"Sapphire?" Durin snorted. "That's a blue spinel, not a sapphire. Any beardless boy could tell you that."
Frivaldi's face flushed.
"And it's nothing but a magical bauble," Durin continued. "The dwarves of Oghrann handed them out as favors at their feasts. I've found hundreds. I've stopped picking them up."
"What do they do?"
Durin's lips actually twitched. A smile? He collapsed his pincher-grip rod and put it away in its pouch.
"Look it up in the Delver's Tome when we get back to Silverymoon," he said. "Volume sixteen, chapter four, entry number eight hundred and nine."
Frivaldi glanced at the gem and waggled his fingers. Why should he wait until they got back to Silvery-moon, when he could find out here and now? With the speed of a releasing trap, he lunged into the room and plucked the gem from the pile of coins before the horde beetles could swarm his hand.
"There," he said, turning to Durin. "Now I can start my own collec-"
Something strange had happened to his darkvision. The corridor was no longer black and gray-it had turned blue. No, his skin had turned blue. It was glowing with an eerie blue light that also emanated from his clothes, his hair, even his dagger and pack. Startled, he flung the gem into the air.
"It's just faerie fire," Durin answered. "Touching the rune triggered the spell."
"I knew that," Frivaldi said. He flipped the falling gem back into the air with his foot and bounced it off an elbow for good measure, then caught it, trying to appear nonchalant.
"My, uh… nephew… will love it."
He shrugged off his backpack and opened its main flap, savoring the smell of new leather that rose from it, and dropped the gem inside.
Durin, examining the door, said, "Did you pick this lock?"
"Of course." Frivaldi waggled his fingers. "Easy as-"
"Then how did the dragonkin get in?"
"It, uh…" Frivaldi shrugged. "It teleported?"
Durin stared at the floor, muttering to himself, "By. the scatter of the coins… yes. There."
He slipped the hematite ring onto his finger, then stepped into the room. Hoard beetles skittered off the pile of coins and threw themselves at his feet and legs, slashing holes in his trousers and boots. They bounced off his skin and clattered to the floor. Durin ignored them.
"What are you doing?" Frivaldi asked.
The glow of the faerie fire was starting to lessen. He could almost see normally again.
Durin examined a section of the rear wall. He pressed his palms against the stone and pushed. With a squeal of rusted pivots and a low grumble, a door-sized section of wall rotated open, revealing a corridor.
"Standard delving procedure," Durin said. "STOP: Secret Transits Ought to be Perused."
He braced his shoulder against the door, which seemed to be straining to shut itself again, and fiddled with the ring on his finger.
Waiting.
Suddenly Frivaldi understood. It was a test of his abilities. A challenge-just like picking a lock.
He eyed the pile of coins. The hoard beetles that had been flinging themselves at Durin had given up and crawled back to their fellows, but several were still moving restlessly on the pile. And the pile was directly in front of the rotating door. He glanced at the dragonkin corpse-at the dozens of coin-sized lacerations in its flesh-then back at Durin, who was still twisting the ring on his finger.
Frivaldi grinned, took a deep breath, and sprinted for the door. One step, two-the horde beetles skittered off the pile, swarming toward him-then he leaped. He hurtled past Durin, knocking him down. Behind them, the door sprang shut with a scraping thud. Something metallic rolled across the floor: the stoneskin ring.
Durin shoved Frivaldi off and said, "By Moradin's beard, boy, must you always be so impatient?" He scooped up the ring and shoved it into a pocket. "It was stuck on my finger."
Frivaldi picked himself up.
"You were going to toss the ring to me?" the younger dwarf asked. "I thought…"
Durin met his gaze and said, "What? That I was unwilling to take a calculated risk that the horde beetles wouldn't attack me a second time, in order to see an apprentice safely through a dangerous spot?" He tossed his beard over his shoulder. "You don't know me very well, boy."
Durin took off his backpack and pulled from it an iron rod as long as his forearm. One end was wrapped in worn leather, like the grip of a frequently used sword. The other end had a small knob shaped like the face of a hound.
"What is it?" Frivaldi asked.
"Something that will tell us if there are dragonkin ahead."
