Realms of the Dragons vol.1

STANDARD DELVING PROCEDURE

7 Eleint, the Year of Wild Magic (1372 DR)

Frivaldi strode up to the door. It was massive, made of solid iron, its hinges bolted into the rough stone wall of the tunnel. Its handle was a simple lever. The keyhole under it was shield-shaped. Under the rust that mottled the door's surface, he could see a raised symbol: a curved hunting horn with a six-pointed star above and below it.

"You were right," he called back over his shoulder. "It's the Sign of the Realm, just where you said it would be."

Durin, several paces behind in the darkened tunnel, grunted.

"Oh come on,' Durin," Frivaldi exclaimed. "You've got to be just a little bit excited. Nobody's been through this door in more than seven thousand years. We'll be the first dwarves to set foot in Torunn's Forge since it fell to the goblins. Smile a little!"

"We're not inside yet."

Frivaldi waggled his fingers and said, "Easy as splitting slate. I've yet to meet a lock that was my match."

"You, who became a Delver just eight months ago. This is only your second delve."

"My third," Frivaldi corrected.

"If it was your one hundred and third delve, it might impress me."

Frivaldi shrugged off the snide comment. Durin never lost an opportunity to remind him how young he was-probably because Durin was so old. The veteran Delver was a hundred and ninety-seven, well past his prime. His weathered face had a diagonal scar that carved a valley through his eyebrow, nose, and cheek, and the joints of his fingers were knobby with age. His hair-what remained of it-was steel-gray. His beard, which hung in a single braid tossed over one shoulder with its tip dragging on the ground behind him, was as white as quartz.

Frivaldi's beard, as dark and curly as lichen, had sprouted only the year before. He'd been a late bloomer, celebrating his coming of age at twenty-seven-two years later than most dwarves. He didn't appreciate being reminded of that fact.

He flipped his long, unruly hair out of his eyes and turned back to the door. He squatted and blew dust out of the lock-and blinked furiously as it stung his eyes. Ignoring Durin's chuckle, Frivaldi twisted the magical ring on the forefinger of his right hand, causing a prong to spring from the plain iron band. He inserted it in the lock.

Durin interrupted with a cough.

"What?" Frivaldi asked, irritated.

Closing his eyes, he probed the lock's interior with the prong and located its first pin.

"Standard delving procedure for doors," Durin said, "is 'LLOST: Listen, LOok, Search for Traps.' You looked, but did not listen."

"For what?" Frivaldi twisted the prong but the pin didn't shift. Seven thousand years of rust had frozen the lock's workings. "This door's a palm's width thick, at least. There could be a dragon on the other side and I wouldn't hear it."

"Nor did you search for traps," Durin continued.

"It's been thousands of years," Frivaldi muttered. "Any traps are going to be frozen with rust."

He could hear Durin moving away, retreating around the bend of the tunnel. Standard delving procedure, Durin called it, backing it up with a quote from the Delver's Tome: "When facing a potential danger, one member of the delving pair should remain in a position of safety, thus ensuring that a report can be delivered to the Order in case of calamity." But Frivaldi suspected the exaggerated caution was rooted in Durin's age. The longer the beard, the more fearful a dwarf became of tripping over it.

Frivaldi felt the rust holding the pin give a little, and gave the prong a sharp wrench. The prong bent. Cursing, he retracted it back into his ring. From around the corner, Durin continued to scold. "There may be a ward. When I delved the Halls of Haunghdannar…"

The door bore no glyph. Even through its mottling of rust Frivaldi could see that much. As Durin droned on, Frivaldi rose to his feet, rolling his eyes. Durin was agonizingly tedious-especially when he got on to one of his stories about the delves of decades gone by and the artifacts he'd carried home to Brightman-tle's temple, described right down to the last boring detail. For Frivaldi, delving wasn't so much about the artifact-surely the dwarves had enough magical axes already-as the challenges faced along the way. That lock, for example-the centuries of rust that had frozen its pins in place would have defeated even the most experienced rogue. But where finesse had failed, brute magic could hammer a way through.

He rapped his ring against the door and said, "01-burakrinr

The lock clicked and the door slammed open with a boom that rattled the floor under Frivaldi's boots, releasing a gust of stale air. Beyond the door was a staircase leading down into darkness. Its stairs were cut from the native rock, worn smooth by the feet of centuries-dead dwarves. Grinning, Frivaldi took a step across the threshold-

And something metal clanged onto the floor behind him. A heavy object slammed into his back, knocking him headlong down the stairs. Frivaldi scrabbled for a grip, trying to halt his tumble, but his head slammed against stone. Sparks exploded across his vision, then all went black.

Durin thumbed the cork out of the vial, parted Frivaldi's lips, and poured a dose of healing potion into the unconscious dwarfs mouth. The smell of honey, herbs, and troll's blood lingered in the air as Frivaldi sputtered, then swallowed. His eyes fluttered and he groaned.

Durin touched the egg-sized lump on Frivaldi's head and felt it slowly sink away as the potion took effect. He clucked his tongue, resisting the urge to scold. The boy would either learn from the experience and be a little more cautious around trapped doors, or not.

Most likely not.

"What… what happened?" Frivaldi asked, sitting up. his voice echoing in the cavernous space.

