The Gilded Rune

Chapter Thirteen

Torrin stared down at his captive.Since the truth potion would only last so long, he decided to ask Cathor the most important questions first. He folded his arms across his chest. “How, exactly, was the gold cursed?”

“I don’t know,” Cathor said.

Torrin silently fumed, then realized he needed to back up a step. Cathor might be nothing more than a minion, after all. He might not know the details. Torrin had to take this step by step. “All right, then, let’s try again,” he said. “Let’s start with this: who cursed the gold?”

That, it seemed, was a question his captive could answer. “The duergar,” Cathor replied.

“The one who was trying to find Vadyr? What’s his name?” Torrin asked.

Cathor shook his head. “I have no idea.”

“Perhaps I should be more clear,” Torrin said. “What I want to know is this: What’s the name of the duergar who invoked the curse?”

“Perhaps I should be more clear,” Cathor said mockingly. “I don’t know.”

Torrin grit his teeth. He tried again. “Where can I find the duergar who cursed the gold?” he asked.

Cathor’s jaw muscles bunched as he tried to keep himself from speaking. The potion, however, forced the words out. “In Drik Hargunen,” he said.

“That’s better,” Torrin said. It took him, however, a few moments to place the name. He at last remembered there was a duergar city by that name, somewhere in the Underdark. Torrin had stumbled across the name once, when researching rune magic. He dredged the phrase up from memory: the runescribed halls of Drik Hargunen.

Torrin reframed the question he’d asked earlier. “What did the duergar use curse the gold?”

“Rune magic,” Cathor said.

That much, Torrin might have guessed. “How can the curse be broken?”

The dwarf glared. “No idea,” he said. “Why don’t you go ask the runescribes yourself?”

Torrin balled his fists. He reminded himself that the rogue was answering his questions truthfully. He could see Cathor struggling not to speak, yet being compelled to. Yet the answers weren’t nearly as informative as Torrin had hoped they would be. He decided to dig in a different direction. He gestured at the gold-crusted slit in the wall. “Who used the runestone to call the River of Gold to this cavern?” he asked.

“We did. Me and Kendril,” Cathor replied.

“Who tapped it and cast the gold bars?”

“The same: me and Kendril.”

“Whose idea was it to distribute them in Eartheart?” After a moment’s silent struggle, the word popped out. “Mine.”

“And the other two rogues? Vadyr and Tril? What part did they play in this?”

“They were hired to distribute the gold. Tril, in the smaller settlements. And Vadyr, in Eartheart.”

That fit. Only tallfolk could safely handle the cursed gold. Torrin stared down at Cathor’s gray-tinged skin. The two dwarf rogues must have been careless, to let themselves be afflicted by the stoneplague.

Time to get back to that line of questioning.

“Whom did the four of you take your orders from?” Torrin asked. “Who told you to make the gold bars?”

“No one,” said Cathor. “It was my idea. Mine… and Kendril’s.”

“So you and Kendril hired the duergar to curse the gold?”

Cathor shook his head. “No. They’d done it already. We just mined it.”

Torrin frowned in confusion. He looked at the cut in the wall. “So the duergar cursed the River of Gold,” he ventured, “before you mined it?”

“Yes,” said Cathor.

“And you knew it was cursed, yet mined it anyway?”

“I… Yes.”

Torrin felt as though a hollow had opened inside him. It took all of his self-control not to strike his captive. He stared down at Cathor in disgust. A duergar might have cast the curse, but Cathor and Kendril-two dwarves — had spread the stoneplague. They’d knowingly afflicted their fellow dwarves with a fatal disease.

Torrin no longer felt sorry for Kendril. The fellow had deserved his affliction, had deserved to die. He was pure dross. So was Cathor.

Torrin spat on the dwarf.

Cathor’s nostrils flared. He stared defiantly up at Torrin, as if he was still worthy of looking a fellow dwarf in the eye. It was all Torrin could do to not stamp out that smug look with his boot.

“Where did you get the runestone?” Torrin asked instead.

Cathor once again tried to clench his jaw shut, and failed. “I stole it,” he said.

“Where from?”

“Drik Hargunen.”

“Be more specific.”

A smug smile crept into Cathor’s eyes. “Right out of Laduguer’s temple. From its library.”

