The Gilded Rune (forgotten realms)

by Lisa Smedman

  Where was he?

  The torchlight-if that’s what it had been-was gone. The only remaining light came from the runestone in his hand. A few sparkles of spellfire clung to it still, bleeding off into the darkness. Then they were gone. He shoved the stone into a pocket. Had that light been a torch, carried by Eralynn?

  He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Eralynn! Are you here?”

  He could barely hear his own voice over the steady pounding and constant, hissing spray. He realized the pounding came from inside the nearby pillars, which reverberated like hollow logs struck by a mallet. One of them was cracked down its length; water sprayed from it in a thin sheet. The sheet pulsed in time with the steady pounding, the spray intensifying in force with each beat, splattering onto a nearby pillar. It was covered in crusty white patches of tiny crystals: salt.

  Suddenly, Torrin realized he must be in a portion of the Pumps of Pyraddin-a millennia-old marvel of dwarven engineering that drew water from Azulduth Lake, up on the surface. The pumps pushed the water through a series of charcoal beds far below that filtered out the salt. The purified water then ran through a series of bored tunnels for two hundred and fifty leagues, all the way to East Rift. Built when Underhome was first constructed, the pumps had continued to function ever since, and were still a major source of drinking water for Eartheart.

  Why had Eralynn come to this place? Assuming she was at the Pumps. Torrin couldn’t see any trace of her.

  “Eralynn!” he shouted again.

  A flash of motion, to his right. Something plucked at his sleeve and struck the pillar beside him. An arrow or a crossbow bolt! Torrin whirled. He squinted his right eye shut so he could see through the lens of his goggles. Barely visible through the spray, he saw someone crouched low behind a pillar with one arm raised. Black face, white hair. A drow, aiming a wristbow at him!

  Torrin ducked behind the pillar. The thudding of the pumps and the hiss of water made it impossible to hear anything, but Torrin saw a second bolt punch through the spray where he’d just been standing. It disappeared into the darkness beyond. Belatedly, he realized that the rush of water had saved him. It had deflected the first bolt just enough for it to miss.

  “Marthammor be praised!” Torrin whispered. The god who watched over wayfarers was protecting him.

  Torrin was safe-but only for the moment. He wrenched his mace from his belt and readied it, wondering which direction the next attack would come from. The drow had been wearing a cloak over his shoulders, likely one that would render him all but invisible in the darkness. Keeping his back to the pillar, Torrin peered left and right through the one good lens, desperately trying to watch in two directions at once as vibrations from the pillar shuddered through his back.

  A ripple to his left alerted him to-the drow, invisible, wading through the water.

  “ Thuldnoror! ” Torrin shouted, swinging his mace.

  The mace swept through empty space-the drow wasn’t there! — and smashed into a pillar. As the weapon’s magic activated, thunder boomed, louder than the thudding of the pumps. The mace smashed a hole in the pillar, releasing a spray of water. As Torrin wrenched the mace free, cursing, pain stabbed through his right leg. He twisted, and saw the black-fletched end of a wristbow bolt protruding from the back of his thigh. The drow had gotten behind him!

  Torrin whirled around, waiting for his opponent to close, but the drow held back. Torrin immediately realized why, as his thigh went numb. Drow sleep poison! His thoughts slowed, and gray spots clouded his vision as it started to take effect.

  A short distance away, the smirking drow suddenly became visible, no longer bothering to conceal himself. Torrin lifted his mace. It felt as heavy and as unwieldy as a sack of anvils. As he sloshed toward his assailant, his legs buckled and he fell face-first into the ice-cold water. His mace slipped from his numb fingers. He sank to the floor, completely submerged. Shivers coursed through his body as the water stung his eyes, filled his nose, and clogged his throat. He couldn’t breathe or even cough the water out. The poison had sapped the strength from him, leaving him as weak as a babe.

  He was going to drown.

  I’ve failed you, Kier, he thought.

  Distantly, he felt hands yank at his pack, lifting him partially out of the water. The drow was looting him.