Frivaldi dredged up the acronym: "FLEE, right? Flank, Locate, Eradicate Enemies. We're going to make sure the dragonkin don't steal up behind us."
The faerie fire had at last worn off, and he could see Durin's face clearly.
"Not quite," Durin said, his eyes glittering like mica.
"The stronger the dweomer, the more dragonkin feel its pull. They're drawn to artifacts like a hoard beetle to warm flesh. If we find other dragonkin…"
Frivaldi grinned and finished, "We find the Bane of Caeruleus."
The rod quivered in Durin's hand, indicating hostile creatures ahead. Pressing a finger to his lips, he made a stern motion, indicating that Frivaldi should remain where he was, then he crept forward along the corridor. It opened, just ahead, onto a gallery that ran along one side of a large hall. From below Durin could hear the sound of half a dozen to a dozen guttural voices. He recognized the language as Draconian by its hisses and clicks, but the voices were pitched too low for him to make out the words.
The low wall of the gallery had been carved in a pattern as delicate as lace. Sadly, it had suffered. Large pieces had been smashed out of it and a rusted spearhead was wedged in it. Creeping forward, Durin peered down through what remained.
What he saw in the hall below made his eyes widen. He'd half expected the clutch of eight dragonkin, but the figure they were kneeling in front of sent a chill through him. A dragon! And not just any dragon. The monster was just at the edges of Durin's darkvision, but even so he could see the frilled ears and a single, forked horn jutting out of its forehead that were the distinctive traits of a blue.
Had Caeruleus survived, all those centuries?
No, a blue might live two thousand years, but not seven. The dragon below must have been one of Caer-uleus's descendants. What a bitter irony-that it had chosen Torunn's Forge as its lair.
The dragon was crouched, unmoving, at the center of the great hall. Standing, it would have been as tall as the gallery. It must have been fully thirty paces long from snout to tail tip. The dragonkin seemed puny in comparison. They groveled next to it, snouts to the ground and wings folded, as if worshiping it. The dragon was oblivious to them. It seemed to be sleeping.
Durin glanced around the chamber. It was the Hall of Hammers-that much was clear by the pillars that had been carved into the walls, each topped with a stylized hammer head. At the left end of the hall was the massive forge that had given Torunn's stronghold its name. In front of it was an anvil the size of a feast table and a waist-deep hole in the floor that once would have held water for quenching. The wall to the right was rough, unfinished stone.
Durin peered around the hall, searching for the Bane of Caeruleus. According to the saga, it had been newly forged and imbued with magic when the goblin attack came. Even after seven thousand years it still should have been polished and bright. But the only weapons Durin could see were ancient and rusted. Some were dwarven great axes and urgoshes, some were cruder goblin weapons, but none was the Bane of Caeruleus.
Had the dragonkin simply carried the Bane away?
No, Durin didn't think so. Judging by the fouling of the floor, the dragonkin had made the Hall of Hammers their home for several months-though strangely, the air smelled fresh. There was even a tang of rain-fresh rock in the air. Perhaps it was some magical effect, designed to waft away the soot and smoke of the forge.
The answ
er to the riddle came a moment later, when a ninth dragonkin seemingly emerged from solid stone, wings flapping. The rough stone wall was an illusion.
Durin tensed as the dragonkin wheeled once around the gallery, but the creature didn't appear to have seen him. It landed next to its fellows on the floor with a scrape of talons on stone, then crouched, folding its leathery wings against its back.
Something brushed against his foot, startling him. Turning his head-he would make no sudden moves that would alert the creatures below-Durin saw that Frivaldi had disobeyed him once again. The boy had crawled forward and was staring, goggle-eyed, at the scene below.
"Is that-"
Durin slapped a hand against the young dwarfs mouth, staunching the whisper.
Once the boy was quiet, Durin returned his attention to the hall below. The dragonkin were rising to their feet. Five of the nine unfolded their wings and launched themselves at the illusionary wall, disappearing through it. The remaining four seemed to be holding a conversation-one that turned ugly a moment later when one of the dragonkin yanked something out of another's hand. A shoving match ensued and the object-a wand-clattered to the floor. The other two dragonkin both dived for it at the same time, tugging the wand back and forth between them.