"There was a pendulum trap at the top of the stairs," he told Frivaldi. "Had you followed standard-"

"So it knocked me down the stairs and I bumped my head," Frivaldi said. "So what? I'm good as new, thanks to the healing potion."

"The pendulum was an axe," Durin continued. "Through luck alone, the wood had shrunk and the loosened blade fell off before it struck you. That axe might have cleaved you in two-killed you-and all because you didn't follow standard delving procedure."

Instead of looking properly contrite, Frivaldi rolled his eyes.

"I know," he said. "LOST."

"L–LOST," Durin corrected. "Listen, LOok-"

Frivaldi rubbed his head and finished for him, "-and Spring the Trap."

Durin sighed. Could he teach his apprentice nothing? He recorked the vial and tucked it back into a side pouch of his Delver's pack, then unbuckled the main flap. Reaching inside the magical pack, he pictured the object he was searching for and felt it nudge his hand. He drew out the map he'd assembled through decades of research and carefully unrolled it. The chamber they stood in was large, extending beyond the limits of his darkvision, and had an arched roof high enough to accommodate a giant. Its floor, once polished, had been cracked by some long-ago earth tremor. Skeletons in rotted leather armor lay on the floor where they had fallen-skeletons with grossly elongated arms and wide jawbones set with small, sharp fangs. These were the goblins that had overrun the kingdom of Oghrann and the stronghold of Torunn the Bold.

Frivaldi clambered to his feet and looked around.

His eye settled on the statues that stood on either side of the staircase.

"Are those supposed to be Moradin?" he asked. "They look like they were hacked out with an axe."

Durin bristled. Frivaldi knew nothing about art.

"They are hewn in a style distinctive of ancient Oghrann," he patiently explained. "Do you see the sharp angles of their foreheads, noses, and chins?"

Frivaldi nodded, but his attention was wandering.

"They are meant to resemble the facets of a gem," Durin explained as he strode over to the nearest statue and ran a hand along the stone.

The surface was precise and smooth, not a chip or a mis-chisel on it. If he'd had a block and tackle and a team of ponies, he would have gladly hauled the statues away. They would have made a fine addition, indeed, to the athenaeum in Silverymoon.

"The arms, legs, and fingers deliberately hexagonal, like rock crystals," Durin continued. "These statues are an exquisite example of their type, a metaphor in stone for the creation of the dwarf race, which Moradin crafted from precious metals and gems cut from the heart of the-"

"So is this the hall we were looking for?" Frivaldi interrupted. He nudged one of the skeletons with his boot. Its skull collapsed, and a rusted helmet clattered to the floor. "I don't see any axe. Lots of goblin swords and maces, but no axe."

Durin sighed. What, by the gleam in Brightmantle's eye, were the Delvers using as selection criteria these days?

"This," Durin concluded, "must be All-Father's Hall. The Bane of Caeruleus lies to the southwest, in the Hall of Hammers."

He paced a straight line across the hall, which turned out to be precisely forty paces wide. Reaching the wall, he turned right-standard delving procedure was ERROR: Enter Right, Return Opposite Right-making a circuit of the octagonal hall. As he walked, he quoted from The Fall of the Bold, a saga he'd spent decades piecing together from fragments: inscriptions on standing stones and feast bowls, dusty parchments long forgotten on library shelves, and bardic song.

And when the Hall of Hammers fell,

Bold Torunn heard his own death knell.

The Bane of Caeruleus he had wrought,

Abandoned lay, 'twas all for naught."

Frivaldi trotted behind him, scuffling and scattering skeletons.

"I don't see any dwarf bodies," Frivaldi said.

"The dwarves carried out their dead," Durin replied. "It was an orderly retreat."

Spotting a crack in the wall that ran square to the floor, Durin examined it according to procedure. FAIL: Feel Air, Inspect, and Listen. He wet a finger and held it to the crack. No air was escaping. He ran a palm against the floor, but found no groove that would indicate that feet had worn away the stone. He gave the wall a sequence of sharp raps with his delving pick, but heard no telltale reverberations. The crack was a natural fissure leading a short distance into the wall, not a secret door.

Frivaldi, all the while, stared idly around. "So why didn't they take the axe with them?"

" 'Weapon,'" Durin corrected as he resumed his circuit of the hall. He passed the staircase. "The precise translation from Auld Dethek is 'weapon.'"

Frivaldi waved a hand and said, "Axe, weapon-whatever. Why didn't they take it with them, if it was so valuable?"

"The Bane was too large," Durin explained. "Only Torunn could wield it."

He paused. A portion of the wall was angled slightly off true. It was time for MISS: Manipulate, Inspect, Slide, Shove. He pressed a raised spot on the wall next to it, but nothing happened. The section of wall didn't slide when he pressed his palms to it and pushed up, then down, then left, then right. Nor did it rotate open under a sharp nudge from his shoulder.

Frivaldi, all the while, continued to be idle. He could, at least, have leant his shoulder to the shove. Instead he persisted with his foolish speculations.

"Torunn led the shield band that broke through the goblin ranks. Why didn't he use the axe against the goblins?"

