Realms of the Dragons vol.1 a-9

by Коллектив Авторов

  The door bore no glyph. Even through its mottling of rust Frivaldi could see that much. As Durin droned on, Frivaldi rose to his feet, rolling his eyes. Durin was agonizingly tedious-especially when he got on to one of his stories about the delves of decades gone by and the artifacts he'd carried home to Brightman-tle's temple, described right down to the last boring detail. For Frivaldi, delving wasn't so much about the artifact-surely the dwarves had enough magical axes already-as the challenges faced along the way. That lock, for example-the centuries of rust that had frozen its pins in place would have defeated even the most experienced rogue. But where finesse had failed, brute magic could hammer a way through.

  He rapped his ring against the door and said, "01-burakrinr

  The lock clicked and the door slammed open with a boom that rattled the floor under Frivaldi's boots, releasing a gust of stale air. Beyond the door was a staircase leading down into darkness. Its stairs were cut from the native rock, worn smooth by the feet of centuries-dead dwarves. Grinning, Frivaldi took a step across the threshold-

  And something metal clanged onto the floor behind him. A heavy object slammed into his back, knocking him headlong down the stairs. Frivaldi scrabbled for a grip, trying to halt his tumble, but his head slammed against stone. Sparks exploded across his vision, then all went black.

  Durin thumbed the cork out of the vial, parted Frivaldi's lips, and poured a dose of healing potion into the unconscious dwarfs mouth. The smell of honey, herbs, and troll's blood lingered in the air as Frivaldi sputtered, then swallowed. His eyes fluttered and he groaned.

  Durin touched the egg-sized lump on Frivaldi's head and felt it slowly sink away as the potion took effect. He clucked his tongue, resisting the urge to scold. The boy would either learn from the experience and be a little more cautious around trapped doors, or not.

  Most likely not.

  "What… what happened?" Frivaldi asked, sitting up. his voice echoing in the cavernous space.

  "There was a pendulum trap at the top of the stairs," he told Frivaldi. "Had you followed standard-"

  "So it knocked me down the stairs and I bumped my head," Frivaldi said. "So what? I'm good as new, thanks to the healing potion."

  "The pendulum was an axe," Durin continued. "Through luck alone, the wood had shrunk and the loosened blade fell off before it struck you. That axe might have cleaved you in two-killed you-and all because you didn't follow standard delving procedure."

  Instead of looking properly contrite, Frivaldi rolled his eyes.

  "I know," he said. "LOST."

  "L–LOST," Durin corrected. "Listen, LOok-"

  Frivaldi rubbed his head and finished for him, "-and Spring the Trap."

  Durin sighed. Could he teach his apprentice nothing? He recorked the vial and tucked it back into a side pouch of his Delver's pack, then unbuckled the main flap. Reaching inside the magical pack, he pictured the object he was searching for and felt it nudge his hand. He drew out the map he'd assembled through decades of research and carefully unrolled it. The chamber they stood in was large, extending beyond the limits of his darkvision, and had an arched roof high enough to accommodate a giant. Its floor, once polished, had been cracked by some long-ago earth tremor. Skeletons in rotted leather armor lay on the floor where they had fallen-skeletons with grossly elongated arms and wide jawbones set with small, sharp fangs. These were the goblins that had overrun the kingdom of Oghrann and the stronghold of Torunn the Bold.

  Frivaldi clambered to his feet and looked around.

  His eye settled on the statues that stood on either side of the staircase.

  "Are those supposed to be Moradin?" he asked. "They look like they were hacked out with an axe."

  Durin bristled. Frivaldi knew nothing about art.

  "They are hewn in a style distinctive of ancient Oghrann," he patiently explained. "Do you see the sharp angles of their foreheads, noses, and chins?"

  Frivaldi nodded, but his attention was wandering.

  "They are meant to resemble the facets of a gem," Durin explained as he strode over to the nearest statue and ran a hand along the stone.

  The surface was precise and smooth, not a chip or a mis-chisel on it. If he'd had a block and tackle and a team of ponies, he would have gladly hauled the statues away. They would have made a fine addition, indeed, to the athenaeum in Silverymoon.

