.”

  “Sisters,” Torrin said. He winked. “I’m going to win our bet, remember? You’re going to be sweeping my room for a month.”

  Kier snorted. “If I lose, I’ll pay someone else to do it. I’m rich!”

  Torrin felt a gust of wind as the skyrider flew closer again.

  “You’re in luck, human,” the guard announced. “Captain Baelar has vouched for you. There’s still the matter of the stolen griffon to be dealt with, but for now I’m going to trust you. Is the boy strong enough to climb back up the rope?”

  “I am!” Kier said.

  “Then up to the top of the mote, the two of you,” said the skyrider. “We’re flying back.”

  Torrin bowed, elated. “My thanks!” he called back.

  “Don’t thank me—thank the boy’s grandfather,” replied the guard.

  “When will I get my mace back?” Torrin asked.

  “When we land in Hammergate,” he replied.

  Torrin groaned inwardly. Hammergate? He didn’t want to sit outside the walls for days on e
nd, waiting his turn to be cleansed. Not with the door to the earthmote’s secret room standing open, and the gold inside it just lying around for the taking. Still, what choice did he have? “Fair enough,” he said.

  “Now climb,” the skyrider ordered. “The boy first, then you.”

  Torrin glanced down at Kier and saw that the boy’s eyes were twinkling. Torrin could guess why. “Don’t think you’re getting up to more mischief,” he warned. “I’m going to have my eye on you every single moment we’re in Hammergate. There’ll be no chats with outlanders and tallfolk, no trips to the Gatehouse Inn. Just days and days of sitting around, doing nothing, waiting for our turn in the temple pool.”

  Kier pouted in silence. It seemed to have finally sunk in that his adventure was at an end. Being poisoned hadn’t brought it home, but the prospect of several days of tedium had.

  With Kier safe, Torrin’s thoughts turned back to the gold below. A single bar would be enough to pay the tithe for his previous cleansing, if only he could recover the gold. Another bar would pay for the cleansing to come. And there had been far more than just two gold bars—more than enough to equip an expedition to the Soulforge!

  All Torrin had to do was figure out how to use the runestone—and quickly—before someone else visited the earthmote and found all that gold.

  Torrin placed both of his hands on the dusty counter and leaned in closer to the head stonecutter. “I swear, by Moradin’s beard,” he said vehemently. “There’s a small fortune in it for you. Just loan me one of your motediscs for the day and I’ll cut you in on the profits from my delve.”

  The foreman folded his burly arms across his chest. He was short, even for a dwarf, with a forked beard whose two braids had been pulled to the top of his head and clipped together—a peculiar style that no doubt raised more than its share of snickers. But judging by the defiant glint in the foreman’s eye, he enjoyed a good fight.

  “No credit,” he repeated. “Especially for humans.” He picked up his hammer and chisel and glared at Torrin a moment more, as if daring him to provide an excuse to use the tools on Torrin’s skull. Then he turned toward the workroom where knappers banged away at slabs of earthmote that had been secured to worktables with vises, so they wouldn’t drift away.

  Torrin swore under his beard. He was knee-deep in irony. He’d invented the motedisc—not that anyone ever believed him when he told that tale. Four years after he’d discovered he was really a dwarf recast in a human body, he’d sought out an apprenticeship in a suitably honorable trade, as a stonecutter at a quarry near Glitterdelve. Wielding a hammer and a chisel all day throughout his teenage years had given him his bulging biceps. The smell of stone dust still took him back to the days before he’d taken up an adventurer’s life.

  One day, during an all-too-rare visit to the surface permitted during his apprenticeship, Torrin had noted that the chunks of stone that sometimes crumbled from an earthmote continued to float for some time, after calving off from the main body of the mote. Inspiration struck. What if, he thought, he could find an earthmote comprised of flint or chert—stone that split easily into sheets—and then split off chunks of it and shape them into circles. The shield-sized floating discs would be similar to the metal “driftdiscs” the drow crafted with their dark magic.

  It had taken some time to push past the stubborn resistance of Ryordin Hammerfist, the quarry master. He’d insisted, at first, that the idea “stank like something drow.” Eventually, however, he’d realized there was coin to be made—especially once the chips of earthmote were “tempered” in the magic of a particular earth node near Glitterdelve, ensuring that the magic that kept them bobbing about didn’t bleed away from the worked stone.

  The motedisc had been Torrin’s idea, yet he hadn’t seen a single copper of profit from it. And he couldn’t even afford to buy one.

  The motedisc factory was located at the very edge of Hammergate, at a spot that afforded a view of the Underchasm. As Torrin stepped out into the rain, he could see the earthmote that he and Kier had visited two days before. He stared forlornly at it, wondering how he was ever going to reach it again. His plan had been to secure a motedisc big enough to support him, then wait until the wind was blowing in the right direction. He’d rig a sail that would catch the wind and ride the motedisc to the earthmote.

  Today, the wind was perfect. But he was back to where he’d started—scratching his head and trying to figure out how the runestone worked, so he could use it to teleport to the earthmote, instead.

  “Depressing, isn’t it?” a voice asked from near his elbow.