Durin sighed and continued his circuit of the hall. Frivaldi obviously hadn't been paying attention the night Durin had recited the saga for him. Verses one thousand three hundred and fifty-six through one thousand three hundred and seventy-four clearly stated the purpose of the magical weapon Torunn had forged-to slay a blue dragon that had been troubling the realm for nearly a century: the dragon Caeruleus. The magical weapon would enable Torunn to fight the dragon "claw for claw," according to the poetic language of the saga. Its wielder would be immune to the blue dragon's primary attack-the bolt of lighting it spat from its mouth-and to the aura of fear that preceded the beast like a shadow. Against goblins, however, the Bane would be no more effective than an ordinary weapon.

Since his map had proved accurate, it was all Durin could do to keep his emotions in check. His lip had twitched at least twice, threatening to pull his mouth into a smile-he straightened it into its usual grim line.

If he did succumb to idle mirth, however, he'd have good cause. After decades of searches in the Stormhorn

Mountains, he'd at last found Torunn's Forge. He was certain of it. Recovering the Bane of Caeruleus would be greatest thing he had ever accomplished in his long career. No Delver had ever brought back a weapon of its type. Oh, to think what the order's battle clerics would learn from it. The lost secrets of Oghrann metalsmith-ing would be returned to the light.

Too bad he'd been saddled with a fool like Frivaldi. Durin should have kept his mouth shut when the order asked who would mentor a new member. Durin had pictured an apprentice who would hang avidly on his every word, who would learn. That was hardly the case with Frivaldi. The boy had a precocious talent for opening locks, it was true, but in truth, Durin would be better off searching for the Bane of Caeruleus on his own. Instead he was stuck with a boy whose beard wasn't even long enough to braid.

Realizing he'd reached the point where he'd begun his circuit, Durin halted and consulted his map. Had he missed something? He glanced back along the wall he'd just walked. Nothing. Just bare wall. All-Father's Hall was one of the main entrances to Torunn's Forge, yet the chamber had no exit other than the stairs. There could be only one conclusion: It wasn't All-Father's Hall. He hadn't found Torunn's Forge, after all. His head bowed and his beard slipped from his shoulder, onto the floor.

Frivaldi peered over Durin's shoulder.

He stabbed a finger at the map and said, "We're here, right?"

Durin jerked the map away and slowly rolled it up.

"I thought so," he said. "But I was…"

He couldn't bring himself to say it.

"And that rune at the end of the line leading southwest from All-Father's Hall…" Frivaldi continued. "It's Auld Dethek for 'hammer,' right?"

Durin grunted. He hadn't realized Frivaldi could read Auld Dethek.

Frivaldi peered around, stroking his pitiful excuse for a beard.

"Then the exit's got to be… there!"

He pointed toward the crack Durin had thoroughly examined earlier.

Durin shook his head.

"It's solid stone." he said. "Standard delving procedure revealed no exit."

Frivaldi snorted and replied, "Standard delving procedure doesn't allow for imagination. All of those stupid acronyms…."

Durin's fists clenched. He'd written the chapter on acronyms for the Delver's Tome. Belatedly, he realized he'd just crumpled his map.

Frivaldi tossed his head, flicking his hair back out of his eyes. The habit was an annoying one. It reminded Durin of an impatient pony he'd once ridden. The gods-cursed animal had bolted off with both his tent and bedroll.

"Here's a new acronym for you," Frivaldi said. "R-A-S-H." Durin scowled.

Frivaldi winked and said, "Run At SHadows."

Whirling, Frivaldi charged straight at the cracked wall. Durin winced, waiting for the thud of a body hitting stone that would signal the boy knocking himself unconscious a second time.

The sound of running footsteps abruptly stopped.

Durin turned. Frivaldi was gone.

"By my brow," Durin muttered. "It's an illusion."

Tossing his beard over his shoulder, he strode through the wall.

Frivaldi waited, bored, while Durin inspected the corridor on his hands and knees, peering at the floor. If he remembered correctly, the procedure was called CREEP, and had something to do with crouching and examining the floor every so many paces. Eleven, he supposed. That would be the second "E." It seemed silly to Frivaldi. The trigger for any trap was just as likely to be on the second pace, or the seventh, or the twelfth.

With his own dagger, he scratched at the wall beside him, carving his name into a mural fashioned from a natural vein of silver in the rock. In the centuries to come, when other Delvers explored the Forge, theyd see it and know that Frivaldi Loder had been there first.

Durin rose, tossed his beard over his shoulder, and counted off another eleven paces, then dropped once more to his knees for what must have been the hundredth time.

Frivaldi sighed. If he'd been in charge of the delve, they would have been exploring all of the tantalizing side passages and doors theyd seen since leaving the hall with the hacked-up statues. Like the one they'd just passed, for example. Similar to the door at the top of the stairs, it also had a shield-shaped lock. The door probably led somewhere important, but Durin had passed it by.

Frivaldi waggled his fingers. An apprentice was supposed to practice. Wasn't he?

This time, he thought, I'll know what to watch out for.

Walking back to the door, Frivaldi listened-nothing, looked-nothing again, and searched-no sign of a trap. Just in case there was a trap, he crouched to one side of the door as he extracted the prong from his ring and inserted it into the lock. The pins slid aside with only a minimum of effort. Frivaldi twisted his ring closed and flipped back his hair. He eased the door open a crack, half expecting a pendulum axe to swing out of the ceiling at any moment. None did.

He gave the door a shove. It stuck, hung up on something. He shoved harder, putting his shoulder into it. Something dragged across the floor-which, Frivaldi noticed, was discolored with what looked like dried blood.

