Spider and Stone

by Jaleigh Johnson

  “That’s not …” Ruen sighed. “Never mind. Nothing good will come of talking about this.”

  “Nothing good at all,” said a voice from the darkness of the adjoining passage.

  Icelin swung the torch toward the sound. A pair of dwarves stepped into the circle of glowing gold. The nearest one had a cluster of tattoos covering the left side of his face, strange symbols similar to those Icelin had seen carved on the stones at the cave entrance. Engraved stones wove in and out of his plaited gray beard and clicked faintly when he stepped forward. Icelin sensed power in the dwarf, carefully contained but unmistakable magical energy.

  The other dwarf was much younger, with a rich mahogany beard and no tattoos, but there were strong echoes of the elder dwarf’s features in his face. They had to be father and son.

  “Gods above, you humans will talk yourselves into your graves,” the elder dwarf growled in Common. “We heard your voices echoing down the tunnel.”

  Icelin was surprised. The dwarves could not have been very far ahead of them if they’d heard Icelin and Ruen talking, yet why hadn’t she detected their presence with her heightened senses? Even now when they stood right in front of her and she sniffed the air, expecting to inhale the odor of sweat and dwarf breath, she detected nothing but the scents of the damp earth and stone.

  The older dwarf must be employing a spell to conceal sounds and scents, she reasoned, to allow them to move in the tunnels and avoid detection. It was the only explanation unless, Gods help her, the tales she’d heard in her childhood about the dwarves were true—that they sprang from the stone itself.

  Next to Icelin, Ruen tensed as the younger dwarf stepped forward. He said nothing, but he held a huge axe comfortably in his hands. The single-bladed weapon bore three faintly glowing runes carved along the wicked edge. Opposite this blade sprouted three obsidian spikes that tapered to gleaming points like the horns of a beast. The dwarf’s father carried an identical axe on his belt. Icelin tried not to stare at the magnificent and deadly weapons.

  “Where is Sull?” she demanded.

  “You’re the trespassers here,” the elder dwarf said, “which means you stay silent.”

  “We seek an artifact in the temple,” Ruen said. “We thought the place was abandoned.”

  “Abandoned or not, you have no right to be here. You and your companions desecrated our burial grounds when you came to plunder our temple,” the elder dwarf growled.

  “Yes, and you snatched our companion,” Icelin said. “We’d like him back.”

  “Calass,” the younger dwarf said. Icelin didn’t understand the word. He went on rapidly in the Dwarvish tongue. The elder nodded thoughtfully. “There are no artifacts left here for you to steal.” Ruen cursed in response, but the dwarf ignored him. “As for your friend, our companions took him below to answer for his desecration. We came back when we heard you following.”

  “Below?” Icelin didn’t like the sound of that. “How deep do these ruins go?”

  The younger dwarf spoke again, and in his dark eyes, Icelin saw a mixture of pride, contempt, and an endless, aching sadness. If she hadn’t been afraid of provoking an attack, Icelin would have reached out to the dwarf. Crazy, she knew, but sadness like that … it urged her to soothe—to do anything to quell it.

  “What did he say?” Ruen asked the father.

  “Deep,” the dwarf said, “deep into memory.” He pointed to the passage ahead of them. “You come with us now. We’ll take you to your companion and then decide what to do with all of you.”

  “Not yet,” Ruen said. “I have questions of my own.” He drew a dagger from his belt and held it at his side, a paltry thing in the shadow of the dwarves’ gleaming axes, but Icelin knew better than to underestimate what Ruen could do with the weapon. In her mind, she searched for a spell to defend them both in the close quarters. She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.

  As she prepared to call on her Art, the elder dwarf suddenly turned and stared at her. “Don’t,” he said quietly. He raised his hand.

  Icelin braced for a spell, but the attack was not what she expected.

  A symbol flashed in front of her eyes, bright and painful, as if she’d been staring into the sun on a burning hot day. Three slashes of fire in the air—that was all Icelin discerned before a thunderous roar filled her ears.

  She stumbled back, managing to hold on to her staff and the torch when all she wanted to do was thrust both aside and cover her ears. The roar was impossible to block out. She closed her eyes. An involuntary cry escaped her lips. The rune had faded, leaving only a blurred afterimage on the inside of her eyelids, but the thunder beat painfully in her ears and sent threads of fiery pain into her temples.