  "The arms, legs, and fingers deliberately hexagonal, like rock crystals," Durin continued. "These statues are an exquisite example of their type, a metaphor in stone for the creation of the dwarf race, which Moradin crafted from precious metals and gems cut from the heart of the-"

  "So is this the hall we were looking for?" Frivaldi interrupted. He nudged one of the skeletons with his boot. Its skull collapsed, and a rusted helmet clattered to the floor. "I don't see any axe. Lots of goblin swords and maces, but no axe."

  Durin sighed. What, by the gleam in Brightmantle's eye, were the Delvers using as selection criteria these days?

  "This," Durin concluded, "must be All-Father's Hall. The Bane of Caeruleus lies to the southwest, in the Hall of Hammers."

  He paced a straight line across the hall, which turned out to be precisely forty paces wide. Reaching the wall, he turned right-standard delving procedure was ERROR: Enter Right, Return Opposite Right-making a circuit of the octagonal hall. As he walked, he quoted from The Fall of the Bold, a saga he'd spent decades piecing together from fragments: inscriptions on standing stones and feast bowls, dusty parchments long forgotten on library shelves, and bardic song.

  And when the Hall of Hammers fell,

  Bold Torunn heard his own death knell.

  The Bane of Caeruleus he had wrought,

  Abandoned lay, 'twas all for naught."

  Frivaldi trotted behind him, scuffling and scattering skeletons.

  "I don't see any dwarf bodies," Frivaldi said.

  "The dwarves carried out their dead," Durin replied. "It was an orderly retreat."

  Spotting a crack in the wall that ran square to the floor, Durin examined it according to procedure. FAIL: Feel Air, Inspect, and Listen. He wet a finger and held it to the crack. No air was escaping. He ran a palm against the floor, but found no groove that would indicate that feet had worn away the stone. He gave the wall a sequence of sharp raps with his delving pick, but heard no telltale reverberations. The crack was a natural fissure leading a short distance into the wall, not a secret door.

  Frivaldi, all the while, stared idly around. "So why didn't they take the axe with them?"

  " 'Weapon,'" Durin corrected as he resumed his circuit of the hall. He passed the staircase. "The precise translation from Auld Dethek is 'weapon.'"

  Frivaldi waved a hand and said, "Axe, weapon-whatever. Why didn't they take it with them, if it was so valuable?"

  "The Bane was too large," Durin explained. "Only Torunn could wield it."

  He paused. A portion of the wall was angled slightly off true. It was time for MISS: Manipulate, Inspect, Slide, Shove. He pressed a raised spot on the wall next to it, but nothing happened. The section of wall didn't slide when he pressed his palms to it and pushed up, then down, then left, then right. Nor did it rotate open under a sharp nudge from his shoulder.

  Frivaldi, all the while, continued to be idle. He could, at least, have leant his shoulder to the shove. Instead he persisted with his foolish speculations.

  "Torunn led the shield band that broke through the goblin ranks. Why didn't he use the axe against the goblins?"

  Durin sighed and continued his circuit of the hall. Frivaldi obviously hadn't been paying attention the night Durin had recited the saga for him. Verses one thousand three hundred and fifty-six through one thousand three hundred and seventy-four clearly stated the purpose of the magical weapon Torunn had forged-to slay a blue dragon that had been troubling the realm for nearly a century: the dragon Caeruleus. The magical weapon would enable Torunn to fight the dragon "claw for claw," according to the poetic language of the saga. Its wielder would be imm
une to the blue dragon's primary attack-the bolt of lighting it spat from its mouth-and to the aura of fear that preceded the beast like a shadow. Against goblins, however, the Bane would be no more effective than an ordinary weapon.

  Since his map had proved accurate, it was all Durin could do to keep his emotions in check. His lip had twitched at least twice, threatening to pull his mouth into a smile-he straightened it into its usual grim line.

  If he did succumb to idle mirth, however, he'd have good cause. After decades of searches in the Stormhorn

  Mountains, he'd at last found Torunn's Forge. He was certain of it. Recovering the Bane of Caeruleus would be greatest thing he had ever accomplished in his long career. No Delver had ever brought back a weapon of its type. Oh, to think what the order's battle clerics would learn from it. The lost secrets of Oghrann metalsmith-ing would be returned to the light.