Maybe he wasn't the first Delver to go that way.

He peered around the door and saw a body, long since dead. It was one of the oddest looking creatures hed had ever seen. Taller and heavier than a human, it had leathery wings and a mane of thick, matted hair. Its face was elongated-it had a snout rather than a mouth-and its jaw was studded with bony scales. A stubby horn jutted out from behind each pointed ear. The thing wore a motley collection of clothing: a torn cloak, leather pants that had split at the seams, and boots with the toes cut away to reveal long, curved toes that ended in talons. Around its neck was a leather thong that was threaded through three rings. The body wasn't as old as the goblin corpses. Judging by the lingering smell it had died only a few months ago, maybe a year at most. There were a dozen or more dagger-blade-sized punctures in its flesh. The creature had probably triggered some sort of trap.

The room was square and small, no more than two or three paces wide. Against the rear wall was a pile of coins that had spilled from a rotted wooden chest. The place must once have been a treasury. At the edge of the pile was a round blue gem-a sapphire shaped like a hen's egg. One side of it-the one tilted away from Frivaldi-was carved with an Auld Dethek rune, but he couldn't read it from where he stood. He crouched and reached for the gem.

"Don't touch it!"

Frivaldi leaped to his feet and exclaimed, "Durin! You startled me."

The older dwarf grabbed Frivaldi by the arm and yanked him out of the room.

"Never-ever-wander off on your own like that again."

Frivaldi shook off Durin's hand and said, "What's that? More standard delving procedure?"

"No," Durin growled. "Just common bloody sense. We're here to find the Bane of Caeruleus, not fill our pockets with gold."

"I wasn't-"

"Yes you were. I saw you reaching for those coins. If you'd touched them, you'd have gotten a nasty surprise."

"What do you mean?"

"Watch."

Durin fished a large copper coin out of his pocket and tossed it onto the pile. Dozens of the gold "coins" sprouted legs and scurried sluggishly about, filling the room with a metallic clinking sound. After a few moments they stilled, retracting their legs.

Frivaldi was intrigued by the tiny creatures. He'd never seen anything like them.

"What are they?" he asked, leaning into the room.

"Hoard beetles," Durin said. "They burrow into the flesh and head straight for the vitals. A swarm can take a man down in the time it takes to blink. They can lie dormant for centuries, waiting for something warm-blooded to touch them."

"Oh." Durin eased back out of the room. "So that's what killed him."

"Who?"

"Scaly face. The guy behind the door."

Durin unfastened the flap of one of the long, narrow pouches that hung from his belt-they contained his delving tools-and pulled from it a small silver mirror mounted on a short length of segmented rod. Cautiously, keeping one eye on the pile of coins, he extended the rod and used it to peer around the door. He grunted, nodded to himself, then collapsed the mirror rod and put it back in its pouch.

"Are you going to tell me what kind of creature that is?" Frivaldi asked. "Or do I have to look it up in the Delver's Tome?"

Durin gave him a sour look, but said, "It's a dragonkin.".

"What's that?"

"They're like dragons, but not as smart, or as powerful. No breath weapon, no spells-but they can tear open your guts with a single swipe of their talons and they know how to use weapons. They're drawn to anything that's magic. They can't resist it, any more than a crow can forego something shiny. They'll pick a place clean of magic, even though they don't know how to use it." He paused, nodding to himself. "So that's what made the scratches on the floor. Dragonkin."

"Are the rings magical?" Frivaldi asked.

"Let's find out."

Durin opened a second equipment pouch and pulled out a rod with a hooked blade at one end and a pincher-grip at the other. Extending it, he used the bladed end to slice through the thong around the dragonkin's neck, then reversed it and used the spring-loaded pinchers to recover the rings, one by one. He put the first two inside his pack, but held the last one up for Frivaldi to inspect. It was a band of solid hematite, set with a shield-shaped diamond.

"This one's a stoneskin. If the dragonkin had been wearing it, the beetles couldn't have penetrated its flesh."

"And the sapphire?" Frivaldi asked, eyeing it. "I suppose it's the most valuable bit of magic of all-and the dragonkin was too stupid to know what it was."

"Sapphire?" Durin snorted. "That's a blue spinel, not a sapphire. Any beardless boy could tell you that."

Frivaldi's face flushed.

"And it's nothing but a magical bauble," Durin continued. "The dwarves of Oghrann handed them out as favors at their feasts. I've found hundreds. I've stopped picking them up."

"What do they do?"

Durin's lips actually twitched. A smile? He collapsed his pincher-grip rod and put it away in its pouch.

"Look it up in the Delver's Tome when we get back to Silverymoon," he said. "Volume sixteen, chapter four, entry number eight hundred and nine."

Frivaldi glanced at the gem and waggled his fingers. Why should he wait until they got back to Silvery-moon, when he could find out here and now? With the speed of a releasing trap, he lunged into the room and plucked the gem from the pile of coins before the horde beetles could swarm his hand.

"There," he said, turning to Durin. "Now I can start my own collec-"

Something strange had happened to his darkvision. The corridor was no longer black and gray-it had turned blue. No, his skin had turned blue. It was glowing with an eerie blue light that also emanated from his clothes, his hair, even his dagger and pack. Startled, he flung the gem into the air.

"It's just faerie fire," Durin answered. "Touching the rune triggered the spell."

