The Gilded Rune

Chapter Four

"You’re in trouble, ” a childlike voice said.

Torrin turned and saw Gimrick hurrying up the stair behind him. The gnome servant kept one hand on the iron handrail that was set into the wall. His eyes remained firmly on Torrin, never once glancing down at the canyon floor where the Riftlake sparkled in the sunlight, far below. Gimrick’s face was pale under his short gray beard. Whatever he’d come to tell Torrin, it must have been urgent. Otherwise, Gimrick would have used one of the interior spiral staircases instead.

Torrin squatted on the steps. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Ambril’s looking everywhere for you. She’s furious!”

“Why?”

A dwarf squeezed past them on the stair. Gimrick clung with both hands to the handrail and closed his eyes as she brushed past. “You were supposed to take Kier with you to the market today,” he said.

Torrin smacked his forehead. “I forgot. And I promised him a toy shield, too.” He started to rise. “I’ll go back and fetch him, then.”

“You can’t,” said the gnome.

“Why not?”

“That’s the trouble. Kier’s vanished. Ambril can’t find him, and she says it’s your fault for not minding him.”

Torrin sighed. Kier was always wandering off somewhere, but the boy didn’t need minding. He was eight years old and big enough not to trip over anyone’s beard. “He’s probably just hiding again,” Torrin said with a laugh. “That’s Ambril for you, making mineshafts out of dungholes. Always worrying. Remember the last time, how she was convinced the drow had kidnapped Kier for sacrifice? Turned out he was in the armory, trying on helms. Safe and sound, aside from the bump he got when the shield fell on his head.”

“But what if he’s left the city?” Grimrick said, fretting. “With the quarantine, it could be a tenday or more before he gets back in again. The clerics can’t keep up with the new arrivals, especially now that the caravan’s arrived from Delzimmer. They say the tent city has attracted a number of unscrupulous characters. Kier could run afoul of a rogue.”

“That would be bad,” Torrin said with a frown. Then he shrugged. “But even Kier would know better than to leave the city when there’s a quarantine in place.”

“But-”

“He’ll turn up, Gimrick,” Torrin assured the gnome. “I’m certain of it.”

“Ambril’s not.”

Torrin sighed. Despite his reassurances that the Council had proclaimed Eartheart free of the stoneplague, the contagion elsewhere in the Deeps had taken its toll on Ambril. In the days since the gates had closed, she’d been imagining her only child in the clutches of a plague-wracked denizen of the Deeps who’d slipped in past the guard. Her pregnancy only made it worse. Her shrill tirades followed Kier everywhere, like a shadowing cloaker. Don’t touch anyone, even tallfolk. Don’t touch the handrail when climbing the stair. Don’t accept food or drink from strangers. On and on she went. Torrin was certain that most of it went in one ear and out of the other. Kier had an independent streak and had always forged his own path, no matter what anyone said. It probably came from being a singleton.

Torrin turned to go back down the stair, resigned to searching for the boy. “Thanks for letting me know about Kier, Gimrick. Tell Ambril I’ll find him. I’m sure he’s in the clanhold, somewhere.”

The gnome caught his arm-with both hands. “No, wait! There’s something I haven’t told you yet,” he said. “Baelar’s griffon is missing from the eyrie. I think Kier took it.”

“What makes you say that?” Torrin asked, startled.

“Just… Opel acted strange when I asked him why the boy wasn’t helping him muck out the eyrie. He claimed not to know where Kier was, even though those two are as tight as rogues. And he paused to think a moment when I asked where Baelar’s griffon was.”

“Smite me with a hammer, Gimrick!” Torrin exploded, shaking off the gnome’s hands. “When will you ever learn to put the most important point first? If Kier has taken the griffon, he’s in real trouble!”

“I’m sure he’ll put the griffon back. No harm done.”

“You’re not thinking this through, Gimrick. When Kier returns to the eyrie, they’ll think he’s trying to break the quarantine. If he doesn’t heed their warnings to land, he could be shot down!”