  Too bad he'd been saddled with a fool like Frivaldi. Durin should have kept his mouth shut when the order asked who would mentor a new member. Durin had pictured an apprentice who would hang avidly on his every word, who would learn. That was hardly the case with Frivaldi. The boy had a precocious talent for opening locks, it was true, but in truth, Durin would be better off searching for the Bane of Caeruleus on his own. Instead he was stuck with a boy whose beard wasn't even long enough to braid.

  Realizing he'd reached the point where he'd begun his circuit, Durin halted and consulted his map. Had he missed something? He glanced back along the wall he'd just walked. Nothing. Just bare wall. All-Father's Hall was one of the main entrances to Torunn's Forge, yet the chamber had no exit other than the stairs. There could be only one conclusion: It wasn't All-Father's Hall. He hadn't found Torunn's Forge, after all. His head bowed and his beard slipped from his shoulder, onto the floor.

  Frivaldi peered over Durin's shoulder.

  He stabbed a finger at the map and said, "We're here, right?"

  Durin jerked the map away and slowly rolled it up.

  "I thought so," he said. "But I was…"

  He couldn't bring himself to say it.

  "And that rune at the end of the line leading southwest from All-Father's Hall…" Frivaldi continued. "It's Auld Dethek for 'hammer,' right?"

  Durin grunted. He hadn't realized Frivaldi could read Auld Dethek.

  Frivaldi peered around, stroking his pitiful excuse for a beard.

  "Then the exit's got to be… there!"

  He pointed toward the crack Durin had thoroughly examined earlier.

  Durin shook his head.

  "It's solid stone." he said. "Standard delving procedure revealed no exit."

  Frivaldi snorted and replied, "Standard delving procedure doesn't allow for imagination. All of those stupid acronyms…."

  Durin's fists clenched. He'd written the chapter on acronyms for the Delver's Tome. Belatedly, he realized he'd just crumpled his map.

  Frivaldi tossed his head, flicking his hair back out of his eyes. The habit was an annoying one. It reminded Durin of an impatient pony he'd once ridden. The gods-cursed animal had bolted off with both his tent and bedroll.

  "Here's a new acronym for you," Frivaldi said. "R-A-S-H." Durin scowled.

  Frivaldi winked and said, "Run At SHadows."

  Whirling, Frivaldi charged straight at the cracked wall. Durin winced, waiting for the thud of a body hitting stone that would signal the boy knocking himself unconscious a second time.

  The sound of running footsteps abruptly stopped.

  Durin turned. Frivaldi was gone.

  "By my brow," Durin muttered. "It's an illusion."

  Tossing his beard over his shoulder, he strode through the wall.

  Frivaldi waited, bored, while Durin inspected the corridor on his hands and knees, peering at the floor. If he remembered correctly, the procedure was called CREEP, and had something to do with crouching and examining the floor every so many paces. Eleven, he supposed. That would be the second "E." It seemed silly to Frivaldi. The trigger for any trap was just as likely to be on the second pace, or the seventh, or the twelfth.

  With his own dagger, he scratched at the wall beside him, carving his name into a mural fashioned from a natural vein of silver in the rock. In the centuries to come, when other Delvers explored the Forge, theyd see it and know that Frivaldi Loder had been there first.

  Durin rose, tossed his beard over his shoulder, and counted off another eleven paces, then dropped once more to his knees for what must have been the hundredth time.

  Frivaldi sighed. If he'd been in charge of the delve, they would have been exploring all of the tantalizing side passages and doors theyd seen since leaving the hall with the hacked-up statues. Like the one they'd just passed, for example. Similar to the door at the top of the stairs, it also had a shield-shaped lock. The door probably led somewhere important, but Durin had passed it by.

  Frivaldi waggled his fingers. An apprentice was supposed to practice. Wasn't he?

  This time, he thought, I'll know what to watch out for.

  Walking back to the door, Frivaldi listened-nothing, looked-nothing again, and searched-no sign of a trap. Just in case there was a trap, he crouched to one side of the door as he extracted the prong from his ring and inserted it into the lock. The pins slid aside with only a minimum of effort. Frivaldi twisted his ring closed and flipped back his hair. He eased the door open a crack, half expecting a pendulum axe to swing out of the ceiling at any moment. None did.

  He gave the door a shove. It stuck, hung up on something. He shoved harder, putting his shoulder into it. Something dragged across the floor-which, Frivaldi noticed, was discolored with what looked like dried blood.