"I knew that," Frivaldi said. He flipped the falling gem back into the air with his foot and bounced it off an elbow for good measure, then caught it, trying to appear nonchalant.

"My, uh… nephew… will love it."

He shrugged off his backpack and opened its main flap, savoring the smell of new leather that rose from it, and dropped the gem inside.

Durin, examining the door, said, "Did you pick this lock?"

"Of course." Frivaldi waggled his fingers. "Easy as-"

"Then how did the dragonkin get in?"

"It, uh…" Frivaldi shrugged. "It teleported?"

Durin stared at the floor, muttering to himself, "By. the scatter of the coins… yes. There."

He slipped the hematite ring onto his finger, then stepped into the room. Hoard beetles skittered off the pile of coins and threw themselves at his feet and legs, slashing holes in his trousers and boots. They bounced off his skin and clattered to the floor. Durin ignored them.

"What are you doing?" Frivaldi asked.

The glow of the faerie fire was starting to lessen. He could almost see normally again.

Durin examined a section of the rear wall. He pressed his palms against the stone and pushed. With a squeal of rusted pivots and a low grumble, a door-sized section of wall rotated open, revealing a corridor.

"Standard delving procedure," Durin said. "STOP: Secret Transits Ought to be Perused."

He braced his shoulder against the door, which seemed to be straining to shut itself again, and fiddled with the ring on his finger.

Waiting.

Suddenly Frivaldi understood. It was a test of his abilities. A challenge-just like picking a lock.

He eyed the pile of coins. The hoard beetles that had been flinging themselves at Durin had given up and crawled back to their fellows, but several were still moving restlessly on the pile. And the pile was directly in front of the rotating door. He glanced at the dragonkin corpse-at the dozens of coin-sized lacerations in its flesh-then back at Durin, who was still twisting the ring on his finger.

Frivaldi grinned, took a deep breath, and sprinted for the door. One step, two-the horde beetles skittered off the pile, swarming toward him-then he leaped. He hurtled past Durin, knocking him down. Behind them, the door sprang shut with a scraping thud. Something metallic rolled across the floor: the stoneskin ring.

Durin shoved Frivaldi off and said, "By Moradin's beard, boy, must you always be so impatient?" He scooped up the ring and shoved it into a pocket. "It was stuck on my finger."

Frivaldi picked himself up.

"You were going to toss the ring to me?" the younger dwarf asked. "I thought…"

Durin met his gaze and said, "What? That I was unwilling to take a calculated risk that the horde beetles wouldn't attack me a second time, in order to see an apprentice safely through a dangerous spot?" He tossed his beard over his shoulder. "You don't know me very well, boy."

Durin took off his backpack and pulled from it an iron rod as long as his forearm. One end was wrapped in worn leather, like the grip of a frequently used sword. The other end had a small knob shaped like the face of a hound.

"What is it?" Frivaldi asked.

"Something that will tell us if there are dragonkin ahead."

Frivaldi dredged up the acronym: "FLEE, right? Flank, Locate, Eradicate Enemies. We're going to make sure the dragonkin don't steal up behind us."

The faerie fire had at last worn off, and he could see Durin's face clearly.

"Not quite," Durin said, his eyes glittering like mica.

"The stronger the dweomer, the more dragonkin feel its pull. They're drawn to artifacts like a hoard beetle to warm flesh. If we find other dragonkin…"

Frivaldi grinned and finished, "We find the Bane of Caeruleus."

The rod quivered in Durin's hand, indicating hostile creatures ahead. Pressing a finger to his lips, he made a stern motion, indicating that Frivaldi should remain where he was, then he crept forward along the corridor. It opened, just ahead, onto a gallery that ran along one side of a large hall. From below Durin could hear the sound of half a dozen to a dozen guttural voices. He recognized the language as Draconian by its hisses and clicks, but the voices were pitched too low for him to make out the words.

The low wall of the gallery had been carved in a pattern as delicate as lace. Sadly, it had suffered. Large pieces had been smashed out of it and a rusted spearhead was wedged in it. Creeping forward, Durin peered down through what remained.

What he saw in the hall below made his eyes widen. He'd half expected the clutch of eight dragonkin, but the figure they were kneeling in front of sent a chill through him. A dragon! And not just any dragon. The monster was just at the edges of Durin's darkvision, but even so he could see the frilled ears and a single, forked horn jutting out of its forehead that were the distinctive traits of a blue.

Had Caeruleus survived, all those centuries?

No, a blue might live two thousand years, but not seven. The dragon below must have been one of Caer-uleus's descendants. What a bitter irony-that it had chosen Torunn's Forge as its lair.

The dragon was crouched, unmoving, at the center of the great hall. Standing, it would have been as tall as the gallery. It must have been fully thirty paces long from snout to tail tip. The dragonkin seemed puny in comparison. They groveled next to it, snouts to the ground and wings folded, as if worshiping it. The dragon was oblivious to them. It seemed to be sleeping.

Durin glanced around the chamber. It was the Hall of Hammers-that much was clear by the pillars that had been carved into the walls, each topped with a stylized hammer head. At the left end of the hall was the massive forge that had given Torunn's stronghold its name. In front of it was an anvil the size of a feast table and a waist-deep hole in the floor that once would have held water for quenching. The wall to the right was rough, unfinished stone.