“Laduguer,” Torrin breathed. God of the duergar. Enemy of the true dwarves, who would see them all enslaved.

“A foul god,” he continued. “Deserving of his banishment from the Morndinsamman.”

“That may be,” said Cathor. “But Laduguer will be avenged, soon enough.”

“What are you talking about?” Torrin asked.

“Moradin,” Cathor said, jerking his head at the slit in the wall. “The River of Gold is his vein. His life blood. The duergars’ rune magic has poisoned it. Moradin is dying.”

Torrin felt the blood drain from his cheeks. A shiver of dread coursed through him. He remembered how it had been in his dream, the way the Dwarffather had turned gray with the stoneplague, then crumbled. Could it be true? Could Moradin actually be dying?

“That’s right,” Cathor said, the gleam back in his eye. “It will all be over, soon enough. The dwarves are going to lose their patron god. You can kiss those hammers in your beard goodbye, human.”

“Blasphemer!” Torrin shouted. He kicked Cathor in the ribs and revelled in the man’s grunt of pain. With all of his heart, Torrin wanted to believe the truth potion had worn off, that Cathor was lying. Or, at the very least, that his captive was wrong, and only thought he spoke the truth. Surely Moradin could not die! But other gods had died, in Faerun’s long history. And other gods would yet die, as the millennia marched on.

Torrin didn’t want to believe what he’d just heard, yet Cathor’s words had driven an ice-cold spike of doubt into Torrin’s very soul. And that spike was being driven deeper with each chuckle his captive uttered.

Everything Torrin had ever learned by reading scripture fit with what Cathor had just told him, like a casting fit a mold. According to the holy texts, Moradin and all the other Morndinsamman had sprung from the stone of Faerun itself, back when the world first formed. The scriptures went on to say that it wasn’t blood that ran through Moradin’s veins, but noble metal. Gold.

Torrin had always thought that to be a metaphor for the god’s purity of purpose, but he realized it must be truth. It made sense that Moradin would be bound to the land in some way, that he would choose to stay rooted in the stone his people worked and drew their livelihood from. If the River of Gold were part of the Dwarffather, it explained why the molten river was constantly shifting. The Dwarffather manifested throughout Faerun, wherever there was rock to be mined.

And his life’s blood had been poisoned. Cursed, by the duergars’ foul rune magic.

That was why the cursed gold continued to spread the stoneplague, regardless of whether it was melted or subjected to magical ritual. Until Moradin himself was healed, the gold would remain tainted. It also explained why no cleric-even those who served the gods of the tallfolk-could cure the affliction. The blood of the Dwarffather flowed not only throughout Faerun, in the form of the River of Gold, but also, indirectly, through the blood of the race he’d fashioned in his forge.

The meaning of Torrin’s prophetic dream was suddenly as clear as a gem from which the surrounding rock had been chipped away.

Moradin, lord of the Morndinsamman and patron god of the dwarves, was dying. Until the god himself was cured, there would be no cure for the spellplague.

And if the god died…

Torrin couldn’t bring himself to contemplate what that might mean. He shuddered, and struggled to pull himself together. “Moradin…” he began to pray. Then he realized the futility of his prayer. The Dwarffather had been trying to tell him, all along, that no help would be forthcoming from him. Torrin was on his own.

He stared down with righteous fury at Cathor. He wasn’t the one who had poisoned Moradin using rune magic, but by Cathor’s own admission, he’d committed a crime even more vile. He’d knowingly afflicted his own race. And for the most base of reasons: simple greed.

“How could you?” Torrin said through gritted teeth. “You’ve killed hundreds, perhaps thousands of your own people.”

Cathor sneered as he said, “They deserved it.”

“No one deserves this,” Torrin said, pointing at Cathor’s gray skin.

Cathor broke into wild laughter. “You idiot!” he cried. “You think I’ve been afflicted, don’t you?”

Torrin suddenly questioned what he saw. “But… you’re a dwarf,” he said. “And… you are afflicted, just like Kendril was. Just like everybody else. Aren’t you?”

“That would be true, if I was just like everybody else. But I’m not.”

“What do you-”

“Figure it out yourself, human. I saw how you looked at me. You don’t just dress like a dwarf, you think like one. You hate like one.”

Torrin suddenly realized that Cathor’s skin wasn’t gray because of the stoneplague. Nor was his head bald because he’d shaved it. That strange cast to his eyes. His wiry frame. “You’re… duergar?” he asked.

