The Gilded Rune

Chapter Twelve

Torrin counted out the last of his coins onto the merchant’s counter. He had just enough to buy wayfarer’s bread and a round of cheese. Behind him, he heard a woman calling his name. He turned and saw Val’tissa striding through the market toward him. The dark elf wove her way through the stalls heaped with truffles, dried apples, cured meats, and bags of spice, skirting around the dwarves and tallfolk who crowded the narrow walkways. She moved with the grace of a dancer.

Torrin braced himself as she drew closer. “What news?” he asked.

Val’tissa’s expression was grim. “It was as you feared. Our ritual couldn’t cure her.”

Torrin felt as though ice water had been poured down his back. His hands shook. “Eralynn is…”

Val’tissa said what he couldn’t. “Dead.”

Torrin closed his eyes and wept, tears streaming down his face. Another of his clanfolk, gone! Eralynn had been so certain the dark elf’s magic would save her. But she had died, far from clan and hearth. If only Torrin had more of the ointment Mercuria had sold him, he might have prevented it! He might have kept death at bay, as he’d done with Kier.

He’d been wrong to place his trust in the dark elves.

“I’ll…” He swallowed. Forced the words out. “I’ll take her body home. For…”

For burial, he’d been about to say. But he couldn’t get the words out.

Eralynn’s soul would already be on the Fugue Plain, waiting for Moradin’s messengers to convey her to his realm. There, she would dwell until the time came for her to be reborn. When that time came, her soul would return in a new body forged by the Dwarffather and filled with the breath of life. She’d live again-of that, Torrin was certain. Yet that promise held as little comfort as cold ash. As Eralynn had herself said, Torrin would likely never recognize her, in her next incarnation. And she would not know him.

Torrin wiped his cheeks with the back of one hand. “Take me to her,” he said in a husky voice. “Prayers need to be spoken.”

Val’tissa nodded, as if she’d been expecting that. Together they left the marketplace and made their way through Sundasz to the sacred cavern of Corellon. The sun was overhead, streaming golden light that turned the oak leaves a vibrant green-the color of life budding anew. The beauty of the grove did little to cheer Torrin, however. All he could focus on, as he walked to the statue of the elf god, was Eralynn’s body.

She lay on a bier that Val’tissa and her fellow clerics must have constructed-a platform of living tree roots that had been magically drawn from the earth and woven together. She was on her back, her blonde braids tamed at last and lying neatly across each shoulder. The spellfire that had once crackled across those poor, gnarled hands had fled. Her face, so determined and defiant in life, was stiff and gray in death, her mouth open slightly. Val’tissa had closed the eyes, for which Torrin was grateful. He didn’t think he could bear Eralynn’s reproachful stare-a stare that would demand why he’d not yet found a cure, as he’d sworn to do.

Torrin knelt beside the bier and held his hands above Eralynn’s body, his fists clenched. As Kendril had done on the day Torrin had met with him near Needle Leap, Torrin brought his fists together-hammer on anvil. “Dwarffather, hear my prayer,” he said. “Convey to your realm the soul of this, my fellow Delver. May she bask in the warmth of your forge, may her soul prove to have more about it that is pure than dross, may it prove worthy of being cast anew.”

With his voice cracking at times, he continued the ritual prayer. When it was done, he stood and stared at Eralynn’s pack. It would need to be taken to Eartheart, to Delvemaster Frivaldi-assuming that he too hadn’t also succumbed to the stoneplague. As for her short sword, dagger, and shield, they would need to be conveyed back to Clan Thunsonn’s armories. The one thing that had been Eralynn’s alone was the heart-shaped glass pendant made by her mother.

Torrin lifted the leather thong that held the pendant over Eralynn’s head-carefully, as if Eralynn were sleeping, and he might disturb her. He slipped the thong over his own head and let the pendant fall. It came to rest below the spot in his throat where a painful lump of emotion welled within.

He touched Eralynn’s shoulder. “Goodbye, my shield sister,” he said.

Val’tissa waited a respectful distance away.

