The Gilded Rune

by Smedman, Lisa

  He prayed he was doing the right thing. And that Kier, in his next life, would forgive Torrin if he were wrong.

  Haldrin arrived a few moments later. Dust from Ambril’s burial still smudged his hands. Kier turned his head. “Fah …” he began.

  “Hush, Kier,” Haldrin said. “Don’t try to speak.”

  “Muh …?” the boy asked.

  Haldrin’s eyes filled with tears. He sat on the edge of the bed and took Kier’s hand in his. “She died yesterday,” he said.

  Kier let out a soft cry.

  Torrin forced down his own anguish. Kier needed comfort—which his father was providing—and hope, which was what Torrin could offer. Torrin pulled out the ointment Mercuria had given him and peeled the lead foil from one end. The bone was sealed with a wax plug; he punctured it with the tip of his dagger. He caught Haldrin’s eye. Haldrin nodded.

  “I’ve got a magical ointment here, Kier,” Torrin said. “It’s going to suspend time for you and stop your illness from progressing. Keep you alive until they find a cure for the stoneplague. As soon as they do, we’ll ‘wake’ you by dispelling its magic. In the meantime …” Torrin paused, his throat tight. “The oil numbs the body,” he continued. “Stops the pain. But it doesn’t halt the mind. You won’t be able to see or hear, but your mind will still work. If you want it to stop—if you want to ‘wake up’—you’ll have no way to tell us.”

  Haldrin gently stroked his son’s hair as he said, “If you’d rather just … If you’d rather go to Moradin, son, I’ll understand. It’s your choice. I won’t …” He visibly pulled himself together and went on. “I won’t be angry, if that’s what you choose. But I’ll miss you.”

  Torrin stared down at Kier, feeling the same way. Eight years of life just didn’t seem enough, even by human standards. Yet was using the ointment really the right thing to do? If Kier died, his pain would end. His soul would fly to the realm of the Morndinsamman, and be forged into a new body by Moradin. He’d return to the world.

  But Torrin would never again know him. Not as Kier.

  Am I just being selfish? he wondered.

  “Your mother’s soul will have reached the Fugue Plain, by now,” Torrin told the boy. “It will be a while yet, before Moradin claims her. You might want to …” His eyes filled with tears. He wiped them away, angry with himself. He was supposed to be strong. Set an example for Kier to follow. “You might want to go to her.”

  Kier’s head moved fractionally right then left. “Nuhm,” he said emphatically. “Yuh … will find … summfin … delf … summfin … cure … me.”

  Torrin closed his eyes. Such faith! Kier expected Torrin to find an artifact that could cure him. Just like that. Torrin realized he had become a hero in the boy’s eyes. It was an honor he’d yet to earn.

  Torrin was humbled. Kier was willing to take the risk—spend months, even years trapped in his ailing body—all for a faint hope.

  Torrin caught Haldrin’s eye and raised the bone.

  Haldrin nodded.

  “All right, then,” Torrin told him. “Ease Kier into as comfortable a position as you can.”

  Haldrin pulled back the blanket and gently arranged his son’s limbs.

  “Here goes,” Torrin said as he tipped the bone. The ointment was as white as milk. He poured a thin line of it onto Kier’s forehead and nose, over his lips, chin, neck, and body, down one leg, then the other, and then down his arms. The magical oil spread itself evenly over the boy’s skin, coating it. Even Kier’s hair and eyeballs turned white. After a few moments, his raspy breathing halted in mid-breath. The potion had done its work.

  Haldrin stared at his seemingly dead son, little gasps catching in his throat with each breath. Torrin gave his shoulder a squeeze. “It can be dispelled at any time,” he told Haldrin. “Any wizard or cleric can do that for you. If it stretches into tendays, or months, you may want to consider—”

  Haldrin shook his head. “I’ll make that decision when the time comes,” he said.

  Torrin nodded. Then, even though Kier wouldn’t feel the cold, Torrin pulled the blanket back over the boy’s body. He started to touch Kier’s hair, then stopped. The ointment had soaked into the boy’s skin—the white color was already fading—but disturbing it wouldn’t be a good idea.

  Torrin picked up his pack. Time to leave Haldrin with his son. He paused, one hand on the door latch. “Rest easy, Kier,” he said. “Rest until I find the cure.”