Belatedly, Durin realized Frivaldi had started crawling along the gallery toward the staircase that led below. Durin smacked his forehead. By Moradin's beard, why had he been saddled with such an idiot? The dragonkin would probably leave once their quarrel concluded-didn't Frivaldi have even a thimbleful of patience? Standard delving procedure dictated precisely the steps to take, when faced with superior numbers: SWAT: Sit and Wait for Appropriate Time.
Furious, Durin crawled after the boy and yanked him back.
Frivaldi slipped, his hands going out from under him. His shoulder slammed against the rail, dislodging a chunk of it. For the space of one heartbeat, two, Durin held his breath. Then he heard the clatter of it landing below.
As one, the four dragonkin whipped their heads around to stare at the spot on the floor. Then, slowly, they looked up. One of them pointed at the spot where Frivaldi and Durin were hiding. It let out a chattering hiss, and launched itself into the air. The other three leaped after it.
"Run!" Durin yelled, scrambling to his feet.
"Right!" Frivaldi shouted, yanking the leather sheath off the blade of his axe. "'Retaliate Until Neutralized'."
"Not RUN," Durin said, exasperated. "Run!"
Frivaldi turned and grunted, "Huh?"
A dragonkin slammed into him from behind, knocking him down.
Cursing, Durin thrust a hand into his pocket. Before he could get the stoneskin ring onto his finger, however, one of the dragonkin raked his shoulder with its talons, spinning him around. Gasping at the fierce pain of the furrows that had just been torn in his flesh, Durin fell to his knees, blood flowing from his shoulder. Something tugged at his backpack-and his arms were wrenched backward as the pack was ripped off his back.
The dragonkin were gone.
So was Frivaldi.
Staggering to his feet, Durin looked wildly around. The dragonkin were wheeling through the air above the dragon, first one grabbing the pack, and another, their shrill roars filling the hall. Frivaldi lay on the floor below, his Delver's pack hanging from his shoulder by one strap. The dragonkin must have plucked him from the gallery and dropped him. He was still conscious-he rose, unsteadily, to his knees, holding his head.
"Frivaldi!" Durin shouted. "Get away from the dragon before it wakes."
Frivaldi either didn't hear him over the racket the dragonkin were making, or was still groggy from being dropped. He managed to clamber to his feet, but then staggered. He slapped a hand against the side of the dragon, steadying himself. Then he peered closely at its scales and did something that made Durin's mouth gape.
He knocked on the dragon's head.
Overwhelmed by the boy's stupidity, Durin nearly abandoned him then and there. Standard delving procedure called for him to cut his losses and retreat; the location of Torunn's Forge was far more important than a single Delver's life. It would be painful, after all of the decades that had culminated in at last finding the Hall of Hammers, to turn back, but Durin could return again with a new partner. A more experienced one. The order wouldn't fault him if-
"Hey Durin!" Frivaldi shouted. "I've found it. I've found the Bane of Caeruleus!"
Durin winced. The four dragonkin, still playing their winged game of snatch-the-stone with his pack, flew out through the illusionary wall, disappearing from sight, but the dragon was still in the hall below. Surely Frivaldi's shout had awakened it. Cautiously, Durin peered over the gallery rail.
The dragon hadn't moved. Frivaldi, standing beside it, was beckoning furiously. Had he spotted the weapon? Had the Bane forced the dragon into a magical slumber? Was that why it wasn't waking up?
Durin took a deep breath and winced at the pain of his wounded shoulder. He slipped on the stoneskin ring, picked up his weapon, and walked, slowly and carefully, down the stairs. As he approached Frivaldi, he pitched his question in a whisper. "Where?"
"Here," Frivaldi replied.
He rapped the dragon's head a second time. A hollow, metallic echo sounded.
Durin felt his eyes widen.
"It's… it's iron," he gasped. "A statue."
"And look at this," Frivaldi said, pulling the dragon's jaw down. The mouth opened smoothly and silently, revealing a row of daggers that had been set into the jaw like teeth. "It's articulated. So are the wings. And the scales are all attached individually, to make the body more flexible. But what's most interesting of all is that, despite the fact that it's made from iron, there's not a speck of rust on it. The workings are as good as new. Which means it must be-"
"Magic," Durin said, completing the thought.