  Dwarf… father, Torrin prayed, each thought as heavy as a boulder. I… convey… my… soul…

  Torrin felt his body rise and fall, rise and fall. There was the sensation of moving through space, as though he drifted among clouds-cold clouds that chilled him to the core. He must be dead, he thought, his soul detached from its human husk and on its way to Moradin’s realm to be reborn. Had he a voice, he would have laughed bitterly. He was on his way to the Soulforge, but not as he’d intended.

  Moradin grant that I be recast as a dwarf, this time around, he prayed.

  Someone spoke in a language Torrin didn’t understand. It was a harsh-sounding language, but with melodic overtones.

  That was odd. The pain in his leg was odd, too, as was the sensation of something scratchy and hard under his right hip and shoulder. If he were dead, why did it feel as though he still had a body?

  Torrin realized he could open his eyes. Rough stone slid past a short distance away. A dull yellow, flickering light illuminated a wall, casting dancing shadows.

  A horizontal line bisected Torrin’s field of view-a curved metal edge. He realized he was lying on one of the magical driftdiscs used by the drow. The oversized floating disc moved steadily forward, bobbing slightly.

  The white-haired drow who’d shot Torrin walked a pace or two behind, just at the edge of Torrin’s vision. His black skin gave him a natural camouflage against the dark stone of the tunnel they were passing through, yet he was close enough that Torrin could make out details of his face. He looked old; his face was deeply lined.

  The drow turned his head, shielded his eyes from the light with one hand, and stared at Torrin. Then he said something in the same language Torrin had just heard.

  Torrin fought to marshal his thoughts. They came sluggishly, as though he were still only half awake. That was the drow sleep poison, he knew, from the wristbow bolt. But the drow hadn’t let Torrin die, after all. He’d been pulled from the water. Why?

  Torrin’s leg ached. He moved a hand to touch the wound, to feel whether the bolt was still in his leg. His hand fumbled on his goggles, lying on the driftdisc beside him. They reminded him of another mystery. Why would drow be using torches to light their way? The black-skinned elves could see as well in the dark as any dwarf.

  Torrin at last touched his wounded thigh, He winced. No bolt protruded from it. Instead, his leg was bandaged. He was naked, he realized. A blanket had been wrapped around his body, covering all but his head. Though his body was dry, his hair and beard were still damp. It had been some time, then, since he’d fallen into the water.

  Slowly, by degrees, Torrin eased onto his back and turned his head the other way. He saw two elves, a man and a woman. Their dark skin at first made him think they were drow, but then he realized their skin was deep brown, rather than true black. And their hair was black, rather than white. They had deeply lined faces, too, and the man’s hair was thinning. Torrin would have guessed their age at about sixty, had they been human. The two were likely in their second century of life, possibly older. Both wore black trousers and shirts, and high-collared cloaks of the same mottled fabric as the drow’s. The man was armed with a wristbow and had a sword sheathed at his hip; the woman also had a sword at her hip. Carrying a torch in one hand, she led the group.

  Between them, a second driftdisc floated along. A dwarf with braided blonde hair lay on her side atop it, her back to Torrin. She was also covered by a blanket, and a backpack lay next to her. Torrin could just see the top of a rune: an elaborate D. A delver’s pack!

  “Eralynn?” Torrin said weakly.

  The blonde head turned. Slowly. “Torrin,” she said. She closed her eyes a
nd sighed. In a weak voice, she added, “You shouldn’t have followed me.”

  “What…” Torrin coughed, clearing his throat. He glanced again at the strange, dark-skinned elves. “What’s happening?”

  Eralynn rolled over to face him. One hand emerged from beneath the blanket. The fingers were curled tight, the skin gray. It looked more like a rock than a hand. The only way Torrin would have recognized it as Eralynn’s was by the veins of blue spellfire that crackled across it.

  Torrin felt as though a cold fist had just squeezed his heart. “You’ve got the stoneplague,” he said.

  “Yes,” Eralynn replied, letting her hand fall. It thudded down onto the driftdisc.

  “And these… drow?” Torrin asked. “Who are they?”

  “Friends,” Eralynn said. She rolled onto her back, grunting, obviously in pain. “They’re helping me get to Sundasz.”

