Spider and Stone

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE HALL OF LOST VOICES

26 UKTAR

Ruen awoke in the dark, in unbearable pain.

At first, he didn’t realize how badly he was hurt. He was too surprised and relieved at being alive to appreciate the large, solid weight pressing down on his right arm. Ruen tried to shift to see if he could pull himself free. A white-hot bolt of pain shot up his arm, and darkness swirled up to claim him again.

He floated between consciousness and oblivion, dreaming little half dreams that ran together in his mind. In his dreams, he crouched on the ground as a bugbear came for him, raining blows down upon his head. The punches burned where they struck his flesh, hotter and hotter, until Ruen looked up and saw the creature was on fire. Its flesh melted and reshaped into Sull’s bright face and red hair.

The butcher shouted at him, laughing, but Ruen couldn’t hear what he was saying. He raised his hands imploringly, trying to tell Sull to slow down. Couldn’t he see Ruen was hurt? Ruen tried to grab Sull’s arm, but the butcher pulled back, and a spasm of fear twisted his face.

Sull was afraid of him. He didn’t want Ruen to touch him. Ruen moaned and turned away from the butcher. The scene faded, and he was in the dark again.

When he opened his eyes, he beheld a wall of moving green. His vision focused on oak tree branches stirring in the breeze. He sat up and saw that he was in a grove of the tall oaks. And he wasn’t alone.

Icelin sat with her back against one of the tree trunks. She wore the same plain linen dress he’d seen her wear in Waterdeep. A book lay open in her lap.

“It’s all right,” she said, speaking to him without taking her eyes off the page she was reading. “You’re not broken.”

“I …” Pain shuddered through his body. He was hurt, maybe dying. Why wouldn’t she look at him? “Help me, Icelin.”

“I can’t.” She turned the page.

“Why?” He crawled to her, reaching out to lay his trembling hand over hers. He wasn’t wearing his glove.

“Don’t!” Icelin jerked her hand away. She stared at him as if he’d stabbed her. Tiny fires kindled in her eyes. “You’ve ruined everything!” Heat radiated from her body, suffusing her skin with a hellish glow.

“No!” Ruen screamed an instant before she burst into flames. He screamed and screamed, but he couldn’t look away as Icelin burned to death in front of his eyes. The darkness came for him again.

When he awoke from the dreams, cold sweat stood out on his face, and he was shivering. Ruen licked his dry, cracked lips and smiled bitterly into the darkness. The expression pulled at cuts and bruises all over his face. Learned my lesson. He wouldn’t try to move his right arm again, but his left arm was free.

Ruen lifted it, flexed his fingers and twisted his wrist. He reached up and felt for his neck pouch-seeking the small steel vial that he kept there, the healing potion he saved for the worst, most debilitating wounds. This one certainly qualified.

His fingers closed around the vial. Ruen worked the stopper free and put the rim to his lips. The liquid stirred up stone grit in his mouth. He swallowed it all, wincing. Dust burned in his eyes, so he kept them closed while he waited for the potion to take effect. There was nothing to see anyway. Darkness lay over the cavern like a shroud.

The pain in his arm slowly ebbed, and the dark cloud around his thoughts receded. With clarity came purpose. Lying quietly and listening, Ruen began to make out other signs of life around him. Whimpers, coughing, cursing, and the scrape of boots on stone told him he wasn’t alone.

As far as he knew, he was still in the Hall of Lost Voices-what was left of it. Thinking back, Ruen remembered the explosions, the falling stone as the cavern collapsed around him. The drow had planned it all, sacrificing their own soldiers and slaves to decimate the dwarf forces.

But why engineer a cave-in? Why not occupy the tunnels and press forward, begin the siege of Iltkazar in earnest? After this victory, what were the drow waiting for?

Unless they didn’t intend to take the city. Ruen considered the drow’s strategy. So far, they’d struck at Iltkazar in a series of small-scale engagements, harrying the dwarves and dwindling their numbers, never committing too large a force to any single attack. What if it was all a ruse to distract from their true objective?

Zollgarza and the Arcane Script Sphere. Mith Barak was right. Somehow, they were the key, important enough that the drow sent their wizards with a sacrificial army.

And we fell right into their trap.

Fury brought renewed energy to Ruen’s body. He had to get out of here, get back to Iltkazar-and Icelin.

First, he had to free himself. Luckily, whatever had crushed his arm initially wasn’t what pinned it now. Wedged between two large boulders, his arm had healed enough from the potion that he could move it with very little pain. He worked it carefully free from the stones’ grip, tearing his sleeve and earning a dozen smaller cuts and bruises in the process.