He ran a hand along the dragon's flank. It was true. The iron had an unusual bluish tinge, but otherwise seemed fresh from the forge. Yet it was clearly something that had been made long ago. It hadn't just arrived recently in the Hall of Hammers. It had been sitting there for centuries, waiting to launch itself through that illusionary wall.
"A golem," Durin whispered. "A golem in the shape of a dragon. So that's why the Bane of Caeruleus was too large to move."
"My conclusion, exactly."
Durin ignored the young dwarfs cocky comment. He sighed. Maybe Frivaldi was right. Maybe he was getting old. How had he not recognized the "dragon" for what it was?
Frivaldi peered at the golem, head cocked, and asked, "So how do you make it go?"
"You can't," Durin said. "Only a golem's creator can command it."
"That's Torunn, right?" Frivaldi asked. Durin nodded.
"And Torunn's dead, so it's useless. We've come all this way for nothing."
Durin balled his fists. No. It couldn't be. All those decades, searching for the Bane, only to find…
Wait a minute. Closing his eyes, he recalled verse two hundred and seventeen of the saga, muttering it aloud.
"And when the Bane at last was wrought, "Bold Torunn ensorcelled it with a thought. "Its purpose to slay the dragon blue, "Yet this the bane would never do." Durin opened his eyes.
"Torunn did command it," he said. "The saga said so."
"Then why didn't it fly off and attack Caeruleus?" Frivaldi asked.
He let go of the jaw, which spring shut with a clank.
Durin glanced at a goblin skeleton that lay nearby, then at the illusionary wall. He could guess the answer-the goblins had overrun the Hall of Hammers before the illusionary wall could be dispelled. The golem, unable to see its intended target, had remained in place, waiting for it to appear, down through the centuries.
"We didn't come all this way for nothing," Durin said, an embarrassing amount of excitement in his voice. "The golem is lying dormant, just like the horde beetles. If a target should appear-if an illusion of a blue dragon could be created outside, and the illusionary wall was dispelled, the Bane might be lu
red back to Silverymoon." He slapped Frivaldi on the back. "We've done it!"
Frivaldi wasn't looking at him. He was staring at the illusionary wall-and his eyes were getting bigger and his face paler by the moment.
"Uh, Durin…"
Durin glanced over his shoulder and felt his own face blanch as he spotted the dozen dragonkin who had just flown in through the illusionary wall. They landed on the floor of the hall and strode menacingly toward Durin and Frivaldi, talons clicking on the stone floor. The largest of the clutch-a dragonkin with one broken horn and a nasty sneer on its snout-pointed at Frivaldi.
"Magic," it barked in a crude approximation of the Dwarvish tongue. "Give. Or die."
Behind it, the other dragonkin chuckled.
Frivaldi glanced at Durin and asked, "What do I do? Give them my pack?"
Durin almost cracked a smile. Frivaldi, asking him for advice? He raised his axe. Even with the stoneskin ring, he wouldn't last long against such odds, but perhaps if he managed to look threatening enough, Frivaldi might be able to escape, to carry word that they'd found the Bane back to the order. He kept his expression stoic, careful not to betray the pain of his wounded shoulder. The blood had soaked his sleeve and was dripping onto the floor. He was already feeling a little faint. If only he had the healing potion-but it had been in his pack, which was gone.
"You're younger and faster," he told Frivaldi. "Toss your pack into the middle of them. They'll fight for it. Then run. Return to Silverymoon. Tell the Order…"
Frivaldi wasn't listening. He squatted down, unfastening his pack.
"Much magic inside," he told the dragonkin leader.
"What are you doing?" Durin asked, exasperated. "Go!"
"These guys are part dragon, right?" Frivaldi asked. "Yes, but-"
The dragonkin moved closer, elbowing each other as they angled for a look inside the pack. Their leader growled, elbowing the nearest ones behind it.
"And the golem's primed to attack dragons."
"Not any dragon," Durin gritted. His hands were sweaty on the grip of the axe. If Frivaldi didn't run soon…."Just Caeruleus."
Realms of the Dragons vol.1 a-9 Page 20