  Torrin walked, heavy-hearted, down a staircase that connected to a back entrance to the Thunsonn clanhold. It was barely used at all any more with so many of the clanfolk ill or dying, and it was devoid of passersby that night.

  With Kier suspended between life and death and so much riding on Torrin finding a way to cure him, being alone suited his brooding mood.

  “Delver Torrin,” came a whisper from seemingly empty space. Instantly on his guard, Torrin yanked his mace free. He swept it in a lethal arc behind him, through the spot where he expected an invisible assailant to be standing. Was it another attempt on the runestone?

  The mace swung through empty air. There was no rogue behind Torrin, waiting to knock him down while his attention was diverted.

  Torrin stepped back, putting his back against the wall. He kept his mace ready. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “A friend,” the voice said. “There’s no need for that weapon.”

  The voice was male and not a young man, by the sound of that deep rumble. It came from waist height—either a dwarf or one of the tallfolk squatting, pretending to be a dwarf.

  “They’re coming for you,” the voice said. “Who is?” Torrin asked.

  “The Steel Shields. The order has gone out for your arrest.”

  Torrin tensed. “Why?”

  “You took a bribe. As a result, someone they hoped to question escaped.”

  A hollow sensation gripped Torrin’s stomach. Any denials would have been futile. “I see,” he said.

  A mithril brooch seemingly materialized out of thin air as it sailed toward Torrin. It landed with a clatter on the stairs.

  “Put it on,” said the voice.

  Torrin glanced down at it, still not lowering his mace. The brooch was shaped like a mountain, encircled by a band of braided mithril, gold, and silver wire. A pebble-sized geode, cut in half to reveal the amethyst crystals within, was set into the center of the mountain like a gemstone.

  The mountain-and-gem motif was the symbol of Dumathoin, keeper of secrets under the mountain. A dwarf god. Even so, Torrin let the brooch lie there.

  A spark of magical energy leaped out of the space the voice had come from, stinging Torrin’s hand. He startled.

  “If my intentions were ill, you’d already be dead,” the voice told him. “Put on the brooch. I have something I want to say to you, away from scrying eyes and ears. They’re likely not listening—yet. But they will be, soon enough. The brooch will protect our privacy.”

  At last, Torrin relented. He tied his mace to his belt, then picked up the brooch.

  “Pin it to the inside of your shirt, said the voice.”

  Torrin did as instructed. He glanced up and down the staircase; still, there was no one in sight.

  “Letting the talismonger escape is just an excuse,” the voice said. “The real reason the order has gone out for your arrest is because the Deep Lords don’t want you revealing why gold is being confiscated. They’ve already arrested the alchemist you visited yesterday. You’re next.”

  “But we have to warn people!” Torrin said. “The gold bars won’t be the only source of contagion. Some will have already been melted down and—”

  “Poured into sacred pools, among other things,” the voice said wearily. “We know. But consider this. With our citizens already in a panic, is it truly wise to heap fresh coal upon the forge? An economic crisis is the last thing Eartheart needs. And it’s just what our enemies want. Moreover, there are always profiteers who seek to make the most of such a crisis. Gold being
secretly stockpiled for more stable times is something we must avoid. Any cursed gold that’s hidden away won’t be cleared of its taint.”

  “Secrecy isn’t the answer,” Torrin insisted. “We dwarves are a sensible race. We won’t panic or riot. If the Council explains why—”

  “That argument failed to sway the Council,” the voice said, sounding older, more tired. “We’re doing what we can. Gold is being rounded up and examined, and any that isn’t cursed will be returned to its rightful owners once the crisis has passed. The stoneplague is being contained. Here in Eartheart, at least.”

  Torrin was shocked by what the words hinted at. “And the clans elsewhere in the Deep Realms?” he asked. “What about them?”

  “The vote was taken—the outlying communities were deemed at fault,” the voice replied. “They’ll be left to find their own solutions until we deem it the right moment to tell them. The vote passed by the narrowest of margins, despite my urging. But … it passed.”

  As the silence stretched, Torrin realized the subtext of what the invisible speaker was telling him. It was one of the Deep Lords he was speaking to, one of the dissenting voters.