Durin peered around the hall, searching for the Bane of Caeruleus. According to the saga, it had been newly forged and imbued with magic when the goblin attack came. Even after seven thousand years it still should have been polished and bright. But the only weapons Durin could see were ancient and rusted. Some were dwarven great axes and urgoshes, some were cruder goblin weapons, but none was the Bane of Caeruleus.

Had the dragonkin simply carried the Bane away?

No, Durin didn't think so. Judging by the fouling of the floor, the dragonkin had made the Hall of Hammers their home for several months-though strangely, the air smelled fresh. There was even a tang of rain-fresh rock in the air. Perhaps it was some magical effect, designed to waft away the soot and smoke of the forge.

The answer to the riddle came a moment later, when a ninth dragonkin seemingly emerged from solid stone, wings flapping. The rough stone wall was an illusion.

Durin tensed as the dragonkin wheeled once around the gallery, but the creature didn't appear to have seen him. It landed next to its fellows on the floor with a scrape of talons on stone, then crouched, folding its leathery wings against its back.

Something brushed against his foot, startling him. Turning his head-he would make no sudden moves that would alert the creatures below-Durin saw that Frivaldi had disobeyed him once again. The boy had crawled forward and was staring, goggle-eyed, at the scene below.

"Is that-"

Durin slapped a hand against the young dwarfs mouth, staunching the whisper.

Once the boy was quiet, Durin returned his attention to the hall below. The dragonkin were rising to their feet. Five of the nine unfolded their wings and launched themselves at the illusionary wall, disappearing through it. The remaining four seemed to be holding a conversation-one that turned ugly a moment later when one of the dragonkin yanked something out of another's hand. A shoving match ensued and the object-a wand-clattered to the floor. The other two dragonkin both dived for it at the same time, tugging the wand back and forth between them.

Belatedly, Durin realized Frivaldi had started crawling along the gallery toward the staircase that led below. Durin smacked his forehead. By Moradin's beard, why had he been saddled with such an idiot? The dragonkin would probably leave once their quarrel concluded-didn't Frivaldi have even a thimbleful of patience? Standard delving procedure dictated precisely the steps to take, when faced with superior numbers: SWAT: Sit and Wait for Appropriate Time.

Furious, Durin crawled after the boy and yanked him back.

Frivaldi slipped, his hands going out from under him. His shoulder slammed against the rail, dislodging a chunk of it. For the space of one heartbeat, two, Durin held his breath. Then he heard the clatter of it landing below.

As one, the four dragonkin whipped their heads around to stare at the spot on the floor. Then, slowly, they looked up. One of them pointed at the spot where Frivaldi and Durin were hiding. It let out a chattering hiss, and launched itself into the air. The other three leaped after it.

"Run!" Durin yelled, scrambling to his feet.

"Right!" Frivaldi shouted, yanking the leather sheath off the blade of his axe. "'Retaliate Until Neutralized'."

"Not RUN," Durin said, exasperated. "Run!"

Frivaldi turned and grunted, "Huh?"

A dragonkin slammed into him from behind, knocking him down.

Cursing, Durin thrust a hand into his pocket. Before he could get the stoneskin ring onto his finger, however, one of the dragonkin raked his shoulder with its talons, spinning him around. Gasping at the fierce pain of the furrows that had just been torn in his flesh, Durin fell to his knees, blood flowing from his shoulder. Something tugged at his backpack-and his arms were wrenched backward as the pack was ripped off his back.

The dragonkin were gone.

So was Frivaldi.

Staggering to his feet, Durin looked wildly around. The dragonkin were wheeling through the air above the dragon, first one grabbing the pack, and another, their shrill roars filling the hall. Frivaldi lay on the floor below, his Delver's pack hanging from his shoulder by one strap. The dragonkin must have plucked him from the gallery and dropped him. He was still conscious-he rose, unsteadily, to his knees, holding his head.

"Frivaldi!" Durin shouted. "Get away from the dragon before it wakes."

Frivaldi either didn't hear him over the racket the dragonkin were making, or was still groggy from being dropped. He managed to clamber to his feet, but then staggered. He slapped a hand against the side of the dragon, steadying himself. Then he peered closely at its scales and did something that made Durin's mouth gape.

He knocked on the dragon's head.

Overwhelmed by the boy's stupidity, Durin nearly abandoned him then and there. Standard delving procedure called for him to cut his losses and retreat; the location of Torunn's Forge was far more important than a single Delver's life. It would be painful, after all of the decades that had culminated in at last finding the Hall of Hammers, to turn back, but Durin could return again with a new partner. A more experienced one. The order wouldn't fault him if-

"Hey Durin!" Frivaldi shouted. "I've found it. I've found the Bane of Caeruleus!"

Durin winced. The four dragonkin, still playing their winged game of snatch-the-stone with his pack, flew out through the illusionary wall, disappearing from sight, but the dragon was still in the hall below. Surely Frivaldi's shout had awakened it. Cautiously, Durin peered over the gallery rail.

The dragon hadn't moved. Frivaldi, standing beside it, was beckoning furiously. Had he spotted the weapon? Had the Bane forced the dragon into a magical slumber? Was that why it wasn't waking up?

Durin took a deep breath and winced at the pain of his wounded shoulder. He slipped on the stoneskin ring, picked up his weapon, and walked, slowly and carefully, down the stairs. As he approached Frivaldi, he pitched his question in a whisper. "Where?"