“I need to convey her body back to Eartheart for burial,” Torrin said. “And her weapons, and gear. But I’m not sure when I can-”

“No need for haste,” Val’tissa said. She gestured at the bier. “She can rest here until you are ready. We will cast a preservative ritual upon her body.”

Torrin sighed as he said, “Thank you.”

“What will you do now?” Val’tissa asked.

“Find the people who did this,” Torrin said, his jaw clenching as he looked down at his dead friend. “Force them to tell me how the curse can be lifted.”

“How will you do that?” asked the drow.

“I have something that was stolen from them,” he replied. Something they want back. My runestone.” He turned to Val’tissa. “That will be the bait. But I’ll need your help.”

Three days later, Torrin walked into an inn-one of the more opulent in Sundasz-and headed straight for the polished teak bar with its carved griffon heads on the corners. He motioned the barkeep over. “A pint of Samman, if you please,” he said.

The barkeep-a dwarf with close-cropped hair and a single-plait beard that he wore tossed over one shoulder-held a mug under the spigot. Meanwhile, Torrin glanced around the room. The small inn was crowded. Pipe smoke swirled blue against the ceiling, and a fire crackled in a hearth in the far wall. About two dozen patrons, several of them tallfolk, sat at heavy wooden tables. Torrin wondered which of them was the one who’d responded to his offer. The message he’d received-delivered by middlemen-hadn’t provided any details. Any one of the inn’s patrons might be the rogue who’d journeyed from Helmstar to meet Torrin that night.

Val’tissa was also somewhere in the room. Cloaked by invisibility, she’d slipped into the inn behind Torrin. He wondered where she was. Over by the window? Was that rustle of curtains a breeze from outside, or had she brushed against them? Or was she in that blank spot along the wall, next to the door that led to the storeroom?

Torrin continued his covert survey of the room. He was careful to not let his eye linger on any one table overly long, but his “idle” glance was enough to spot the person most likely to be the one he’d come to meet-a half-elf sitting with two dwarves near the fireplace. The three were playing tumblebones at a table heaped with gold coins. Dice clattered, landing between the ale mugs and fluted wine glasses. Laughter and loud groans followed. Clinking coins changed hands, mostly passing from the half-elf to the dwarves.

Elsewhere in the room, other patrons watched from behind their mugs, more than one of them staring greedily at the gold.

Torrin had instructed the middlemen to circulate his offer amongst Sundasz’s rogues, especially any found suddenly spending gold by the handful. The half-elf certainly seemed to fit that description.

“Barkeep!” the half-elf shouted. “Another round of your best for my friends and me. No, make that a round for everyone!” He swept a hand through the air, indicating the rest of the room. The other patrons grinned, raised their mugs in salute, and drained them.

The barkeep hastily thudded Torrin’s ale down on the counter, reached for fresh mugs and glasses, and filled them. Then he carried three to the half-elf’s table and collected payment. The half-elf waved away the change, and the barkeep bowed his thanks. There was a big smile on his face as he returned to the bar, obviously pleased with the large tip.

“Is my ale paid for, too?” Torrin asked.

“That it is,” replied the barkeep. “Let’s hope the elf’s generosity continues.” He carefully tucked the gold Anvils away in his strongbox as the other patrons lined up at the bar, thirsty for refills. “Funny that he’s so cheerful, even when he’s losing. Still, if he wants to toss away his coin…”

Torrin nodded, no longer listening. Those gold Anvils could very well be forgeries, struck from the cursed gold. Torrin pictured spellplague seeping into the barkeep’s blunt fingers, worming its way toward his heart. It would do the same to any dwarf patron who bought the expensive ales and wines offered by the inn-expensive enough to warrant receiving an Anvil or two as change.

Torrin, however, said nothing, gave no warning. It was for the greater good, he told himself. Yet keeping silent was as painful as trying to swallow a jagged shard of slag.

He made a show of staring at the fire and shivering. His cloak was dripping from the heavy rain in the open canyon outside. He rubbed his hands together, then picked up his mug and made his way to the hearth. He stood before the fire, warming himself and drying his cloak, using it as an excuse to get a closer look at the half-elf.