“One-quarter,” Cathor replied bitterly. “And that was the only quarter that counted. I’m an enemy. Someone to be reviled, to be driven out.” He smirked. “But I’ve had my revenge. And it was sweeter than anything else the gold might have bought. So go ahead and kill me. I’m tired of this life. And these ropes hurt.”

Torrin stared down at his captive. The time had indeed come for justice. And Cathor was all but begging for it. Yet how should Torrin kill the duergar dross that lay at his feet? Perhaps, he mused, with the rogue’s own dagger. Slash his wrists and let him bleed out. Whittle him down slowly, as the stoneplague whittled down its victims. Or perhaps Torrin should smash in the fellow’s head with his mace. It would be a quicker death, but one that would activate the weapon’s ancient dwarf magic. Either would be equally appropriate, not to mention satisfying.

The mace, Torrin decided. He lifted the weapon above his head. His hands were sweaty on the grip. He felt like Moradin, raising his hammer to strike a blow and making a holy pronouncement. His pulse beat in his throat against Eralynn’s pendant. “I strike this blow for Eralynn,” he intoned. “My shield sister. And for Kier, my nephew. And for Ambril, the boy’s mother. Clanfolk, all. I strike this blow in Moradin’s name, for all of the hundreds or even thousands of innocents you so callously afflicted. Utter your final prayer now, to whatever god you think might claim your soul, and-”

A whimper interrupted his pronouncement. Torrin smelled urine, and realized Cathor had just relieved himself like a cowering dog. Despite the bravado of a moment before, the rogue’s eyes were filled with tears. He was crying. Like a child.

“There is no god to claim me,” he whispered. “Only the anguish of the Nine Hells awaits.”

Torrin scowled. “You should have thought of that before committing your foul crimes.”

Cathor looked up, his face twisted with anguish. “You don’t understand,” he said. “You couldn’t. None of the Morndinsamman will take me.”

“That’s not true,” Torrin answered. “Your soul might have been reforged anew, had you repented, instead of gloating over what the duergar did. Moradin would have shown mercy.”

“Moradin, a god for the ‘true dwarves,’ ” said Cathor, his lips twisting with the words. “Not those with duergar blood muddying their veins.”

“Nonsense,” Torrin argued. “Look at me. My body may be human, yet Moradin will welcome me at his side, when the time comes for my soul to be reforged.”

Cathor gave a bitter laugh and said, “You’re such a fool, human.”

“You’re the fool,” Torrin replied, raising his mace again, preparing to finish Cathor. He’d killed before-the half-orc who’d tried to rob his parents’ shop, back when Torrin was just a boy. And the drow he’d slain in battle, during his misadventure in Araumycos with Gamlin and Farrik. Just a few moments before he’d accidentally finished off the dying half-elf. But those had all been in the heat of the moment. The man he was about to kill lay bound and helpless before him.

The rage that had filled Torrin a moment before was leaking out, being replaced by a sick feeling that was mixed with a twinge of pity as he stared down at the crying rogue. Torrin found it all too easy to understand what had stoked the forge of bitter anger inside Cathor. Torrin himself knew what it felt like to be mocked, to not fit in. To not be accepted by his own people.

Yet unlike Cathor, who’d let those hurts fester, Torrin had managed to pull himself away from the self-destructive path he’d been walking, back when he was trying to drink away his confusion and hurt in the years before joining the Delvers. Cathor, in contrast, had turned on his own people, embarking on a horrific scheme of misplaced revenge that had ultimately led to his own destruction.

What had made him walk so different a path?

Perhaps, Torrin thought, Cathor’s hurt was deeper. Torrin could shrug off insults, and had always believed that, if he only tried hard enough and long enough, people would see past his human body and realize that he was, indeed, as much a dwarf as any of the clanfolk. The Thunsonn clan, the Delvers-both had accepted him. But Cathor, with his bald head and gray skin, wouldn’t even have been given the benefit of the doubt.

What Cathor had done-his role in spreading the stoneplague to Eartheart-filled Torrin with revulsion. But did that make what Torrin was about to do the right thing, in the eyes of Moradin? Did it condone the fact that Torrin was now contemplating killing a helpless captive in cold blood? That was the antithesis of all that dwarves stood for. And dwarf law had a word for an execution performed without benefit of trial by council.