"Here," Frivaldi replied.

He rapped the dragon's head a second time. A hollow, metallic echo sounded.

Durin felt his eyes widen.

"It's… it's iron," he gasped. "A statue."

"And look at this," Frivaldi said, pulling the dragon's jaw down. The mouth opened smoothly and silently, revealing a row of daggers that had been set into the jaw like teeth. "It's articulated. So are the wings. And the scales are all attached individually, to make the body more flexible. But what's most interesting of all is that, despite the fact that it's made from iron, there's not a speck of rust on it. The workings are as good as new. Which means it must be-"

"Magic," Durin said, completing the thought.

He ran a hand along the dragon's flank. It was true. The iron had an unusual bluish tinge, but otherwise seemed fresh from the forge. Yet it was clearly something that had been made long ago. It hadn't just arrived recently in the Hall of Hammers. It had been sitting there for centuries, waiting to launch itself through that illusionary wall.

"A golem," Durin whispered. "A golem in the shape of a dragon. So that's why the Bane of Caeruleus was too large to move."

"My conclusion, exactly."

Durin ignored the young dwarfs cocky comment. He sighed. Maybe Frivaldi was right. Maybe he was getting old. How had he not recognized the "dragon" for what it was?

Frivaldi peered at the golem, head cocked, and asked, "So how do you make it go?"

"You can't," Durin said. "Only a golem's creator can command it."

"That's Torunn, right?" Frivaldi asked. Durin nodded.

"And Torunn's dead, so it's useless. We've come all this way for nothing."

Durin balled his fists. No. It couldn't be. All those decades, searching for the Bane, only to find…

Wait a minute. Closing his eyes, he recalled verse two hundred and seventeen of the saga, muttering it aloud.

"And when the Bane at last was wrought, "Bold Torunn ensorcelled it with a thought. "Its purpose to slay the dragon blue, "Yet this the bane would never do." Durin opened his eyes.

"Torunn did command it," he said. "The saga said so."

"Then why didn't it fly off and attack Caeruleus?" Frivaldi asked.

He let go of the jaw, which spring shut with a clank.

Durin glanced at a goblin skeleton that lay nearby, then at the illusionary wall. He could guess the answer-the goblins had overrun the Hall of Hammers before the illusionary wall could be dispelled. The golem, unable to see its intended target, had remained in place, waiting for it to appear, down through the centuries.

"We didn't come all this way for nothing," Durin said, an embarrassing amount of excitement in his voice. "The golem is lying dormant, just like the horde beetles. If a target should appear-if an illusion of a blue dragon could be created outside, and the illusionary wall was dispelled, the Bane might be lured back to Silverymoon." He slapped Frivaldi on the back. "We've done it!"

Frivaldi wasn't looking at him. He was staring at the illusionary wall-and his eyes were getting bigger and his face paler by the moment.

"Uh, Durin…"

Durin glanced over his shoulder and felt his own face blanch as he spotted the dozen dragonkin who had just flown in through the illusionary wall. They landed on the floor of the hall and strode menacingly toward Durin and Frivaldi, talons clicking on the stone floor. The largest of the clutch-a dragonkin with one broken horn and a nasty sneer on its snout-pointed at Frivaldi.

"Magic," it barked in a crude approximation of the Dwarvish tongue. "Give. Or die."

Behind it, the other dragonkin chuckled.

Frivaldi glanced at Durin and asked, "What do I do? Give them my pack?"

Durin almost cracked a smile. Frivaldi, asking him for advice? He raised his axe. Even with the stoneskin ring, he wouldn't last long against such odds, but perhaps if he managed to look threatening enough, Frivaldi might be able to escape, to carry word that they'd found the Bane back to the order. He kept his expression stoic, careful not to betray the pain of his wounded shoulder. The blood had soaked his sleeve and was dripping onto the floor. He was already feeling a little faint. If only he had the healing potion-but it had been in his pack, which was gone.

"You're younger and faster," he told Frivaldi. "Toss your pack into the middle of them. They'll fight for it. Then run. Return to Silverymoon. Tell the Order…"

Frivaldi wasn't listening. He squatted down, unfastening his pack.

"Much magic inside," he told the dragonkin leader.

"What are you doing?" Durin asked, exasperated. "Go!"

"These guys are part dragon, right?" Frivaldi asked. "Yes, but-"

The dragonkin moved closer, elbowing each other as they angled for a look inside the pack. Their leader growled, elbowing the nearest ones behind it.

"And the golem's primed to attack dragons."

"Not any dragon," Durin gritted. His hands were sweaty on the grip of the axe. If Frivaldi didn't run soon…."Just Caeruleus."

Frivaldi pulled a potion vial out of his pack and held it up.

"Hey guys, magic!"

He tossed the vial away and it shattered on the floor. Three of the dragonkin immediately leaped to that spot and began lapping at the spilled potion. A half dozen more tried to yank them back, to get a lick in themselves.

Frivaldi pulled the spinel out of his pack, holding it carefully.

"That's not what the saga said," the young dwarf said. " 'It's purpose-" He hurled the spinel up into the air. "-to slay dragons blue.'"