The gnome glanced out across the East Rift, blanched, and grabbed the railing. “Kier may not have taken Baelar’s griffon, of course,” he sputtered. “Maybe I’m wrong. Perhaps Baelar is on duty.”

“Did you check?” asked Torrin.

“Well no. I thought maybe you could-”

Exasperated, Torrin charged down the stair, shouting at those coming up to get out of his way. When they saw the look in his eye, they flattened against the wall, letting him pass. He entered the corridor at the bottom of the stair and hurried to where the Peacehammers kept their mounts.

As Torrin barged in, Opel, the mucker, whirled, scat-shovel in hand. He gaped at Torrin and backed up a step. “I don’t know anything!” he cried.

Never breaking his stride, Torrin bore down on the fuzz-bearded boy. “Clearly you do, Opel, or you wouldn’t have opened your mouth just now. Out with it. Where’d Kier go?”

Above, the griffons shifted on their iron-rail perches, their nails scraping against the metal. One screeched, and a downy golden feather drifted down from above. The shovel shook in Opel’s hand, and he refused to meet Torrin’s eye.

“A new earthmote rose out of the Underchasm,” he whispered, cocking his head toward the balcony. “It drifted over the Rift this morning. Kier wanted a closer look.”

“The fool!” Torrin shouted. He grabbed Opel’s shoulders. “How long ago did he set out?”

Opel flinched. “Not long,” he said. “Just after lunch.”

Torrin rushed to the balcony and peered out. He could see the new earthmote in the distance to the northwest, partially obscuring the spire of rock known as Sadrach’s Splinter. A small moving dot to the right of it, near the edge of the Rift, might have been a flying griffon. If that was Kier, he was already well beyond the city walls. And he was going to need Torrin’s help getting back.

“Fetch me a saddle,” Torrin ordered.

“You can’t!” Opel said. “These are Peacehammer mounts!”

“Do as I say,” Torrin commanded. “Now!”

A guilty Opel rushed to obey.

Torrin grabbed a bridle and climbed the ladder to the nearest griffon’s perch. The enormous creature gave him a sidelong look and flared its wings. It clearly wasn’t used to being approached by someone so tall. Fortunately, it didn’t snap at Torrin. Its lion’s tail lashed back and forth behind it, sending up a cloud of dust that smelled of straw, feathers, and fur.

“There, there, birdie,” Torrin said soothingly as he lifted the bridle into place. “We’re just going for a nice little ride, you and I.”

“Her name’s Mischief,” Opel said.

“Wonderful,” Torrin said under his breath. “Just what I need-more mischief to worry about.”

“Careful what you say,” Opel called up from below. “She understands every word.”

The griffon glared at Torrin, but allowed him to slide the bridle over her head and buckle it. Opel, meanwhile, labored up the ladder, weighed down by a heavy, padded saddle. Torrin plucked it from his shoulders and lifted it into place atop the griffon’s back at the spot where her lionlike hindquarters met her eagle chest and wings. He reached under the griffon’s belly for the strap and cinched it tight. Then he swung up into the saddle and fastened the restraining straps over his own thighs. He’d never ridden a griffon before, but he had ridden horses-including some very spirited mounts. Controlling a griffon, he was certain, couldn’t be that much different.

“Release her,” he ordered.

Opel unbuckled the bands around the griffon’s forelegs, setting it free.

“Away!” Torrin ordered. “Fly!”

The griffon edged her way along her perch in a series of quick hops, out over the balcony. Then she unfolded her wings, crouched slightly, and sprang into space. Torrin’s stomach lurched as the griffon first dove, then climbed sharply upward with powerful strokes of her large, golden wings. He tugged the reins and nudged the griffon’s foreflank with his right knee, trying to get her to turn, but the beast didn’t respond. Perhaps he was being too gentle. He tried again with a stiffer yank on the reins. The griffon responded, turning to the northwest in a smooth bank.