Murder.

Was that what Torrin was about to become? A murderer?

He lowered his mace. He would not stoop to the level of his captive. He would instead hand him over to the authorities in Eartheart. Cathor would certainly still be condemned to death, but it would be done in a legal, civilized fashion and according to the law, not at one man’s whim.

Torrin realized something then. He heard a voice, whispering. It wasn’t coming from his captive. It was coming from… He cocked an ear. Inside his shirt?

Torrin pulled up his shirt so that the brooch the Lord Scepter had given him was next to his ear. The stone set into the brooch was definitely emitting a voice.

“… still alive?” it said. “If you can hear me, please answer!”

Torrin blinked in surprise. “Lord Scepter?”

“Yes,” said the voice. “My thanks, Torrin Ironstar. You’ve provided an invaluable service to your city this night.”

Torrin stared at the brooch and shook his head. That geode wasn’t mere decorative element; it was a sending stone! The Lord Scepter had been listening in on everything Torrin had said and heard, ever since he’d left Eartheart! At first, Torrin felt outrage. The Lord Scepter had tricked him into wearing the brooch, had listened in on his most private moments! But then he realized the wisdom of the deception, the necessity of it. Had Torrin known what the brooch actually did, he might have worried about what the listener was thinking, might not have pulled things off nearly so well.

The stone in the brooch was talking again. “Can you describe the cavern you’re standing in? A detailed description?” it said.

“Why?” Torrin asked.

“We’re about to open a portal to your location,” the Lord Scepter told him. “The Steel Shields are coming through to take charge of your captive.”

Torrin thought back to the Lord Scepter’s earlier warning. “Will they arrest me as well?”

The voice from the brooch chuckled. “That order has been rescinded.”

“Very well, then,” Torrin said. He described the cavern’s dimensions, its gold-crusted walls and floor, the cut in the wall. He started to describe the objects scattered across the floor and their placement, relative to one another, but the Lord Scepter interrupted. “That’s enough,” he said. “Stand still, and don’t move.”

“I won’t,” Torrin replied.

He heard a soft popping sound-the rush of displaced air. A cleric of Clangeddin Silverbeard appeared in the middle of the cavern, holding above his head the twin axes that were both the symbol of his faith and his chosen weapons. His silver-plated armor glowed with the blood-red radiance of the battle god’s magic. The light flushed his face, turning his cheeks ruddy, and stained his white beard red.

Four Steel Shields materialized next to him an instant later, their maces drawn and their shields at the ready. They fanned out into the cavern at a nod from the cleric, who was obviously their commander. Meanwhile the cleric, his eyes burning with battle lust, strode to where Cathor lay on the floor. For a moment, Torrin thought the cleric was going to hack the rogue to pieces on the spot. Cathor must have felt the same, for he twisted violently and tried to roll away. But instead of killing the rogue, the cleric stamped a boot down onto Cathor’s chest, pinning him to the ground.

He turned back to Torrin. “Where’s the runestone?” he demanded, his gaze as piercing as a crossbow bolt.

Torrin opened his pack and pulled it out. Although he was reluctant to part with the runestone, he handed it over obediently.

The cleric glared down at it. “Dwarven,” he observed. “Ancient. Yet a powerful weapon, in the hands of our enemies.”

The four Steel Shields had finished searching the perimeter of the cavern. “All clear,” one shouted. The other three echoed his findings. The four knights seemed to be stout, steady soldiers-all longbeards at least a century or two old. Yet they kept glancing uneasily at the gold-crusted floor. They must have known, Torrin thought, that the gold was cursed, that by exposing themselves they’d succumb to the stoneplague. Yet they’d come on this mission just the same.

Looking at them, Torrin felt fiercely proud of his race. Just like the heroes who’d given their lives at the Gates of Underhome, millennia before, those dwarf knights and their leader were prepared to sacrifice themselves so that the people of Eartheart might survive.

At their commander’s nod, two of the Steel Shields slung their shields over their backs and sheathed their maces. One grabbed Cathor by the ankles while the other lifted him by the shoulders. Although he struggled, they carried him easily.

The other two knights flanked Torrin.

“We’ll be returning now,” the cleric told him.