As the spinel raced toward the ceiling, the clutch of dragonkin leaped into the air, wings beating furiously. One grabbed it-and immediately erupted into a blue glow as the faerie fire spell the gem contained was activated. A second dragonkin rose behind it, wings flapping furiously, and slammed its fists down in a hammerlike blow on the top of the first one's head. The spinel dropped. Another dragonkin swooped in, grabbing it-and also began to glow with an eerie blue light. A third dragonkin grabbed the gem, only to have it knocked from its hand by a flying tackle, then a fourth…

The rest of the dragonkin rose into the air, eager to join in the sport. The dragonkin leader roared something at them, but they refused to listen. Teeth gnashing, the leader leaped into the air.

Durin heard a sound behind him: the smooth slide of metal on metal and the creak of a hinge. He turned.

The iron golem had raised its head. Its metal muscles flexed, wings flared open-and it lunged upward, snapping one of the glowing dragonkin out of the air. A severed leg tumbled out of its jaws, landing with a wet, bloody thud beside Durin.

"Yes!" Frivaldi yelled, punching a fist into the air. "Go get 'em, golem!"

By then, more than half of the dragonkin had touched the gem. Their leader-obviously smarter than the rest-railed at them, screeching in Draconian, then gave it up and fled through the illusionary wall. The golem tossed its head, flicking what remained of the bloody corpse aside, then roared its victory-a hollow sound like thunder reverberating through a bell. The dragonkin holding the gem gave a shrill squeak of fear, then dropped the spinel and bolted through the wall after its leader. The others followed as fast as their wings would carry them.

"Go!" Frivaldi cried at the golem, pointing at the illusionary wall. "Finish them off."

The golem reared up-then seemed to totter. A wing fell off, landing with a tremendous boom as it hit the stone floor.

"Huh?" Frivaldi asked, standing and blinking up at the golem. "Is it defective?"

The jaw fell off, narrowly missing the young dwarf. Sword-blade teeth bounced out of it and skittered across the floor.

Durin groaned as he realized what was happening.

"It's not defective," he yelled over the clatter of scales raining down from the golem. "The saga said 'dragon,' not 'dragons.' The golem killed a blue dragon-singular-and fulfilled Torunn's command. Now the elemental bound inside it is free."

Dropping his axe, he hurled himself at Frivaldi. The stupid, blundering fool. The Bane of Caeruleus-the artifact Durin had poured decades of his life into searching for-was falling apart. Ruined. Had it remained intact, it might have at last been used for its intended purpose. But instead…

His fists closed around Frivaldi's throat as rage pounded in his ears. Standard delving procedure be damned. He was going to kill that stupid, impulsive, undisciplined-Something slammed into Durin's head from above, knocking him unconscious.

Frivaldi yanked the cork out of the vial with his teeth, opened Durin's mouth, and poured the remainder of the healing potion down his throat. Durin sputtered. The wound in his shoulder closed, the bloody dent in his scalp disappeared, and his eyes fluttered open.

"What… what happened?" he croaked, sitting up.

Frivaldi picked up a sphere of iron the size of a mace head.

"One of the eyeballs fell out of the Bane of Caeruleus," he said. "It landed on your head."

As Frivaldi started to toss it aside, Durin spotted a mark on the sphere, next to the post that had mounted the eye in its socket.

He caught Frivaldi's wrist and said, "Let me have that."

Frivaldi hesitated then said, "You're not going to hit me with it, are you?"

Durin yanked the sphere out of his hands. Peering closely at it, he saw a spiral of runes that had been etched into the back of the eyeball, around the mounting post. They were tiny, each no larger than an oat grain. Fascinated, Durin started to read.

"I recovered your pack," Frivaldi said, holding it out like a peace offering. "I found it on the floor after the golem … ah … after the dragonkin fled. One of them must have dropped it. The side pouches are all torn up-the dragonkin must have sensed the magical items inside, and not been able to get at them-but the main pouch is intact. Lucky thing, too. That's where the healing potion was."

Durin glanced at the pack. It was a sorry sight, with its side pouches hanging in tatters and talon gouges through the Delver's "D" embossed on the main flap. No matter. It could be repaired. He continued to read the inscription, his excitement mounting.

Frivaldi lowered the pack and said, "Sorry about the golem. Are you still angry?"

Durin reached the end of the inscription.

"By all the gods," he muttered, his heart pounding like a war drum. He glanced up at Frivaldi. "If it wasn't for you…"

Durin's face felt oddly tight; a moment later he realized he was grinning. Frivaldi took a step back, stumbling over one of the chunks of iron.

"I'm sorry. Really I am, Durin."

Durin chuckled and said, "Nothing to be sorry about, boy." He hefted the sphere. "Do you know what this inscription is?"

Frivaldi shook his head.

"The complete text of the spell used to create the Bane of Caeruleus. If you hadn't activated the golem, it might never have been discovered. But now…"

Frivaldi's eyes widened and he said, "Now we can make as many Banes as we like?"

"Exactly," Durin said. "And to fight any color of dragon we choose."

He picked up his shredded pack and tucked the sphere into its central section, then carefully tied the main flap shut.

"One thing more," he told Frivaldi. "Thank you for saving my life."

Frivaldi grinned.

"I figured I had to," he said. "Standard delving procedure. Uh … Precious ARTifacts Need Expedient Rescue."

"PARTNER," Durin muttered after a moment's thought. "Partner," he repeated, clasping Frivaldi's hand.