When he was free, he sat up. Lights had kindled at various points around the cavern as the survivors found torches, and Ruen could begin to see the shadowy remnants of the Hall of Lost Voices. Bodies lay everywhere, though there was very little left of those corpses that had been closest to the enspelled bugbears.

“Garn.” Ruen spoke the name in a hoarse whisper. The runepriest had been near him when the blasts started. Ruen looked around but saw no sign of him. He got gingerly to his feet and moved through the dark cavern, keeping his eyes on the ground. Every few feet, he encountered a body. He knelt next to the still forms and felt for a heartbeat. None that he touched were alive. Grateful for the wavering darkness so he would not have to see the full extent of the mutilation inflicted on the dwarves, Ruen kept moving, searching for Garn.

He worked his way to a wall, leaning against a pile of rubble. The healing potion had mended his arm and taken away the greater share of the pain, but he was still exhausted from the fighting, the squinting and creeping in the dark, and the stench of death that blanketed the cavern.

His leg bumped against a solid object. Ruen heard a soft moan then the hiss of a weapon cutting the air as a dark shape lunged at him.

Ruen threw his hands out blindly-better to lose his fingers than his head-and got lucky. He caught a wooden axe handle, but the weight of the blow knocked him to his knees.

Flashing eyes and a dirty brown beard filled his vision. Ruen didn’t recognize the dwarf at first, but the axe blade had three familiar black horns jutting off it.

“Obrin,” he said. “It’s me-Ruen.”

It took Obrin a long time to recognize him. Ruen’s arms ached from holding back the axe, but finally the dwarf eased back. Ruen expected a stream of curses in Dwarvish to follow, but Obrin did the last thing he ever expected.

He burst into tears.

Ruen caught the dwarf at the shoulders before he fell. It was as if he’d used the last shreds of his strength for the blow with his axe. He sobbed quietly, barely making a sound, but his shoulders trembled violently under Ruen’s hands. Looking over his shoulder, in the dim light, Ruen saw the reason for Obrin’s tears.

Garn lay on the ground, his face swollen with bruises and gashes that made him almost unrecognizable. Ruen wouldn’t have known him if not for the runes still faintly visible under the dirt and blood. A pile of rubble buried the right side of his body. Ruen was convinced the runepriest was dead, but when he guided Obrin to sit next to the body, he saw Garn’s chest rising and falling.

“He’s alive,” Ruen murmured. “Obrin, your father lives.”

Obrin grabbed Ruen’s tunic and jerked him close. “He’s dying,” the dwarf growled in broken Common. His accent was so thick, Ruen barely understood him. “Dying in agony. Can’t even pray!”

“Let me look at him.” Ruen worked Obrin’s fingers loose from his tunic and knelt next to Garn. The runepriest opened his eyes and looked at Ruen. For a breath, there was no recognition in his eyes. “Garn, your son is here,” Ruen said. Obrin’s hands lay slackly in his lap. Ruen lifted one and placed it in Garn’s.

Garn drew in a breath and gasped. Pain clouded his vision. Obrin held his hand and leaned in close, whispering something to his father. Garn moaned softly and moved his head from side to side. Obrin looked up at Ruen imploringly.

“Garn, do you hear me?” Ruen said. He eased his glove off his left hand and laid it on the dwarf’s forehead. He’d expected the cold, but it still made him gasp with its intensity. His heart stuttered in his chest. Inside and out, Garn’s body was broken. It was surely a miracle from his god that he still drew breath at all. “I don’t have any more healing draughts,” Ruen said. “Can you call on your god to heal your wounds?”

Garn moved his head from side to side again. A cough shook his body, wracking the already devastated frame. Garn cried out in anguish. “Leave me. Leave it be!”

“He’s out of his head,” Obrin said. “Doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

Ruen pulled off his other glove, leaned over Garn and put both hands on his chest. Energy tingled at his fingertips, waiting for his call. “Help him,” he told Obrin. “Say the words in the Dwarvish tongue.”

“It’s too late,” Obrin said. “He’s going.”

“He’s not gone yet!” Ruen snapped. “He needs to hear his son’s voice. If he knows he’s not alone, he’ll come back. He just needs to move beyond the pain and remember who he is.”

Obrin scrubbed a hand across his wet eyes and nodded. He began speaking softly in Dwarvish. The words turned into a rhythmic chant, the sounds rumbling from the dwarf’s chest, rolling out smoothly on the air. Ruen closed his eyes and let himself be lulled by the soothing prayer, though he couldn’t understand the words.