“That’s it, birdie, now you’re-”

Without warning, the griffon swerved straight up, leaving a startled Torrin clinging to the saddle horn. “What are you doing?” he shouted. He kicked the creature’s flanks. “Stop! Level out!”

The griffon wasn’t responding. Instead of leveling out at the top of her climb, she did a loop that wrenched Torrin’s hands from the saddle horn, nearly flinging him off. Dangling upside down, the straps across his thighs the only thing preventing him from falling to his death, Torrin fought to reach the saddle horn again. The iron mace that hung from his belt cracked against his head, causing him to see stars.

Then the loop turned into a dive. Torrin was hurled backward with such force that he nearly vomited. The dive was so steep that the rush of air tore tears from Torrin’s eyes and sent his hair pluming out behind him. Then, with a swoop, the griffon was flying level again. The beast let out a laughlike scree.

“All right!” Torrin shouted. “I understand. You’re the boss. And… I won’t call you ‘birdie’ again.”

Scree. The griffon’s neck feathers ruffled, then flattened again.

Torrin tried a gentle tug on the reins. That time, the griffon responded smoothly.

Within just a few moments, Torrin was over Eartheart’s wall. The guards atop its towers looked up as he sailed over them, and trained their ballistae upon him as soon as he was outside of the city limits. He waved to them, but instead of waving back they began pointing and shouting. But there was no time to worry about that.

Torrin flew toward the new earthmote. He could no longer see the dot that might have been Kier’s mount. If that’s where the boy was headed, he would likely have already landed atop the mote.

Torrin flew past the edge of the East Rift and out across the Underchasm. The East Rift itself was several hundred paces deep, but the Underchasm was far deeper, plunging to the very depths of the Underdark. The enormous sinkhole, easily the size of a small kingdom, stretched nearly one hundred leagues north to south, and was almost as wide. Narrower canyons splintered outward from it like cracks around a footprint in dried mud.

The Underchasm had formed when a vast expanse of the dwarf lands, weakened by spellfire, had collapsed into the Underdark below. Earth motes drifted above the leagues-deep chasm, throwing long shadows that stretched all the way back to East Rift.

As Torrin flew, he tried to decide what to do once he had found Kier. The best course of action would be to fly back to Hammergate, the town just outside Eartheart’s walls where Torrin had grown up. It had become more of a “foreign quarter” for the tallfolk who’d been drawn by Eartheart’s prosperity, and it was not subject to the quarantine. Kier could stay with Torrin’s parents while he waited his turn at the temple.

Torrin glanced back at Eartheart and saw that another griffon had taken off from the city. The flutter of a yellow-and-red striped cloak told him who rode it: a Peacehammer, one of the elite city guard. They, it would appear, were still allowed in and out of the city. And that one was headed straight for Torrin. Thankfully, Torrin would reach the earthmote long before the skyrider intercepted him. After that, well… surely the rider would listen to reason, and understand why Torrin had been forced to borrow one of the griffons.

As Torrin drew closer to the earthmote, he saw that it was small, no more than a few hundred paces across. Like most of the floating splinters of stone, it was tooth-shaped, relatively flat on top with a pointed base. Trees sprouted from the top, and a tangle of roots and vines hung in a fringe over its edges. A hole near the mote’s midpoint appeared to be a natural cavern at first, but as Torrin drew nearer, he noted its regular shape. The mote spun as it drifted, and the opening rotated out of sight. A short time later, a similar hole, closer to the top of the mote, rotated into view. Torrin realized he was looking at a section of staircase-one that had likely descended from the surface, before the mote had broken away from wherever it had originated.

There was no sign of Kier on top of the mote, but a saddled griffon sat under a tree near the edge, snapping its beak at the crows that swooped and dove on it. The griffon would have made short work of them had it not been tethered.

Torrin spotted the Thunsonn crest on the tooled leather back of the other griffon’s saddle. “That’s Baelar’s griffon, all right,” he muttered. “Kier’s here. But where?”

Torrin landed near the other griffon, tied off his own mount to another tree, and walked-slightly bowlegged from the ride-toward the first griffon. “Kier!” he called through cupped hands. “Where are you?”