  Torrin felt less woozy. He rose slightly, propping himself up on one elbow on the driftdisc. He saw his own pack near his feet, together with his wet clothes and boots. “Helping you how?” he asked, still not quite believing what was happening.

  The drow were their sworn enemies, a brutal race who worshipped evil gods and were perpetually at war with the dwarves. They’d swarmed into what remained of Underhome like cockroaches after the collapse of the Great Rift, slaughtering women and babes. They were foul and cruel and could be trusted even less than demons.

  And yet the drow who’d shot Torrin hadn’t let him drown, nor had he and his two companions slit his throat. Instead they had bound his wound and wrapped him in a warm blanket. And they were carrying him somewhere.

  “They’re going to cure me,” Eralynn said, at last mustering the strength to answer Torrin’s question. Her eyes were closed, her expression strained. Torrin could see that speaking was difficult for her. She struggled to draw breath.

  “But they’re drow!” Torrin protested. He spotted his mace, down by his boots. Before he could even think of how he’d reach for it without being noticed, a hand roughly shoved him flat.

  “No lift up, you,” the dark-skinned elf with the sword said in heavily accented Dwarvish. He was walking beside the driftdisc, his wristbow pointed at Torrin. Still keeping a watchful eye on Torrin, he spoke in his own language to the woman. She answered him with a flick of her hand, the silent speech used by the drow. The man’s nostrils flared. He lowered his wristbow and fell back into place behind the driftdisc.

  “We were once drow, it’s true,” the woman said.

  Torrin blinked in surprise. Her Dwarvish was flawless.

  “For us, the Descent was undone,” she continued. “A few hundred of us-those without taint-returned to our original forms a century ago. We are Miyeritari once more.”

  Torrin had no idea what she was talking about. “Who are you?” he asked. “Your name, I mean.”

  “Val’tissa, priestess of Corellon,” the woman replied. She lifted a pendant that hung against her chest, showing him. It was an eight-pointed silver star-the holy symbol of the elf god. A second pendant also hung against her chest-a miniature silver sword, tarnished black. Torrin had no idea what it signified.

  “Where are you taking us?” he asked.

  The woman paused, as if considering whether to answer. “To the temple in Sundasz,” she said. “Your friend needs healing.”

  Torrin felt a stab of jealousy. When Eralynn had fallen ill with the stoneplague, why hadn’t she come to him for help? Instead she’d done what she always did and stubbornly gone off on her own. To drow, of all people. Or rather, to dark-skinned elves who had once been drow, if Val’tissa was to be believed.

  “Corellon’s clerics already tried their healing rituals,” Torrin told her. “They didn’t work.”

  “Ours are different,” Val’tissa replied.

  “How?”

  “Some of us still remember the old ways. The songdance will succeed where other rituals have failed.”

  “What’s a songdance? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It is ancient,” Val’tissa said. “Not commonly practiced, anymore.”

  Torrin touched the cloth bandage on his leg. The bolt wound still ached, but when he worked a finger under the bandage, he felt puckered skin, rather than a fresh wound. “Did you heal me?” he asked.

  Val’tissa nodded. “Eralynn insisted on it.”

  The drow walking beside Torrin’s driftdisc said something in his own language, a growl of anger in his voice.

  “Tzoth wanted to kill you,” Val’tissa said. “Especially after you barged in on us like that, and tried to kill him.”

  “He shot at me!” Torrin protested.

  “He aimed for the arm, then for the leg,” she said. “Non-vital spots. We were going to render you senseless and leave you where you were, but out of the water, so you wouldn’t drown. But Eralynn recognized you, and said you were her friend. She urged us to bring you along.” Val’tissa shrugged. “It’s her decision. If she wants us to drag you along, that’s up to her.”

  They were climbing a slope. At the top, the drow said something to the two dark elves. Coin changed hands. The drow departed the way they’d just come, slipping off into the darkness.

  “Imyr,” Val’tissa said, catching the other dark elf’s eye. Torrin guessed that to be his name. Val’tissa spoke quietly, and her companion moved to the side of Eralynn’s driftdisc. Then he pulled the blanket up over Eralynn’s head.