  “Stop it!” Ruen shouted at the dwarves, but Icelin barely heard him. She couldn’t call her magic, couldn’t think beyond the roaring.

  Dimly, she heard the ring of steel. Icelin opened her eyes and saw the younger dwarf standing in front of his father, blocking a dagger strike from Ruen. The dwarf swung his axe as if to drive Ruen back, but he dodged the swipe and delivered a swift punch to the dwarf’s arm.

  His grip on the axe faltered. A flicker of surprise passed over the dwarf’s face, and he stared hard at his thin opponent, as if re-evaluating the threat Ruen posed. Through her pain, Icelin felt a rush of satisfaction.

  Ruen was an uncanny fighter, a bundle of contradictions. To look at him, a hard punch would break him in half, yet Ruen was the one who usually delivered such terrible blows. As with so much in his life, his spellscar was to blame. It left his bones brittle, forcing him to wear a magic ring that kept them strong. That same ring also enhanced his physical strength, which, when combined with his speed and martial training, made him a formidable opponent.

  In that moment, however, he was outmatched, at least in bladed weapons. Ruen sheathed his dagger and came at the dwarf again with just his fists.

  For all their differences in height and weight, the dwarf was sure-footed. He dodged Ruen’s quick jabs, and Ruen had to use every bit of his speed to keep pace with the dwarf’s movements. It would be a long and bloody fight—the last thing Icelin wanted.

  “Please listen to me,” she implored the elder dwarf. Her voice shook with pain. “I swear, we didn’t come here to desecrate this temple. If you give us back our friend, we’ll leave this place and never return. We don’t have to fight!”

  The older dwarf’s face remained impassive. He glanced from Icelin to the battle between his son and Ruen. Icelin thought he was going to let it continue, despite her pleas.

  Abruptly, the roaring in her ears diminished, leaving behind a dull ache at Icelin’s temples. In her relief, she almost sagged to the floor.

  “Ruen, stop!” she called out. “It’s all right. I’m all right.”

  The combatants paused in their dance of blade and fists. Ruen stood tense, but glancing at Icelin, he took a careful step away from the dwarf. His opponent did the same.

  “It’s all right,” Icelin repeated. “Now we can talk—” She couldn’t finish. The cloying scent of blood and a burning substance filled her nose. Icelin choked at the unexpected foulness and covered her mouth to keep from gagging. The dwarves looked at her curiously—Ruen in alarm. They obviously smelled nothing amiss.

  It was the scent spell. She’d stopped paying attention to it in the wake of the dwarf’s magical attack on her senses.

  “What is it?” Ruen took hold of her shoulder with his free hand, but Icelin shrugged him off.

  “Something’s near—gods, that’s awful.” She looked around the torchlit darkness but saw nothing. The dwarves exchanged anxious looks.

  Then they all heard it. The scrape of stone and a stirring of air overhead made them look at the ceiling. That brief glimpse was the only warning before a large, hairy body dropped from the ceiling and landed on the younger dwarf’s back. A second weight slammed into Icelin and drove her to the ground.

  Icelin caught herself on her hands, but the breath whooshed ou
t of her, and the torch rolled away, sending sparks and fractured light in all directions. When Icelin looked up, a black cage surrounded her, but the bars of that cage were not made of iron. They were jointed and covered with stiff black hairs.

  Rolling onto her back, Icelin suppressed a scream. The reflection of her prostrate form shone in the glassy black eyes of an immense spider. Its mandibles hovered directly above her head. Blood from the last unfortunate creature it had encountered stained those mandibles and dripped from its glistening black body. A thick, greenish liquid mixed with the blood, and the scent of burning poison rose in her nostrils again. Icelin dismissed the scent spell so she could breathe, but it was impossible to tear her gaze away from those soulless black orbs.

  Icelin lifted her hands and cast the first spell that came to mind. She spoke the arcane phrases haltingly, but in her mind, she screamed her intent: burn.