Torrin’s heart pounded. He glanced at the runestone the cleric held. It was such a wondrous thing, the type of artifact a Delver might spend a lifetime searching for. And not just any artifact, but one that that was linked to the very lifeblood of the Dwarffather. Torrin needed it to complete his sacred quest. The runestone would allow him, at long last, to find the Soulforge. To make his place in the world. Yet it was about to slip out of his grasp.

“You aren’t going to use the runestone to teleport, are you?” Torrin asked.

The cleric glanced up at him and said, “Why do you ask?”

Torrin gestured at the slit in the wall. “If you do, it may call the River of Gold. Molten gold could flood in and burn us.”

“No need for that,” the cleric said. “We’ll depart the way we came. Clangeddin Silverbeard will open a way home for us.”

“The runestone,” Torrin began, still staring at it. He took a deep breath, and plunged on. “The Lord Scepter ordered me to keep it safe.”

The cleric barely glanced at him. “Don’t worry, human,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s in good hands. Your part in this is done. Once we get back to Eartheart, you’ll be free to return to Sundasz, or wherever else you’d like to go. The Steel Shields will take up it from here.”

Torrin bristled. He was going to be set aside, like a chisel that had proved just the right tool for the job, but was no longer required. The cleric would never have spoken that way to him, had he known Torrin was a dwarf. “You don’t understand,” he protested. “I may look like one of the tallfolk, but…”

The cleric wasn’t listening.

“ I’m the one the Lord Scepter sent on this mission,” Torrin continued, desperation suddenly making the words tumble from his mouth. “I’m the one to whom he entrusted the artifact. Lord Scepter Bladebeard’s specific orders were that I be the one to place the runestone in his hand, when my mission was done. And I swore an oath by Moradin’s beard that I would do precisely that.” He raised a clenched fist to his heart. “Would you have me break my oath to the Dwarffather? Or defy the commands of your Lord Scepter?”

The cleric raised his eyebrows. Behind him, the other Steel Shields exchanged glances. Torrin waited, his heart pounding. One didn’t lie to a cleric of the Father of Battle, especially one who’d been gripped by kuldtharn just moments before and still had his axes in hand. Yet Torrin just had.

The cleric at last nodded. With a look of amusement in his eye, he handed the runestone to Torrin. “Very well, then,” he said. “The Lord Scepter will be waiting for us, when we return. You can give it to him when we reach Eartheart.”

The cleric glanced around at the gold-crusted walls and floor, and shuddered. “Knights, prepare yourselves.”

The knights stilled, like soldiers preparing for inspection. The cleric swept his axes up, and crashed their blades together. “ Faern! ” he shouted-the same word Torrin had used the first time he’d activated the runestone’s magic.

The cavern, still illuminated by Torrin’s lantern, disappeared in a final flash of gold as the group was whisked by the cleric’s magic back to Eartheart.

Torrin stood off to the side in the High Commander’s office, his hands clasped respectfully behind his back. He was in the office of High Commander Vorn Steeleye, who was flanked by a dozen or so top ranking officers, as well as the Lord Scepter. Cathor lay on the floor at the High Commander’s feet. Primed with yet another truth potion, the captive filled in more of the story he’d told Torrin.

Cathor, it seemed, had gone to Drik Hargunen at Kendril’s behest. There had been some texts in the temple library, unearthed decades before, at the close of the War of Gold and Gloom, that Kendril had wanted to study. Able to pass as a duergar, Cathor had applied to study at the library and had been accepted.

Students weren’t permitted to handle any of the runestones the library contained; only the librarians could do that. So he struck up a friendship with one, and that was how he heard about the library’s magical runestones — one of them, in particular.

The librarian had boasted that the library contained many powerful runestones, including one that could summon the River of Gold-Moradin’s vein, his manifestation on Faerun. By doing so, Laduguer’s clerics had been able to strike the Lord of the Morndinsamman in his one vulnerable spot. They had inscribed a rune so powerful, it could kill even a god.

With Moradin dead, the librarian chortled, Laduguer’s clerics would at long last have their revenge.

At that point, Cathor’s motivation for stealing the runestone had been simple greed. He wanted to mine the River of Gold. The librarian had been of a like mind. Once Kendril, back in Sundasz, had learned that the runestone could also be used for teleportation magic if the correct words were spoken in Auld Dethek, Cathor and the librarian had used the runestone to spirit themselves-and it-out of the library. “As simple as that,” Cathor boasted.