  Maybe he wasn't the first Delver to go that way.

  He peered around the door and saw a body, long since dead. It was one of the oddest looking creatures hed had ever seen. Taller and heavier than a human, it had leathery wings and a mane of thick, matted hair. Its face was elongated-it had a snout rather than a mouth-and its jaw was studded with bony scales. A stubby horn jutted out from behind each pointed ear. The thing wore a motley collection of clothing: a torn cloak, leather pants that had split at the seams, and boots with the toes cut away to reveal long, curved toes that ended in talons. Around its neck was a leather thong that was threaded through three rings. The body wasn't as old as the goblin corpses. Judging by the lingering smell it had died only a few months ago, maybe a year at most. There were a dozen or more dagger-blade-sized punctures in its flesh. The creature had probably triggered some sort of trap.

  The room was square and small, no more than two or three paces wide. Against the rear wall was a pile of coins that had spilled from a rotted wooden chest. The place must once have been a treasury. At the edge of the pile was a round blue gem-a sapphire shaped like a hen's egg. One side of it-the one tilted away from Frivaldi-was carved with an Auld Dethek rune, but he couldn't read it from where he stood. He crouched and reached for the gem.

  "Don't touch it!"

  Frivaldi leaped to his feet and exclaimed, "Durin! You startled me."

  The older dwarf grabbed Frivaldi by the arm and yanked him out of the room.

  "Never-ever-wander off on your own like that again."

  Frivaldi shook off Durin's hand and said, "What's that? More standard delving procedure?"

  "No," Durin growled. "Just common bloody sense. We're here to find the Bane of Caeruleus, not fill our pockets with gold."

  "I wasn't-"

  "Yes you were. I saw you reaching for those coins. If you'd touched them, you'd have gotten a nasty surprise."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Watch."

  Durin fished a large copper coin out of his pocket and tossed it onto the pile. Dozens of the gold "coins" sprouted legs and scurried sluggishly about, filling the room with a metallic clinking sound. After a few moments they stilled, retracting their legs.

  Frivaldi was intrigued by the tiny creatures. He'd never seen anything like them.

  "What are they?" he asked, leanin
g into the room.

  "Hoard beetles," Durin said. "They burrow into the flesh and head straight for the vitals. A swarm can take a man down in the time it takes to blink. They can lie dormant for centuries, waiting for something warm-blooded to touch them."

  "Oh." Durin eased back out of the room. "So that's what killed him."

  "Who?"

  "Scaly face. The guy behind the door."

  Durin unfastened the flap of one of the long, narrow pouches that hung from his belt-they contained his delving tools-and pulled from it a small silver mirror mounted on a short length of segmented rod. Cautiously, keeping one eye on the pile of coins, he extended the rod and used it to peer around the door. He grunted, nodded to himself, then collapsed the mirror rod and put it back in its pouch.

  "Are you going to tell me what kind of creature that is?" Frivaldi asked. "Or do I have to look it up in the Delver's Tome?"

  Durin gave him a sour look, but said, "It's a dragonkin.".

  "What's that?"

  "They're like dragons, but not as smart, or as powerful. No breath weapon, no spells-but they can tear open your guts with a single swipe of their talons and they know how to use weapons. They're drawn to anything that's magic. They can't resist it, any more than a crow can forego something shiny. They'll pick a place clean of magic, even though they don't know how to use it." He paused, nodding to himself. "So that's what made the scratches on the floor. Dragonkin."

  "Are the rings magical?" Frivaldi asked.

  "Let's find out."

  Durin opened a second equipment pouch and pulled out a rod with a hooked blade at one end and a pincher-grip at the other. Extending it, he used the bladed end to slice through the thong around the dragonkin's neck, then reversed it and used the spring-loaded pinchers to recover the rings, one by one. He put the first two inside his pack, but held the last one up for Frivaldi to inspect. It was a band of solid hematite, set with a shield-shaped diamond.

  "This one's a stoneskin. If the dragonkin had been wearing it, the beetles couldn't have penetrated its flesh."

  "And the sapphire?" Frivaldi asked, eyeing it. "I suppose it's the most valuable bit of magic of all-and the dragonkin was too stupid to know what it was."