  The voice sounded familiar, but not overly so. It was as if the speaker were deliberately disguising his voice. Even so, Torrin eventually placed it. When he did, his eyes widened. He suspected that, were he to touch the invisible dwarf’s beard, he’d feel three braids. If his guess were correct, it wasn’t just any Deep Lord, but the Lord Scepter himself!

  “Why are you warning me?” Torrin asked. “Why don’t you want me arrested?”

  “Last night I had a strange dream,” said the Lord Scepter. “I was standing in a foundry, in front of a melting pot that held molten gold, holding a star in my hands. A star made of black iron. I knew that it eventually had to go into the melting pot, but that the time wasn’t right. The fire was only hot enough to melt gold, not iron. I stood, wondering what I was supposed to do with it. Then a hand reached down from the sky—a hand attached to an arm that wore a gold bracer.”

  “Moradin,” Torrin breathed.

  “The Dwarffather,” the Lord Scepter agreed. “He wanted the star, but couldn’t reach me; something was preventing him from moving properly. It was as if he himself had the stoneplague, and had been crippled by it. I stretched as far as I could, but wasn’t able to place the star in that mighty hand. It was too far above me, lost among the stars. Then, suddenly, I realized what I must do. I let go of the star, and it sailed up into the sky.”

  Torrin was hanging on every word. The Deep Lord had also experienced a prophetic dream involving Moradin! And clearly, judging by that iron star, a dream about Torrin. Was the melting pot in the Lord Scepter’s dream the Soulforge that Torrin had dreamed about finding for so long?

  Torrin felt his heart pounding in his chest. A prickle of pure excitement shivered down the back of his neck. “You released the star and then … What happened then?”

  The Lord Scepter chuckled. “I woke up,” he said.

  Hope rushed out of Torrin like water from a punctured waterskin.

  “What do you think the dream means?” Torrin asked.

  “I have no idea,” the Lord Scepter admitted. “But I infer the ending to mean that you must remain free, for the good of the dwarf race. You need to leave Eartheart. At once.”

  Torrin bowed. He started to unbutton the brooch, intending to hand it back to the Lord Scepter, but he interrupted. “Keep it,” he said. “Whatever task the Dwarffather has in mind for you, I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

  “Silence is golden.”

  Delver’s Tome, Volume VII, Chapter 2, Entry 305

  TORRIN CROSSED SILVERSHIELD BRIDGE BY NIGHT AND headed for the city’s southern gate, his conversation with the Lord Scepter still echoing through his thoughts. He saw one of the Steel Shields coming toward him across the bridge. His helmet plume was bobbing, and his armor glinted in the starlight. As the knight approached, Torrin lowered his head so his hood shadowed his face, and slowed his pace. He didn’t want to enter the lantern light just yet. “Dumathoin, shield me,” he prayed. “Keep my secret this night.”

  The Steel Shield barely glanced at Torrin as he passed by. The knight’s boots thumped steadily against the stonework as he marched away into the night.

  Torrin sighed in relief.

  Ahead, at the spot where a lantern illuminated the apex of the bridge, he saw a dwarf walking slowly, one hand on the stone bridge rail and his back to Torrin. He seemed to be blind, feeling his way along. As Torrin watched, the dwarf’s hand bumped against one of the silver-plated shields that gave the bridge its name. Abruptly, he stopped and cradled his bruised hand against his chest.

  Like Torrin, the dwarf wore a hooded cloak. In itself that was nothing unusual; it was a chilly night. But as the dwarf stood nursing his hand, the hood slipped back, revealing a bald spot on the back of his head that shone in the lantern light. With a start, Torrin realized that it was the dwarf who’d waylaid him outside the motedisc factory.

  The rogue yanked his hood back into place, and continued walking.

  Immediately on guard, Torrin glanced quickly around. Aside from the rogue, the bridge was empty. There was no sign of Vadyr—although that didn’t mean the human rogue wasn’t invisible.

  Torrin drew his mace. Openly wielding a weapon would invite the attention of any other Steel Shields who happened by on patrol, but he was willing to risk that. He wasn’t about to get knocked out a second time. The balding dwarf was laying it on thick, moving even more slowly and stiffly than when Torrin had first had the misfortune of making his acquaintance. Putting on a show, for Torrin’s benefit.