When they’d arrived at their destination, Cathor had slit the librarian’s throat.

It wasn’t the first time the rogue had gotten blood on his hands. Nor would it be the last. Once mining had begun, he’d seen what handling the cursed gold did to dwarves-and had made the decision to continue.

The rogue provided much detail of the portions of Drik Hargunen he’d visited, as well as the layout of the library itself. Yet he was unable to give any information about where the rune that had poisoned Moradin might have been inscribed. Despite being questioned repeatedly, despite the truth potion, Cathor’s only answer was a shrug.

When the questioning ended, guards dragged Cathor away to a cell. By that time, sunlight was slanting in through the slit windows of the High Commander’s office. Torrin expected to be dismissed himself, but the Lord Scepter motioned for him to stand over by a side wall.

Torrin obliged, bowing his head slightly to hide a yawn of exhaustion. High Commander Vorn Steeleye and his officers discussed what they’d just heard, while Torrin stood and fretted, glancing between the Lord Scepter and the runestone on the commander’s desk. When the meeting was done, it would be locked away in a magically sealed vault, so it could do no further harm. Then the Lord Scepter would depart to convene the Council, so that the Deep Lords could ratify whatever course of action the military commanders decided upon.

Torrin kept hoping to find a quiet moment before then when he might approach the Lord Scepter and ask to use the runestone one last time, once everything was all over, to search for the Soulforge. So far, that opportunity had yet to present itself.

Torrin sighed. He picked at the food that had been laid out to sustain the officers: roast boar and cooked apples, spiced tubers and surface greens, along with jugs of dark brown ale. He plucked a sweetbread from one of the platters and munched on it. The sweet taste of aniseed filled his mouth, scouring away the sourness his breath had acquired.

Voices ebbed and flowed as the officers argued about what course of action to take.

Attack Drik Hargunen and smash it into dust? That seemed to be the favored option, but there were some who argued it was simply not possible. The duergar city was more than three hundred leagues away. Teleporting an entire army to the area would not be feasible; they’d be faced with more than a tenday’s march across the surface realms, longer through the Underdark. Provisioning the army would add still more delay.

Send in an elite squad of Steel Shields-like the one that had extracted Torrin from the cavern-to try to locate the rune? Faster and stealthier, the commanders agreed, but the squad would need to include wizards trained in runemagic, as well as rogues. Who to include was a matter of much debate.

As his officers skirmished verbally, Commander Steeleye bent over a map that was spread across his desk, its curled edges held down by stone weights. Torrin was used to seeing him in armor, helm, and shield, but the commander wore a leather jerkin with a high ruffled collar, upon which the tight coils of his beard rested; and tight-legged trousers that flared at the hip, like those the skyriders wore.

The map showed Drik Hargunen-or rather, what little was known of its layout. Much of the map was blank, or bore captions that were guesses at best, since no true dwarf had ever set foot in the duergar city. But the general layout was hinted at, and Cathor’s answers had resulted in a few more of the blank spots being filled in. Drik Hargunen was laid out around a natural chimney that twisted down through the rock; the city’s corridors splayed out like twisted spokes around that central shaft. It was also joined to the Runescribed Hall of Laduguer’s Graving, the temple whose library Cathor had stolen the runestone from. That temple was, presumably, where the runic magic that had cursed the River of Gold had been invoked.

Or so the thinking went.

“It’s unfortunate,” Commander Steeleye said, “that our duergar captive was so vague about the runic protections on the approaches to the temple.” He gestured at the lines leading to the central portion of the map. “Telling us ‘they’re everywhere’ doesn’t help us much.”

“Patience,” Lord Scepter Bladebeard counselled. “The tablets from Iltkazar may yet hold some clues.” He gestured at a cleric of Dugmaren Brightmantle who sat in a corner, hunched over two large baskets of runic tablets that had been carried into the room earlier. The cleric, a fellow with sparse white hair and spectacles balanced precariously on the end of his pinched nose, was reading furiously, the tablets making clicking noises as he hurried through them.

“In the meantime, our people are still dying of the stoneplague,” Commander Steeleye growled. He sighed and rested his hands on the desk. “Gentlemen, I’ve reached my decision. We’ll send in a single elite squad to scout the city and learn what we can by infiltrating the temple. Their mission will be to learn precisely where the rune that cursed the River of Gold was inscribed, and to dispel its magic if they can.”