Energy, life-it all comes from the hands. His teachers at the monastery had told him this, though he’d never truly understood what they meant. The power provided strength, balance, and peace. He’d never understood because he’d never thought the teaching applied to him. In his mind, the spellscar eclipsed everything, tainted all that he touched, the power that slept inside him.

“That’s why you’re leaving. Will you run forever, Ruen Morleth?”

Carlvaris-his teacher’s words. It had been years since Ruen had thought of him. He’d never liked the man or any of his other teachers, though that hadn’t been their fault.

His mind was wandering. Ruen tried to refocus his concentration, but Garn’s broken body faded, and an image of Icelin replaced it. She smiled at him while flames licked at her flesh. The memory of the dream slammed into him, and Ruen’s resolve wavered. Power surged and died.

“So weak. You’ve always let it hold you back.”

The teacher’s voice cut at him. How can I not? Ruen thought. It breaks down my body, piece by piece, bone by bone. No one should hold death in his hands. How could he touch her, knowing what was in his hands?

Ruen looked down and saw Garn’s eyes open and fixed upon him. Something-a light, a spark of life-kindled in the dwarf’s eyes.

“I feel it,” he rasped. “So warm …”

“I can’t … it’s not what you think,” Ruen faltered. He was no healer. All he felt was cold.

Obrin laid his hand over Ruen’s, linking the three of them. “Moradin, aid us,” he prayed. “We’re alone in the dark and lost. Guide us. Show us the way.” He looked at Ruen as he spoke the words in Common.

Ruen fought to clear his mind. He breathed in deeply and released the breath, forcing himself to release his doubts as well. Garn’s life depended on it. The power surged in his hands, warmth swelling to replace the cold. His life force extended from his hands to cradle Garn. It was not healing, but strength he lent to the dwarf-balance and peace.

Garn opened his eyes wide. A flash of gold light outlined the runes on his face. Obrin gasped, but Ruen couldn’t look away from the dwarf’s eyes. Tears dripped down the runepriest’s face.

“Moradin, be with me,” Garn murmured. “I’m not done yet. Please.”

The prayer’s effect came from within Garn’s body. Ruen felt the flesh and bone mending, the cuts and bruises on Garn’s face closing. The healing magic enveloped his own life energy, and Ruen stifled a shocked cry.

Moradin’s blessing washed through him, hot like the time he’d stepped into Ingara’s forge. He saw her face in his mind’s eye, working the rare metals for her wedding gift to her man. The image faded, and then he saw Obrin, swinging his axe at a group of drow that surrounded him. They outnumbered him four to one, but he took them on fearlessly, and fatherly pride swelled in Ruen’s chest.

Garn’s memories. Linked to the dwarf body and mind, Ruen felt the dwarf’s memories swell in him even as healing magic swirled through them both. He tried to pull away. He felt like an intruder, but Moradin’s power held them fast.

In memory, Obrin’s battlefield changed to an open plaza, where two dwarves stood, waiting to be married. Was this the future? Ruen thought. Was he seeing Ingara’s wedding? No, it wasn’t Ingara. The female dwarf looked a bit like her, but her hair was golden, more like Joya’s, and the man standing next to her was definitely not Arngam but a younger version of Garn. The couple smiled happily at each other, and the woman leaned over spontaneously to kiss Garn.

The scene melted to the interior of a temple. Garn knelt before an altar, his arms wrapped around Joya as she wept.

“They’re gone!” Joya sobbed. “What am I going to do now, Father? Both halves of my heart-they’ve been torn out.”

“You know better than that,” Garn gently chided his daughter. “Your mother and your goddess are still with you. Be strong, child. Your mother carried so many sorrows. I hoped it wouldn’t be your fate, but we do what we must …”

The vision faded. Images crowded together faster now, dizzying Ruen. Garn being embraced by his king-a feeling of sorrow so strong it choked the dwarf silent, though he desperately wanted to speak to his friend. Mith Barak turned away and ascended his throne. A brilliant flash of light, and suddenly the king transformed, his flesh turning grayish silver and solid. He’d become a statue upon his throne, his eyes staring vacantly at Garn.

Too much. Ruen cried out as the memories blended with his own-images of his mother when he was a child, the people in his village running away when he came near. They were afraid he would touch them. He was ill luck, a child of death. Even his mother had looked at him thus. When she smiled at him, Ruen saw the fear and revulsion lurking just under the surface.

His teachers loomed over him, admonishing him to be strong, to look past his spellscar. None of them understood. The memories pressed in on him all at once, shadows he’d thought long buried, drawn from the dark places in his heart.

Gods, Garn was seeing it all too, Ruen realized, all of his deepest secrets and fears. Their memories blended. He had nowhere to hide. Instinctively, Ruen tore himself away, and a searing pain enveloped his hands.