  Torrin turned. Few people were on the streets on such a wet, blustery day. He glanced down at the dwarf who’d stopped beside him to also stare out across the Underchasm. His clothing was worn, his posture stooped. His head was balding on top, with scraggly hairs on the sides, and his movements were slow and stiff.

  The dwarf gestured at the Underchasm. “So much of our heritage, lost in the collapse,” he said sadly. Then he glanced up at Torrin’s backpack, and his eyes widened. “By Moradin’s beard!” he exclaimed. “You’re a Delver? Yes, yes, of course. I’ve heard of you. The human delver who spoke to the Council the other night. I hear you made quite the impression on the Lord Scepter.” He extended a hand, grunting with the effort. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. What was your name again?”

  Torrin reached down to clasp the dwarf’s hand. “Torrin Ironstar. Pleased to—”

  Something smashed into the left side of Torrin’s head. Stars exploded across his vision. As he collapsed, he caught a brief glimpse of a human who’d snuck up behind him. The man held a weighted leather sap—a rogue’s weapon. Torrin fell to the ground, fighting to stay conscious, trying to reach his mace. He heard footsteps running away—the dwarf who’d distracted him while the rogue crept up behind.

  The rogue grinned, revealing a missing tooth. “Nighty night,” he said.

  He slugged Torrin a second time. Consciousness fled.

  “Torrin! Wake up. Gods have mercy, don’t let him be dead!”

  Kier’s voice finally pierced the heavy red throbbing that filled Torrin’s head. Torrin groaned.

  “Praise Moradin!” he heard Kier cry. “He’s alive!”

  Torrin winced. He felt cold, wet cobblestones under his right cheek. Rain struck his left temple, where he’d been hit with the sap, each droplet a tiny hammer of agony. The water trickled down into his mouth, carrying the taste of blood.

  He felt Kier’s small hands under his armpits, urging him to rise. He sat up, and nearly collapsed again. Vomit rose in his throat. He swallowed it down and blinked, trying to focus.

  “Uncle? Uncle!” Kier cried shrilly.

  “I’m … all right,” Torrin said. The lie seemed to satisfy Kier. Shakily, Torrin rose to his feet and touched his temple. His fingers came away bloody. His head rang like a struck gong, but at least the nausea was ebbing. Moment by moment, he felt more steady on his feet. Those were good signs.

  He realized someone else was standing next to Kier—the foreman from the motedisc factory. He was staring down the street with a furious scowl, his stonecutter’s hammer still raised. “And stay away!” he shouted to an empty street.

  He turned to Torrin. “You all right, human?”

  Torrin nodded, wincing. “I think so,” he replied. He glanced down and was relieved to see his mace was still on his belt. The rogues hadn’t stolen it. Moradin had shown one small mercy, that day.

  Bearded faces peered out of the motedisc factory.

  “Back to work, you lot!” the foreman shouted. “The entertainment is over.”

  The faces disappeared.

  “Any excuse to slack off,” the foreman grumbled. He stomped back to the factory.

  Aside from Torrin and Kier, the rain-slick street was empty. There was no sign of the rogues. Torrin’s clothes were wet, but not yet fully soaked through. He hadn’t lain there long.

  Kier looked up at him with an anxious expres
sion. “I saw him, too, Uncle,” he said. “A human. He was trying to get something out of your pack.” He pointed in the direction the foreman had shouted. “He ran off when the stonecutter ran into the street. He went that way.”

  Torrin clasped the boy’s shoulder, both to steady himself and to hold Kier back. The boy scowled as if he wanted to run after the rogue and teach him a lesson. “You showed the wisdom of a longbeard by not challenging him yourself,” he said. “Those two were professional rogues who knew their business; I was taken in by the old talk-and-tap.”

  “Should we call the Peacehammers?” asked Kier.

  “Too late for that,” Torrin said. “The rogue and his accomplice will already be long gone. And they didn’t get anything.” He jerked a fist over his shoulder. “Not from my pack, anyway.”

  Of that, Torrin could be certain. He might be a Delver of the second rank, but his pack was the same as any worn by a first-rank member. It would only release its contents to the Delver to whom it had been keyed. Anyone else who reached inside would feel only emptiness.

  “Why did they attack you?” Kier asked. “Was it—” he glanced around furtively and dropped his voice to a whisper—“Was it because of our delve? Do they know about the gold?”

  “I doubt it,” Torrin said. He gently touched his aching head. “I think it was my runestone they were after.”

  It all fit. The older dwarf had mentioned the Council meeting. And as soon as Torrin had confirmed that he was the one who’d appeared before the Council, the attack had come. Someone who was at that meeting must have commented on Torrin’s runestone afterward, either within earshot of the rogues or to someone they knew.

  It couldn’t have been Kendril’s brother Jorn or the cleric Maliira. Neither had been in the Council chambers when Torrin had spoken of his transaction with Kendril. Nor was it likely that Frivaldi had said anything to tip off the rogues. Torrin might be human, and only a second-rank member, but a Delver’s lips were sealed, when it came to fellow members of his order. And the clerics who’d examined the runestone were also bound by oaths to keep silent about the Delvers’ business.