The officers who’d advocated for a scouting party broke into triumphant grins.

“A scouting expedition is not enough!” one of the officers shouted over the others. His face was scabby and gray from the stoneplague; part of his beard missing. The other officers all stood at arm’s length from him, obviously not wanting to get too close. “We need to make the duergar pay for what they’ve done. The army must march!”

“Agreed,” the High Commander said. “But first, we need to know if the duergar are themselves preparing to mount an attack. Crippling us with the stoneplague may have been merely the first thrust. Before we move our army out, we need to probe the Deeps and make sure the duergar and their allies aren’t massed there, waiting for us to march away so they can storm our gates.”

There was some muttered protest at that, but most of the officers nodded their agreement. Dwarves were a careful folk, who never tried to cut a stone without taking a good look at the grain of it first.

“The only question remaining,” Commander Steeleye said, his eyes ranging across his officers, “is which of you will be on the squad.”

Torrin expected the officers to all shout out at once, but instead a hush fell. Each squared his shoulders and smoothed his beard, doing his best to look as though he were on military parade. Each man’s eyes silently pleaded for the High Commander to bestow the honor upon him.

Torrin moved into position just behind the officers and tried to catch Commander Steeleye’s eye. When that failed, he cleared his throat. Still the High Commander ignored him, his eyes looking over every man in the room but Torrin.

The Lord Scepter, however, glanced in Torrin’s direction and gave a slight nod. “High Commander,” he said. “If I might make some observations as to worthy candidates?”

Commander Steeleye nodded. “You may,” he said.

Torrin looked expectantly at the Lord Scepter.

“We need not only stalwart officers, but men who have skills in other areas,” the Lord Scepter said. He nodded at an officer whose beard was an uncombed brown fuzz against his cheeks. “Captain Blackhammer, for example, was instrumental in taking down that nest of rogues a few years back. I’m told he’s not only a master of disguise, but also has as much of a nose for hidden passageways as a boar does for truffles.”

Blackhammer beamed and tapped his nose in acknowledgement.

“And Captain Stoneshield, I understand, has a talent for magic,” the Lord Scepter continued. “They say he can open a passage through solid stone and close it again with no more than a whisper-something that will prove highly useful in penetrating the mazelike warrens of a hostile city, especially one whose every wall is said to be protected by rune magic.”

Stoneshield bowed and came up grinning.

“I would also recommend Delver Torrin Ironstar,” the Lord Scepter continued.

Heads turned. Eyes narrowed.

“He has labored ceaselessly toward finding a cure, and was instrumental in learning the cause of the stoneplague,” the Lord Scepter continued. “What’s more, he’s a human, and thus is less likely to trigger Drik Hargunen’s protective wards, the vast majority of which are set to react to dwarves.”

Torrin flushed with pride. He bowed and rose smiling. “I’d be honored to serve my city, High Commander Steeleye.”

“Thank you, Lord Scepter,” the High Commander replied. “But we need men of the same size and stature as a duergar, in order for the disguise spells to work. That means dwarves only.”

“But High Commander, I need no disguise!” Torrin protested. “Humans are welcome in-”

“Dwarves only,” Commander Steeleye repeated coldly.

Torrin bit back his retort. Clearly, no matter what he said, he wasn’t going to be included on the squad. Yet he must! Moradin himself had decreed that Torrin had a role to play in ending the stoneplague. Was that role really to come to such an abrupt end? Torrin couldn’t just sit idle in Eartheart. Kier was depending upon him.

The Lord Scepter glanced at Torrin, then away. Was that disappointment in his eyes? The knowledge that the Lord Scepter had faith in him was cold comfort to Torrin. He needed to be on that squad.

As the debate continued, the door to the office opened. Torrin turned to see who the newcomer was. His eyes widened as he saw Baelar.

The older dwarf was wearing his Peacehammer armor and cloak, but no helm. His frost axe was strapped to his back. The right half of his scalp was bare, with fresh pink skin where his long gray hair should have been. His right cheek was likewise pink, and there were scorch marks in his beard. He carried his right hand close to his side, his fingers curled tight; the skin on them also looked new. Baelar had obviously suffered some grievous injuries, and only recently been magically healed.