  Her fingers glowed and flames erupted from her hands, shattering her reflection and blocking out the spider’s eyes. The creature recoiled, legs scraping across the stone, tangling in Icelin’s hair. Panic and revulsion rose in her. She had to get out from under the thing before it crushed her.

  By the light of her fire spell, Icelin saw Ruen viciously stab the spider’s body, trying to draw it away from her. He danced aside as the monster turned and tried to take a bite out of him. Dropping to his knees, he pitted his weight against the monster and yanked aside one of the spider’s legs. Icelin reached through the gap, and he hauled her out from under the creature.

  “Watch out!” Icelin shouted.

  A third spider scuttled along the ceiling above their heads. Ruen let her go, ran to the far wall, and using a small stone outcrop as a leaping-off point, propelled himself up the wall, close enough to reach the spider’s bloated body. Before it had the chance to scramble away, Ruen pushed off the wall, ripping the spider off its stone perch. Icelin darted out of the way as he and the monster landed on the passage floor.

  Ruen rolled clear just as a backhand swing from the elder dwarf’s axe drove the obsidian horns into the spider’s exposed abdomen. The monster’s legs flexed and clawed the air wildly, but it couldn’t pull itself together for another attack. The deadly axe tore it apart in a mess of gore.

  The younger dwarf had thrown the spider off his back. He shouted and hacked at the creature. His axe sliced through the monster’s legs like sticks. He reversed the strike and tore into the spider’s abdomen with the obsidian horns as his father had done.

  In its death throes, the spider latched onto the dwarf’s arm and bit deep. Blood and poison drenched the dwarf’s arm. He yelled and bore down with his axe, cutting the spider in half.

  Icelin poured more fire into the other spider’s eyes. The room blurred as weakness overcame her. Too fast, she thought, too much. At least the spell hadn’t gone wild.

  “Icelin, stop!” Ruen crouched beside her. “The creature’s dead.”

  Shaking, Icelin reined in the fire and instinctively grasped her staff. Responding to her touch, red light filled and swirled in its wooden cage. Power, balanced and carefully contained—the symbolism was not lost on her. Focusing her thoughts on the staff, the strength and stability of its magic, Icelin felt a little calmer.

  “Are you all right?” Icelin asked, turning to Ruen with a slightly dazed expression.

  “You’re asking me that?” Ruen nodded to her hands where she clutched the staff. They trembled still, knuckles white against the wood. “You shouldn’t have spent yourself like that.”

  “That’s what my great uncle used to say whenever I did something foolish. I’m sorry, but I’m not fond of spiders,” Icelin said weakly, “especially when they’re bigger than I am.”

  The younger dwarf snarled something in his native language as he held a hand against his wound. Black ichor dripped from his axe.

  “What did he say?” Ruen asked.

  The dwarf’s father nodded at Icelin. “He agrees with her,” he said. He hesitated, then held out a hand to Ruen. “You fight well,” he said grudgingly. “I’m Garn Blackhorn.”

  “Ruen Morleth,” Ruen said and clasped the dwarf’s hand briefly. “She is Icelin Tearn.”

  “The young one’s my son, Obrin,” Garn said. “Did you get much of the poison?” he asked his son.

  The dwarf grunted. He lifted his hand away from his wound. Some of the greenish liquid flowed down his arm. Icelin couldn’t smell the poison anymore, but the pinched look of the dwarf’s face and the pallor of his skin told her he was in pain.

  Garn went to his son. He held up a hand and traced a symbol in the air with his index and middle fingers. The short, gnarled digits were anything but graceful, yet that was the only word Icelin thought of when she beheld the glowing orange rune with roots of blue and purple that flowed from the dwarf’s fingertips, hissing in the cold cavern air.

  The symbol faded. Garn unfastened Obrin’s gauntlet and rolled up his sleeve to expose the spider bite. A breath later, Obrin’s torn flesh glowed, and the same rune Icelin had seen traced on the air rose up as if from deep within Obrin’s skin.

  The delicate shape of the rune fascinated her—two interlocking rings with a horizontal line drawn across both. A symbol impossible to translate, yet its effects lingered in the air long after the rune had faded away completely. Warmth, protection, healing. Be at peace, the magic whispered in a voice without words, strong and firm. The younger dwarf closed his eyes briefly as the rune melted into his flesh, the orange light covering the wound and closing it.