He realized he was walking at a kilter. The rotation of the mote was making him slightly dizzy. Strange-motes didn’t usually spin. They usually just bobbed up and down, or rocked slightly from side to side, with residual motion from their plunge off whatever cliff had spawned them.

A rope was tied to the tree where Kier had tethered his griffon. It extended over the edge of the mote, down to the spot where the staircase began. Torrin tugged gently on the rope. Though it was slack, it didn’t hang free. Tied off somewhere near the top of the staircase, he guessed.

Torrin descended the rope to the inside of the staircase. It was a perilous climb, but one that Kier had successfully negotiated, since the end of the rope was secure-assuming that it was Kier who had tied it. Once inside the staircase, Torrin swung down from the rope. With his feet firmly on the stairs, he let go. Thrown off balance by the earthmote’s spin, he immediately threw out a hand to steady himself against the wall. The stone felt cool. The wild magic that kept the mote suspended crackled slightly against Torrin’s palm.

Torrin followed the staircase as it spiralled downward, one hand still on the wall. The deeper he went, the dizzier he felt. The light from above grew dimmer with each turn, but he could still see well enough, even without his goggles. A bit of light filtered up from somewhere below, as well.

“Kier?” he called out.

No answer. A breeze drifted up the staircase, cooled by the stone’s chill.

Torrin continued down the stairs and came to the lower opening. As his foot touched the bottommost step, a chunk of stone broke free and drifted away. Torrin lurched back, then steadied himself. “Moradin smite me,” he swore. “I hope Kier didn’t fall!”

Though he knew it was futile, he scanned the landscape below. The bottom of the Underchasm lay deep in shadow, too far away to make out any detail.

No. Kier was smarter than that. He was probably hiding somewhere atop the mote, laughing at Torrin’s attempts to find him. He might even have flown off already, perhaps taking the second griffon with him as an added joke.

Torrin made his way back up the stairs.

Halfway up, he stopped to take a better look at something he’d bypassed at first. One of the steps was twice the width of the rest, forming a sort of landing. On one side of it stood two pedestals that must once have supported twin statue-columns. Not much remained of the statues. The one on the right extended only as far as the knees, which were covered by what looked like the hem of a blacksmith’s apron. Next to one foot was a smashed lump of stone that was vaguely anvil-shaped. All that remained of the other statue was a pair of feet, protruding from under the hem of a dress.

Torrin’s eyes widened as he realized whom the statues had once depicted: Moradin, father of the dwarf gods, and his bride, Berronar Truesilver. He immediately bowed, honoring what was left of them.

The destruction had been deliberate. Torrin could see the gouges left by hammers. And it had most likely taken place long before, since there was no rubble on the floor. The mote, Torrin realized, had likely been part of a dwarf city-perhaps part of ancient Underhome. If so, the statues had probably been destroyed by the drow who had overrun that city, long before.

“Gods smite their dark hearts,” Torrin said through his clenched teeth.

The rusted nub of an iron bar protruded from the wall, just above the broken throne of Moradin’s statue. At first Torrin took it to be a reinforcing bar that had held the statue upright, but then he realized dwarf stonemasons would have done better work than that. Not only that, but the ceiling above was stained with soot, as if someone carrying a torch had stood in that spot for a while.

Torrin grabbed the iron stub and gave it a tug. The wall pivoted with a grinding noise, revealing a small hidden chamber. It was dark inside. Torrin took a moment to pull on his goggles.

His stomach gave a lurch as soon as he saw what was within. A pace or two in front of him lay Kier on the floor, next to a wooden strongbox half-filled with gold bars, each the size and shape of a stick of butter. Each was easily worth fifty gold coins. More gold bars were scattered across the floor. A fortune! Easily enough to pay for Torrin’s cleansing, a loremaster, or anything else Torrin desired.

Torrin’s elation was gone as quickly as it had come, however. Kier was hurt. He needed help.

