He licked a finger, held it up, and waited. After a moment, one side of his finger felt cooler—a faint breeze, coming from upslope. The breeze was fresher than the rest of the air down there, but it was as good a direction to choose as any, especially since it led in the opposite direction Eralynn had taken, judging by the boot scuffs leading downslope. Torrin whispered a prayer to Marthammor and slung his mace; he’d need both hands for the climb. Then he scrambled up the slope.
He wandered through the Wymrcaves for what felt like at least half the night, climbing up chimneys and down crevices, edging along ledges, wading through icy underground streams, squeezing through vertical fissures, and belly-worming his way through horizontal cracks. After all that, he had found himself once more at the upper edge of the sloping cave the bolthole connected to. He’d gone in a complete circle. Fresh air still sighed past him—from somewhere behind him—but he hadn’t been able to find its source.
He sat down, exhausted, on a grimy lip of stone. “You’ve led me on a merry chase for pyrite, Vergadain,” Torrin said, shaking his head. The trickster god was like that, sometimes.
There was nothing else to be done. Torrin had to go in the direction Eralynn had taken. With luck, he’d be able to sneak past whatever spot she was delving and respect her desire for privacy. Except that Vergadain wasn’t handing out luck. Not tonight.
The realization that it must be close to dawn filled Torrin with even greater weariness. He needed to rest. He decided to lie down, just for a few moments. He cast about for a suitable spot and found a horizontal fissure big enough to squeeze into. He settled into it, his mace in one hand, determined to rest for just a little while. Within moments, however, he was sound asleep.
The sound of something scraping against stone awakened him. He lay in the darkness, his heart pounding. The scrape came again—closer—and as he heard it, Torrin realized the air had changed. The lizard smell was stronger. Barely daring to breathe, he slowly turned his head and saw, through his goggles, an eye as large and as round as a dinner plate.
A dragon!
A pant of warmth enveloped him—the dragon’s breath. The burned-meat stench of it made his nose prickle and his eyes water. But the dragon hadn’t spotted him yet. A moment later, Torrin realized why. The dragon’s “eye” was actually a gaping hole where an eye had once been. The dragon was blind! Yet surely it would smell him, soon enough.
Torrin’s mace was still in his hand. Its magic just might be enough to lay even a dragon low, but he’d never be able to spring out of the crevice and ready his weapon in time to get in a blow. He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing it was likely he was about to die. Moradin, he prayed silently, I convey my soul to your forge. May you find it worthy of recasting anew. And if you would, O Dwarffather, let me be reborn among the clans, this time around. For I have served you well, and …
Just a moment. The cavern felt … different. Torrin opened his eyes. The dragon was gone! It had passed him by! He could hear it slithering away.
Slithering in the direction Eralynn had taken!
Torrin reared up, banging his forehead on the stone above. He heard a sharp crack. Cursing his stupid mistake, he rubbed his forehead. There’d be a bruise there, soon enough, but that wasn’t his main worry. Feeling slightly lower, he touched his goggles. Something sliced into his finger, confirming his fear. The right lens of his goggles had broken.
He rolled out of the fissure and shook the broken glass out of his goggles, still cursing. He carefully checked that there were no more shards. Being temporarily blind in one eye due to the lost lens would be an inconvenience, but being permanently blind would be a disaster. Then he pulled on his goggles. He struggled downslope, seeing only out of his left eye, all depth perception gone. He had to be careful, lest he make a mis-step that would alert the dragon to his presence. Then again, that might not be such a bad thing. If the dragon turned to attack him, Eralynn would hear the sound and be forewarned.
He maintained a cautious distance behind the dragon for some time, fighting down the sick feeling in his stomach and feeling nervous sweat soak through his shirt. He had to keep close enough to the wyrm to see where it went, but far enough back that it wouldn’t hear or smell him.
At one point, Torrin passed a fissure in one wall that opened onto a large cavern whose floor was covered in chunks of rubble. As he passed the fissure, Torrin spotted a faint blue glow inside the cavern, momentarily silhouetting a dwarf figure. The glow had to be coming from Eralynn’s hands, appearing and disappearing as she moved about. A moment later, Torrin saw a soft yellow light as a candle was lit.
Why would Eralynn be lighting a candle, when she could—as all dwarves were able to do—see in the dark?
Still, who else would it be but Eralynn?
So far, she’d been lucky. If she’d struck steel to flint sooner, before the dragon had passed that spot, it might have smelled the candle smoke.
Torrin hesitated, wondering what he should do. Warn Eralynn? Reveal the fact that he’d followed her through the portal, despite her orders not to? Eralynn must have known there were dragons down there, he reasoned. They were the Wyrmcaves, after all. She’d been prepared to enter the Wyrmcaves alone—and she’d made it abundantly clear that it was a solo delve. Torrin had to respect that.
He decided to follow the dragon. He was certain it would eventually lead him to an exit.
A short time later, Torrin heard the whooshing flap of leathery wings. He crept to what turned out to be the opening to an enormous cavern, and peered inside. The dragon had taken flight and was making its way to a ledge at the far end of the cavern. When it landed, Torrin heard a series of high-pitched shrieks from the ledge. Two heads peeked out from a rounded heap of baked mud: the dragon’s young.
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, shakin
g 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 and 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 ea
rth node: one of the places where the invisible lines of elemental energy that ran the length and breadth of Faerûn 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.
“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.
The Gilded Rune Page 8