  Torrin sat bolt upright, causing his driftdisc to bob up and down. “What are you doing?” he cried. “Is she…”

  “She sleeps,” Val’tissa said. “Now be silent. Say nothing that will give Eralynn’s condition away, or the dwarves will panic. If anyone asks, your leg was broken in a fall from a ledge, and Eralynn died of a broken neck after falling while trying to rescue you. Now lie still, and pretend to be in pain. Say nothing of the stoneplague.”

  Torrin chafed at the blunt instructions, but did as she suggested. He lay back down on the driftdisc, allowing himself to be borne along. If Eralynn had arranged matters-and there was no reason to believe she hadn’t-he didn’t want to spoil whatever chance of healing the strange elves could offer. Perhaps they would succeed, where all others had failed.

  They emerged into a wide canyon whose high walls had been carved into a series of switchback stairs punctuated by balconies-the settlement of Sundasz. Windows, some filled with soft yellow candlelight, dotted the canyon walls. Far overhead, the canyon closed to a narrow crack, through which Torrin could see the starry night sky. A warm breeze blew down from above, carrying the smell of woodland. Closer at hand, the air smelled of coal smoke.

  A handful of dwarves made their way back and forth across the canyon floor. Others were climbing or descending the stairways, or could be seen through the windows, inside the residences above. As the dark elves made their way through the canyon, Torrin spotted people of other races: humans, some fair-skinned elves, more than one person who was an obvious mix of elf and human, even a tiefling or two. Though several people turned to stare at Torrin and sadly shook their heads at the driftdisc that held Eralynn’s “corpse,” no one seemed at all surprised to see the two dark elves in their settlement.

  Val’tissa and Imyr continued across the canyon floor to one of the staircases, with the two driftdiscs floating between them. It was a long climb up the stair. Close to the top, they turned into an arched tunnel just wide enough to accommodate the discs. From there, they entered a wider corridor, ascended a broad flight of stairs flanked by an intricate mosaic of a forest, and at last passed through stout wooden doors into a cavern open to the sky.

  The canyon walls were thick with ferns. A grove of oak trees wove their branches together high overhead into a natural lattice through which the stars peeped. Torrin smelled dew-wet grass and night-blooming flowers. The dark elves made their way to a white marble statue that gleamed in the moonlight. The statue was of a tall, thin elf wearing armor and carrying a shield. The elf’s face looked both male and female. It
was Corellon Larethian, high lord of the elf gods.

  Val’tissa gestured. The disc carrying Eralynn drifted to the statue and settled on the grass at the god’s feet. Imyr sent Torrin’s driftdisc slowly to the ground nearby.

  “Up now, you,” he told Torrin. “Clothes and pack.”

  Torrin rose and pulled on his shirt and trousers. After the long ride on the driftdisc, he felt as though he were still rising and falling, even though he stood on solid ground. As he fastened his belt and tied his mace to it, he watched as Val’tissa kneeled beside Eralynn. “Is she… alive still?” he asked, a catch in his voice.

  Val’tissa gently pulled the blanket down from Eralynn’s face. It looked gray in the moonlight. “She lives,” Val’tissa said as she stood. “We will perform the ritual as soon as we are ready. Go with Imyr. He will take you to one of the local inns. We will send word to you there, once Eralynn has been healed.”

  Imyr touched Torrin’s shoulder, but Torrin shrugged his hand off. “I’m staying,” Torrin protested. “Right here, with Eralynn.”

  “The spellsong is a secret ritual,” Val’tissa said, gesturing at the forest. “We normally would not have allowed someone who’s not one of the faithful to come even this far. But we made an exception this night, for Eralynn’s sake. She and I have known each other for many years, ever since she saved my life-something few other dwarves would have done. I always said I’d repay her, if I could. Tonight I shall honor that promise.”

  Again, Torrin felt a stab of hurt. Eralynn had known these dark elves for years, and had never once told him? All that time, he’d thought he was her shield brother, that she would confide anything to him. He’d been wrong. She was even more of a loner than he’d thought.

  “Now leave her,” Val’tissa said. “And know that she’s in Corellon’s hands.”

  “All right, I’ll go,” Torrin said. “But there’s something you need to know before you attempt your ritual. The stoneplague isn’t a disease.”