Torrin stepped into the room and kneeled beside the boy. Immediately, a piercing cry like a woman’s scream filled the air. The sound came from a cluster of tiny white mushrooms that had rooted in a rotted beam that had fallen from the ceiling long ago. Also rooted in the beam were larger mushrooms of a vivid purple, with hairlike filaments waving above their spotted caps. Poisonous mushrooms-and Kier must have touched them.

“Mother of Safety!” Torrin cried. “By your sweet mercy, let the boy be alive!”

Torrin lifted Kier. The boy’s body was not yet cold-a hopeful sign. Gold bars clinked as Torrin kicked them out of the way. There was enough gold here to make a rogue weep, but Torrin cared nothing for it any longer. All that mattered was Kier.

He shouldered open the secret door and ran up the stairs, the boy limp in his arms. The purplish mushrooms were small-a fully grown specimen of the violet fungus stood twice the height of a dwarf-but there had been dozens of them in that room. Kier, praise Sharindlar, was still breathing, although the raspiness of his breath alarmed Torrin.

When Torrin got to the top of the stair, he saw the rope jerking sharply. He wondered what fresh crisis that implied, then realized that it was likely the skyrider who’d followed him to the mote, giving the rope a tug.

“Down here!” Torrin cried. “Bring your medicine pouch. We need help!”

Moments later, he heard wingbeats. The skyrider’s griffon came into view, tossing its horselike head and ruffling its feather mane as it hovered just outside the opening. The Peacehammer riding it had black hair, a beard whose lower half was encased in a tight golden tube, and a nose that looked as if it had been flattened in a fight.

When he saw Torrin he raised his crossbow. “Set the boy down, thief,” he ordered. “Gently, or I’ll put a bolt through your chest.”

“It’s not what you think,” Torrin said. “I’d never harm Kier. The boy’s my nephew.”

The skyrider snorted. “And I’m his mother,” he said as he sighted down the crossbow. “Put the boy down. Now. And when you’ve done that, you can unlash your mace and toss it to me. You’re under arrest, for the theft of a griffon.”

Torrin set Kier down. Gently. He fumbled at the straps that held his mace. “The boy’s been poisoned,” he said. “He touched a violet fungus. He needs a healing potion.”

“Your mace,” the skyrider repeated. “Toss it to me.”

Torrin at last got the weapon free and threw it to the skyrider, who caught it in one hand and deftly tucked it into a loop in his saddle.

“This boy’s grandfather is a Peacehammer,” Torrin told the skyrider. “Baelar Thunsonn. The boy took his mount-you must have seen the Thunsonn crest on the saddle. That’s why I borrowed the other griffon-to fetch the boy back so he wouldn’t be shot down for breaking quarantine. Please! If we don’t heal Kier quickly, he’ll die!”

The skyrider hesitated. Still holding his crossbow in one hand, he reached into the saddlebag behind him, never once taking his eyes from Torrin. He pulled out the medicine pouch that all skyriders carried, and pulled a metal vial from it. “Catch!” he called, tossing it to Torrin.

Torrin snatched it out of the air. He wrenched the cork out of the vial with his teeth and spat it aside. He squatted and gently lifted Kier’s head. He parted the boy’s lips, noting with more than a little alarm that they were turning blue. He poured in the potion and tipped Kier’s head back, hoping that the liquid wouldn’t slide down the boy’s airway and choke him.

Torrin heard the flap of wings and felt a gust of air from their downbeat. The skyrider was backing his mount away from the entrance. He had raised something round to his mouth and was speaking into it: one of the magical “sending stones” that allowed the Peacehammers to communicate with their commanders in Eartheart.

Kier coughed. Faintly. A moment later his eyelids fluttered open. He looked blearily around. “Uncle Torrin,” he said weakly. Then he retched, and threw up.

Torrin gently wiped Kier’s mouth with his sleeve. “That was a close one, lad,” he said. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

Kier struggled to sit up. “I found gold, Uncle!” he cried. “A king’s fortune in gold.”