Had he been burned by the blind red dragon in the Wyrmcaves?

Torrin knew better than to ask. He met Baelar’s eyes as the skyrider strode into the room, and lifted one eyebrow in a silent question. Baelar gave a slight shake of his head. The disappointment and frustration in his eyes gave Torrin his answer. Baelar had failed in his quest to secure the wyrmlings’ blood.

“Captain Thunsonn,” Commander Steeleye said, acknowledging Baelar’s arrival. “I hadn’t expected to see you up and about so soon.”

“When my city calls, I answer,” Baelar said. He bowed, stiffly, to the High Commander and to the Lord Scepter, who nodded back. Baelar then joined the officers.

The High Commander was starting to make his selections. Yet he hadn’t decided who would lead the squad. It would have to be, he noted aloud, someone capable of finding their way about the duergar city. And that gave Torrin an idea.

A brooch identical to the one the Lord Scepter had given Torrin was pinned to the Lord Scepter’s chest. Torrin turned slightly aside, and spoke in a low voice into his brooch. “Lord Scepter? Can you hear me?” he said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Torrin saw the Lord Scepter nod.

“Do you want me on that squad?” Torrin continued. “Do you believe that’s what Moradin wants?”

“I did what I could,” the whisper came back. “This is a military matter. It’s out of my hands.”

“There’s still a way,” Torrin said. “If Baelar leads the squad, I’m certain I can convince him to take me.”

“Go on.”

Torrin spoke quickly. When he was finished and turned back to the group, he saw that the Lord Scepter’s eyes were gleaming.

“I have one further recommendation for the squad,” the Lord Scepter announced. “Captain Thunsonn.”

“With all respect, Lord Scepter, he’s still healing,” the High Commander noted. “Barely able to hold an axe, let alone swing one.”

Baelar winced.

“That may be so,” the Lord Scepter continued. “But Captain Thunsonn has perhaps the most useful skill of all, although I doubt that any of you know of it. Many years ago, not long after his beard first sprouted, he lived for nearly a year in the duergar city of Gracklstugh. He was a weapons trader, dealing in duergar steel, and knows a thing or two about the gray dwarves.”

There was a heartbeat of stunned silence. Even Commander Steeleye visibly stiffened.

“Is this true?” he asked, fixing his stare on Baelar. “You lived among our enemies?”

“Disgraceful,” one of the officers hissed.

Baelar paled. Fortunately, he didn’t glance in Torrin’s direction. Torrin wouldn’t have trusted himself to keep a neutral face, if he had. He felt a deep sorrow at having to put Baelar in such a position. Yet what the Lord Scepter was about to add would make everything right again for Baelar, if only the others would listen.

“Gentlemen!” the Lord Scepter said, his voice ringing out in the strained silence. “Let me finish. Captain Thunsonn lived in Gracklstugh at the Council’s order. He was a spy!”

The officers fairly tripped over themselves in their haste to make their apologies to Baelar. Several bowed in his direction.

Baelar acknowledged them by bowing himself. His face was still pale when he rose, however.

“As a result of his assignment,” the Lord Scepter continued smoothly, “Captain Thunsonn became fluent in the duergar dialect.” He turned to Baelar. “You do still speak it, don’t you, Captain?”

Baelar’s head jerked in a nod. “I do, Lord Scepter,” he said.

“I therefore recommend Captain Thunsonn be assigned command of the squad,” the Lord Scepter concluded. “As the only one of you who speaks the duergar dialect, he will be able to answer any challenges the duergar make-challenges that are certain to be directed to the group’s visible leader. I further recommend that he be given a free hand in the final selection of the squad. There may be others who also possess talents like Captain Thunsonn’s-talents they don’t openly speak of.”

Commander Steeleye was staring at his men, a slight frown on his face. As the officers voiced their approval, however, he glanced at the Lord Scepter. The two locked eyes a moment, and then Commander Steeleye returned his attention to his officers. “Very well, then,” he said. “Captain Thunsonn will command the squad.”

The Lord Scepter smiled.

“My thanks,” Torrin whispered into his brooch.

“Thank Moradin, Delver Torrin,” the whisper came back. “And serve him well. And… one other thing. When this meeting is over, come see me in my chambers. There’s something I want you to have.”