  Torrin didn’t let it distract him. He stood, his mace ready, his back against the bridge railing. “Show yourself, coward,” he called out. “If you want the runestone that badly, let’s see you try to take it.”

  Several moments went by. Nothing happened. Torrin started to feel foolish standing there with his mace raised. He suddenly sprinted across the rest of the bridge, in the direction the balding dwarf had gone. He reached the deeper shadows at the base of the bridge and ducked into an alcove that held a stone statue of Clangeddin Silverbeard. The god’s twin axes poked into Torrin’s lower back.

  Torrin waited. No footsteps approached. No second assailant attacked.

  He stepped out of the alcove. He realized that it might not be a setup—that the dwarf rogue might indeed have suffered a blinding injury and then been subsequently abandoned by Vadyr. He ran in the direction the rogue had gone, and spotted him as he passed through slits of light emitted from a shuttered window.

  The dwarf heard him coming. He whirled when Torrin was a pace or two away.

  “Don’t come any closer!” he cried in a shrill voice. “I have the stoneplague!”

  Torrin stared in horror. The light slanting through the shutter cracks fell across the rogue’s face. His eyes were as white as limestone—two shrivelled marbles in their sockets—and his face was as gray as slate.

  Torrin steeled himself. There was no time for hesitation. He poked the fellow in the chest with the tip of his mace, jostling him. The man staggered, nearly fell.

  “By Moradin’s beard, show mercy!” the fellow cried. “You wouldn’t steal from a blind man, would you?”

  “That’s an odd plea, coming from a thief,” Torrin growled. “And as for your blindness, it looks like you got what you deserved. Your gold was the cause of it.”

  “What?” the rogue asked, looking wildly around, one arm raised to defend himself. “What are you talking about?”

  Torrin moved suddenly. He grabbed the rogue’s throat with his free hand and slammed him against the wall. He kept his mace ready, and one eye on the street. “Tell me who cast the curse,” he told the blind dwarf in a low growl, “and I’ll let you live.”

  “Please,” the rogue gasped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! Who are you? By all the Morndinsamman, please, have mercy!”

 
Torrin laughed as he said, “You didn’t show me any mercy, thief, that day outside the motedisc factory.”

  The rogue’s face turned even grayer as that memory sank in. “I’m … no thief,” he wheezed. “Just … a sick man … desperate enough … to do anything … to raise enough coin … for a cure. For me and … my family.”

  Torrin’s eyes widened. That wasn’t what he’d expected to hear. He eased up the pressure on the man’s throat. The words spilled out.

  “I knew what I was doing was wrong,” the dwarf said in a quavering voice. “But the human offered so much gold, and for such a simple thing. Just to recite a few words to you, and clasp your hand. I didn’t realize he was going to hit you, to hurt you. And now I’m being punished for what I’ve done. The Morndinsamman have turned their backs on me, and my brother and his wife are dying.” He croaked out a bitter laugh. “All that gold … And the ‘cure’ it bought was worthless. Worthless!” The dwarf’s shoulders shook as he sobbed.

  Torrin released him. “May the Dwarffather forgive me,” he said, ashamed at how he’d roughed up an innocent man. The anger that had flamed through him a moment before was gone, replaced by the cold ash of regret. “I’m … so sorry.”

  The blind man said nothing. Torrin thought of how Kendril had flung himself from Needle Leap. The fellow looked likely to do something similar. Torrin wanted to say more—to do more. But he knew he could offer the man no solid hope, only promises.

  “I forgive you,” Torrin said at last. “And so shall Moradin. Don’t lose hope.”

  The dwarf nodded, but his head still hung low.

  Torrin glanced around the plaza. So far, he’d been lucky; no one had responded to the altercation. But he didn’t want to press that luck. For all he knew, the people he could hear talking inside the building next to him had already sent out a runner to fetch a patrol.

  Feeling like a rogue himself, Torrin slipped out of the plaza. He made his way out through the city’s southern gate, into the night.

  Torrin surveyed the cavern where he and Eralynn had been trapped by the red dragon, near the slab of rock where they’d raised a cup in memory of her dead parents. It still smelled of smoke. Every surface was covered with the soot that also coated Torrin’s hands and clothes.