“Indeed you did,” replied Torrin, “but not nearly enough to be worth your life.” He glanced at the skyrider, who was still speaking into his magical stone. “Now keep your voice down. We don’t want others chiseling in on our delve.”

Kier also glanced at the skyrider and dropped his voice to a whisper. “This mote was part of Underhome,” he said, looking steadily pinker as the skyrider’s potion did its work. “That box I found… Maybe it held more than just gold. Maybe there’s something else inside it. Something ancient.”

Torrin doubted it. The strongbox had looked brand new. “Do you feel strong enough to stand?” he asked Kier. “We should go.”

Kier rose to his feet; the potion had indeed completed its work. “I’m not leaving all that gold behind.”

“Yes you are,” Torrin replied firmly. He nodded in the direction of the skyrider, still engrossed in his communications with his commander. “Verdagain has blessed us this day by providing us with an escort-one who’s going to be so busy taking me into custody for stealing a griffon, he won’t have time to explore the mote. I’ll come back for the gold later.”

“How can you do that without a griffon?” Kier asked.

“Remember my runestone? Once I figure out how to use it, I can teleport here any time I like.”

Kier’s eyes gleamed.

“In the meantime,” Torrin said, “we’ve got some quick talking to do if we’re going to persuade that guard not to lock me up and throw away the key. I don’t want to be behind bars when your little sisters are born.”

“Little brothers,” Kier corrected. “Mother says they kick like boys.”

“Sisters,” Torrin said. He winked. “I’m going to win our bet, remember? You’re going to be sweeping my room for a month.”

Kier snorted. “If I lose, I’ll pay someone else to do it. I’m rich!”

Torrin felt a gust of wind as the skyrider flew closer again.

“You’re in luck, human,” the guard announced. “Captain Baelar has vouched for you. There’s still the matter of the stolen griffon to be dealt with, but for now I’m going to trust you. Is the boy strong enough to climb back up the rope?”

“I am!” Kier said.

“Then up to the top of the mote, the two of you,” said the skyrider. “We’re flying back.”

Torrin bowed, elated. “My thanks!” he called back.

“Don’t thank me-thank the boy’s grandfather,” replied the guard.

“When will I get my mace back?” Torrin asked.

“When we land in Hammergate,” he replied.

Torrin groaned inwardly. Hammergate? He didn’t want to sit outside the walls for days on end, waiting his turn to be cleansed. Not with the door to the earthmote’s secret room standing open, and the gold inside it just lying around for the taking. Still, what choice did he have? “Fair enough,” he said.

“Now climb,” the skyrider ordered. “The boy first, then you.”

Torrin glanced down at Kier and saw that the boy’s eyes were twinkling. Torrin could guess why. “Don’t think you’re getting up to more mischief,” he warned. “I’m going to have my eye on you every single moment we’re in Hammergate. There’ll be no chats with outlanders and tallfolk, no trips to the Gatehouse Inn. Just days and days of sitting around, doing nothing, waiting for our turn in the temple pool.”

Kier pouted in silence. It seemed to have finally sunk in that his adventure was at an end. Being poisoned hadn’t brought it home, but the prospect of several days of tedium had.

With Kier safe, Torrin’s thoughts turned back to the gold below. A single bar would be enough to pay the tithe for his previous cleansing, if only he could recover the gold. Another bar would pay for the cleansing to come. And there had been far more than just two gold bars-more than enough to equip an expedition to the Soulforge!

All Torrin had to do was figure out how to use the runestone-and quickly-before someone else visited the earthmote and found all that gold.

Torrin placed both of his hands on the dusty counter and leaned in closer to the head stonecutter. “I swear, by Moradin’s beard,” he said vehemently. “There’s a small fortune in it for you. Just loan me one of your motediscs for the day and I’ll cut you in on the profits from my delve.”

The foreman folded his burly arms across his chest. He was short, even for a dwarf, with a forked beard whose two braids had been pulled to the top of his head and clipped together-a peculiar style that no doubt raised more than its share of snickers. But judging by the defiant glint in the foreman’s eye, he enjoyed a good fight.