Then it ended. Ruen came back to himself slowly. Afraid that he’d find himself trapped in another memory, Ruen cautiously looked around. Soon enough he recognized the dark cavern and the smell of death. He lay on his back next to Garn, who was sitting up with Obrin’s aid. Sometime while the two were linked, Obrin must have cleared the rubble to free his father.

“Are you all right?” Obrin asked Ruen, speaking again, haltingly, in the common tongue.

Ruen nodded. The movement revealed a dull ache in his head, as if he’d had too much to drink. Drunk on memories. Ruen almost chuckled at the notion, but he was too weary and heartsick with everything he’d just seen.

He looked at Garn. The runepriest had his eyes closed and fingered the holy symbol he wore around his neck. He spoke softly under his breath, still communing with his god. Ruen didn’t blame him. Moradin’s power still thrummed in his veins-a warm touch, but rough like a calloused hand. Healing energy suffused his limbs. They’d completely healed his broken arm.

“The others are regrouping,” Obrin said as more lights kindled around the cavern, revealing dwarves moving around the battlefield, tending to the wounded and collecting the dead. “We need to be on the move, see how bad the tunnels are.”

“We’ll have a lot of digging ahead of us,” Garn said, opening his eyes abruptly. His voice was clear and free of pain. “Moradin knows we’ll need every hand we can spare to get us back to the city.”

“This attack was just a decoy,” Ruen said, “a distraction. Their target is the sphere, not the city itself. By now they must know Zollgarza’s failed to get it, so they’ll attack the city directly.”

“Then we dig fast,” Garn said. “My hands are healed, and by the gods, I know how to move the earth. Moradin gave me a second chance to do what I do best.” He glanced at Ruen. “And you-you have my thanks,” he said. “When you touched me, I saw-”

“So did I,” Ruen interrupted. “Things we didn’t mean for the other to see. I won’t speak of them, I promise you.”

Garn looked puzzled. “Or maybe we were meant to speak of them,” he said. “Whatever’s inside you, human, it touched me, and it wasn’t death. You shouldn’t be afraid of your power.”

Ruen started to reply, to dismiss the dwarf’s point, but he hesitated under the scrutiny of Garn’s gaze. The dwarf had seen inside of him, his memories and fears. Lies and dismissals couldn’t hide the truth from him.

“Everyone I’ve ever let close has turned from me,” Ruen said. “You saw it for yourself, in my memories. The spellscar made my bones brittle and brought me so close to death that it became a part of me. I can measure your life force just by touching you.”

“Bah, that doesn’t mean you cause death,” Garn said. “You touched me, and I felt warmth, not ice. You brought me back from the brink, cleared my head, and let me reach out to my god.” His voice cracked. “That’s worth something, boy.”

“What if you were in my place?” Ruen challenged him. “What if you’d known before it happened that your wife was going to die?”

“I did know,” Garn said flatly. Beside him, Obrin, who’d been quietly watching the two, put his hand on his father’s arm. “You didn’t see all the memories. I didn’t know it on the day she got sick, but soon after, I saw it. I read it in her eyes. You don’t always have to have magic to know when you’re looking death in the face.” Garn looked at Obrin, staring into his son’s eyes. Ruen realized then that Obrin had his mother’s eyes. “Knowing what I knew didn’t taint the time we had left,” Garn went on. “I wouldn’t let it.”

“This isn’t the same,” Ruen said.

“Isn’t it?” Garn said softly. “Don’t worry,” he added. “I know you don’t want me to speak of what I saw in your mind. I won’t talk about the girl, but you can’t lie to yourself. You know what you feel.”

“What if it isn’t enough?” Ruen said, and this time it was his own body that felt like ice. “What if she rejects what she sees in me?”

“Her choice,” Obrin said, shrugging. “Trust her.”

Ruen looked at Obrin. The gruff, taciturn dwarf actually smiled at him. It was a faint, tremulous expression, and completely out of place on the warrior’s face, but then again, nothing made sense on this battlefield. Ruen had never dreamed he’d be sitting with these two dwarves in the middle of a war, talking about his hopes, fears, and loves.

Yes, he loved Icelin. Garn was right. Ruen couldn’t lie to himself-or her-anymore. He had to get out of here, back to Iltkazar before the drow attack came. He owed her an explanation for why he’d pushed her away.

Reality hit Ruen then. Several tons of rock lay between him and that lofty goal. Not to mention the fact that Icelin was probably furious at him for how he’d behaved. He likely had a lot of digging and then a lot more groveling ahead of him. Ruen groaned silently. “We should get moving,” he said.