  Icelin allowed her eyes to drift closed for a moment. So often she’d only felt the touch of wild magic, but the soothing presence of this kind of stable Art made her breathing slow and washed away the sick feeling in her stomach.

  When she opened her eyes, she met the younger dwarf’s curious gaze. Embarrassed, Icelin looked away. “You also fought well, Obrin,” she said. The dwarf shot her an irritated glance and muttered something, again in his own language. “Doesn’t he speak the common tongue?” Icelin asked.

  “He speaks it, and he understands everything you’re saying, but he doesn’t speak to outsiders,” Garn said. “It’s beneath his dignity.”

  “But not yours,” Ruen observed.

  The elder dwarf stroked his beard, his fingers tracing the runes on his cheek in a significant if absentminded gesture. “My son is his own man. He acts as he sees fit, and so do I. You’re both skilled enough in battle, even if you are thieves and plunderers,” he said.

  Icelin and Ruen exchanged a glance. “Don’t look at me,” Icelin said wearily. “You’re the thief—and probably the plunderer, too. All I want is Sull.”

  “Why did you capture him?” Ruen asked. “If you thought he desecrated your burial grounds, why didn’t you just kill him?”

  “Because he told us you’re looking for the Arcane Script Sphere,” Garn said. “That changes things.”

  “Do you know of the artifact?” Icelin asked.

  A flicker of disdain passed over Garn’s face. “It’s not my place to tell you of it. We’ll take you to your friend, but it’s a long way down, deeper than I think you intended to go.”

  “Will you let us come back out again?” Ruen asked.

  Garn didn’t answer. He examined his son’s wound one more time and, appearing satisfied, helped him to his feet. “Your lady looks exhausted,” he said, nodding to Icelin. “She can rest once we get to the city. Our king will want to speak to you about the artifact.”

  “A city?” Icelin said as Ruen helped her to stand. “And a king? I suppose we were just discussing new adventures, weren’t we?” she said to Ruen. “I really should learn to keep my mouth shut. The gods have a way of listening when I start going on about adventure.”

  Ruen picked up the torch. “Lead on,” he told the dwarves.

  GUALLIDURTH, THE UNDERDARK

  21 UKTAR

  THE SCOUTS STOOD BEFORE MISTRESS MOTHER FIZZRI Khaven-Ghell and gave a terse report on their latest forays to the outposts of
Iltkazar. Fizzri listened to their account, but her attention kept diverting to the shadowy corners of the room. At any moment, she expected Zollgarza to appear, watching her with that murky red gaze of his. When several more minutes passed and he did not show himself, the mistress mother’s heartbeat quickened.

  She imagined her goddess’s hands stroking the back of her neck, Lolth’s words a soft whisper—and a warning—in her ear.

  Don’t lose him, Fizzri.

  The hands turned to claws, poised to rend her flesh. The words were a sharp hiss, an inhuman sound that penetrated her deepest thoughts.…

  Fizzri blinked and shook away the phantoms of her imagination. The scouts gazed at her expectantly. How long had she been lost in her own thoughts and fears? She fixed an impassive expression on her face and looked each of the scouts in the eye, but her strength again faltered when she noticed the empty place at the back of the room.

  The scout leader, a male named Velzick, didn’t seem to notice her discomfort but continued to drone on endlessly about Iltkazar. “We can safely report that the city’s population is greatly diminished from what was once spoken of centuries ago,” he said. “Iltkazar is the shell of a dead empire. If not for the lingering strength of its defenses, we should have conquered it long ago. An assault will require careful planning and execution, but I’m confident we can take the city.”

  He sounded eager, and why shouldn’t he? Iltkazar, with its vast, empty halls, cleared of dwarf vermin, was a territorial prize for Guallidurth. No doubt Velzick expected Fizzri to be exultant at her impending victory, but at that moment, she was hardly listening. Able to contain herself no longer, she blurted out, “Where is Zollgarza?”

  The scouts exchanged glances, and Velzick stepped forward. “Mistress, the dwarf patrol we captured claimed that at least one of our own scouts was taken in fighting near the southern outposts. Zollgarza is the only one unaccounted for.”