“No credit,” he repeated. “Especially for humans.” He picked up his hammer and chisel and glared at Torrin a moment more, as if daring him to provide an excuse to use the tools on Torrin’s skull. Then he turned toward the workroom where knappers banged away at slabs of earthmote that had been secured to worktables with vises, so they wouldn’t drift away.

Torrin swore under his beard. He was knee-deep in irony. He’d invented the motedisc-not that anyone ever believed him when he told that tale. Four years after he’d discovered he was really a dwarf recast in a human body, he’d sought out an apprenticeship in a suitably honorable trade, as a stonecutter at a quarry near Glitterdelve. Wielding a hammer and a chisel all day throughout his teenage years had given him his bulging biceps. The smell of stone dust still took him back to the days before he’d taken up an adventurer’s life.

One day, during an all-too-rare visit to the surface permitted during his apprenticeship, Torrin had noted that the chunks of stone that sometimes crumbled from an earthmote continued to float for some time, after calving off from the main body of the mote. Inspiration struck. What if, he thought, he could find an earthmote comprised of flint or chert-stone that split easily into sheets-and then split off chunks of it and shape them into circles. The shield-sized floating discs would be similar to the metal “driftdiscs” the drow crafted with their dark magic.

It had taken some time to push past the stubborn resistance of Ryordin Hammerfist, the quarry master. He’d insisted, at first, that the idea “stank like something drow.” Eventually, however, he’d realized there was coin to be made-especially once the chips of earthmote were “tempered” in the magic of a particular earth node near Glitterdelve, ensuring that the magic that kept them bobbing about didn’t bleed away from the worked stone.

The motedisc had been Torrin’s idea, yet he hadn’t seen a single copper of profit from it. And he couldn’t even afford to buy one.

The motedisc factory was located at the very edge of Hammergate, at a spot that afforded a view of the Underchasm. As Torrin stepped out into the rain, he could see the earthmote that he and Kier had visited two days before. He stared forlornly at it, wondering how he was ever going to reach it again. His plan had been to secure a motedisc big enough to support him, then wait until the wind was blowing in the right direction. He’d rig a sail that would catch the wind and ride the motedisc to the earthmote.

Today, the wind was perfect. But he was back to where he’d started-scratching his head and trying to figure out how the runestone worked, so he could use it to teleport to the earthmote, instead.

“Depressing, isn’t it?” a voice asked from near his elbow.

Torrin turned. Few people were on the streets on such a wet, blustery day. He glanced down at the dwarf who’d stopped beside him to also stare out across the Underchasm. His clothing was worn, his posture stooped. His head was balding on top, with scraggly hairs on the sides, and his movements were slow and stiff.

The dwarf gestured at the Underchasm. “So much of our heritage, lost in the collapse,” he said sadly. Then he glanced up at Torrin’s backpack, and his eyes widened. “By Moradin’s beard!” he exclaimed. “You’re a Delver? Yes, yes, of course. I’ve heard of you. The human delver who spoke to the Council the other night. I hear you made quite the impression on the Lord Scepter.” He extended a hand, grunting with the effort. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. What was your name again?”

Torrin reached down to clasp the dwarf’s hand. “Torrin Ironstar. Pleased to-”

Something smashed into the left side of Torrin’s head. Stars exploded across his vision. As he collapsed, he caught a brief glimpse of a human who’d snuck up behind him. The man held a weighted leather sap-a rogue’s weapon. Torrin fell to the ground, fighting to stay conscious, trying to reach his mace. He heard footsteps running away-the dwarf who’d distracted him while the rogue crept up behind.

The rogue grinned, revealing a missing tooth. “Nighty night,” he said.

He slugged Torrin a second time. Consciousness fled.

“Torrin! Wake up. Gods have mercy, don’t let him be dead!”

Kier’s voice finally pierced the heavy red throbbing that filled Torrin’s head. Torrin groaned.

“Praise Moradin!” he heard Kier cry. “He’s alive!”

Torrin winced. He felt cold, wet cobblestones under his right cheek. Rain struck his left temple, where he’d been hit with the sap, each droplet a tiny hammer of agony. The water trickled down into his mouth, carrying the taste of blood.

He felt Kier’s small hands under his armpits, urging him to rise. He sat up, and nearly collapsed again. Vomit rose in his throat. He swallowed it down and blinked, trying to focus.

“Uncle? Uncle!” Kier cried shrilly.

“I’m… all right,” Torrin said. The lie seemed to satisfy Kier. Shakily, Torrin rose to his feet and touched his temple. His fingers came away bloody. His head rang like a struck gong, but at least the nausea was ebbing. Moment by moment, he felt more steady on his feet. Those were good signs.

He realized someone else was standing next to Kier-the foreman from the motedisc factory. He was staring down the street with a furious scowl, his stonecutter’s hammer still raised. “And stay away!” he shouted to an empty street.

He turned to Torrin. “You all right, human?”

Torrin nodded, wincing. “I think so,” he replied. He glanced down and was relieved to see his mace was still on his belt. The rogues hadn’t stolen it. Moradin had shown one small mercy, that day.

Bearded faces peered out of the motedisc factory.

“Back to work, you lot!” the foreman shouted. “The entertainment is over.”

The faces disappeared.

“Any excuse to slack off,” the foreman grumbled. He stomped back to the factory.

Aside from Torrin and Kier, the rain-slick street was empty. There was no sign of the rogues. Torrin’s clothes were wet, but not yet fully soaked through. He hadn’t lain there long.

Kier looked up at him with an anxious expression. “I saw him, too, Uncle,” he said. “A human. He was trying to get something out of your pack.” He pointed in the direction the foreman had shouted. “He ran off when the stonecutter ran into the street. He went that way.”

Torrin clasped the boy’s shoulder, both to steady himself and to hold Kier back. The boy scowled as if he wanted to run after the rogue and teach him a lesson. “You showed the wisdom of a longbeard by not challenging him yourself,” he said. “Those two were professional rogues who knew their business; I was taken in by the old talk-and-tap.”

“Should we call the Peacehammers?” asked Kier.

“Too late for that,” Torrin said. “The rogue and his accomplice will already be long gone. And they didn’t get anything.” He jerked a fist over his shoulder. “Not from my pack, anyway.”

Of that, Torrin could be certain. He might be a Delver of the second rank, but his pack was the same as any worn by a first-rank member. It would only release its contents to the Delver to whom it had been keyed. Anyone else who reached inside would feel only emptiness.

“Why did they attack you?” Kier asked. “Was it-” he glanced around furtively and dropped his voice to a whisper-“Was it because of our delve? Do they know about the gold?”

“I doubt it,” Torrin said. He gently touched his aching head. “I think it was my runestone they were after.”

It all fit. The older dwarf had mentioned the Council meeting. And as soon as Torrin had confirmed that he was the one who’d appeared before the Council, the attack had come. Someone who was at that meeting must have commented on Torrin’s runestone afterward, either within earshot of the rogues or to someone they knew.

It couldn’t have been Kendril’s brother Jorn or the cleric Maliira. Neither had been in the Council chambers when Torrin had spoken of his transaction with Kendril. Nor was it likely that Frivaldi had said anything to tip off the rogues. Torrin might be human, and only a second-rank member, but a Delver’s lips were sealed, when it came to fellow members of his order. And the clerics who’d examined the runestone were also bound by oaths to keep silent about the Delvers’ business.

It had to have been one of the Deep Lords who’d let it slip.

Accidentally, of course. The Deep Lords were honorable to the core. Stout and true… but perhaps, Torrin realized, not when a “human” was involved. And that’s what they had seen, when they had stared down at Torrin. A human.

He sighed. “We’d best get cleansed and into Eartheart, Kier. And as quickly as possible. Darkness only knows what those two rogues might try next.”