The fellow was well dressed, in what looked like brand new leather breeches and boots with brass buckles. His velvet doublet was embroidered with thread-of-gold and had a high ruff collar, slashed sleeves, and silver buttons on the cuffs. The clothes, however, didn’t match the rest of him. The half-elf’s hands were calloused, with grime under the fingernails. His graying hair was greasy. He took a long drink of wine, and wiped his lips with the back of a stained cuff.

He noticed Torrin looking at him, and held his eye for a moment, obviously sizing him up. Torrin raised his mug in salute.

The two dwarves at the table were as well dressed as the half-elf, but better groomed. They seemed far more comfortable in their clothes, and less coarse in their habits. One had a pipe in his mouth that had long since gone cold. The other drank wine from a fluted glass, like the half-elf. Torrin saw, to his horror, that the wine contained tiny flakes of gold. Elven “gold dust” wine, they called it. Very expensive stuff. And, if that was cursed gold, ultimately lethal.

A third dwarf sat slightly back from the table, but close enough to the half-elf that he was obviously with him. He was roughly dressed, with a sword slung across his back on a bandolier, and two daggers on his belt. He was a broad-chested man even for a dwarf, with hard black eyes, a shaved head, and long gray beard. His nose looked as if it had been flattened more than once. Numerous small scars criss-crossed his hands, which, Torrin noted with alarm, had a slight grayish tinge to them. The stoneplague?

The third dwarf was, Torrin decided, likely a bodyguard for the half-elf. Hired with cursed gold and showing the first signs of stoneplague. Oddly, the two gamblers didn’t seem to take any notice of his gray-tinged hands, despite the fact that dozens of dwarves in Sundasz had succumbed to the stoneplague.

The bodyguard glanced in Torrin’s direction and made a show of scowling, as if he’d just noticed Torrin. Yet Torrin had seen the sidelong look the dwarf had given him earlier, as Torrin had approached the hearth. The bodyguard nudged the half-elf and said something in a low voice.

The half-elf glanced in Torrin’s direction. “You there, by the fire!” he called out in a jovial voice. “You look like a man who likes to wager. Come. Sit down. Join us.”

Torrin made a show of eyeing the stacks of Anvils on the table. “You’ll be sorry,” he said with a grin. “Get ready to lose some of that gold.”

The two dwarf gamblers made room at the table, and Torrin sat between them, wondering whether they were acting the role, or whether they were just what they seemed: unwitting pawns in the half-elf’s real game.

Torrin drained his ale and set the empty mug on a table behind him. He didn’t want the same trick he was about to pull being used on him.

“I’m Tril,” the half-elf said, introducing himself.

“Gond,” Torrin said, giving a false name. A human name, and one as common as quartz.

The pipe smoker introduced himself as Bran; the other dwarf, as Hathar.

“Another ale?” Tril asked as he handed Torrin the dice.

Torrin shook his head. “No, thank you,” he replied. “I prefer to keep a clear head for these matters.”

“What will you wager?” Bran asked.

“An equal share in a fortune,” Torrin answered, rattling the dice in cupped hands. “A veritable river of gold, just waiting to be tapped.”

The half-elf didn’t react. But rogues were like that-good at keeping a straight face.

Torrin nodded at the stacks of coins. “Here’s my offer,” he said. “Each of you spot me thirty Anvils, and when I’ve lost the last of them, whoever’s still in the game is in on the delve.” He glanced around the table. “Do we have a deal?”

Bran burst out laughing. His pipe fell from his mouth, struck the table, and scattered ash. Hathar turned to stare at Torrin, his expression making it clear he thought Torrin had just lost his mind. “What do you take me for, human?” he cried. “Some sort of beardless imbecile?”

Tril, however, shoved a stack of Anvils across the table-more than half of what he had left. “Done!” he cried.

The two dwarf gamblers exchanged looks. Hathar raised an eyebrow. Bran nodded, picked up his pipe and tucked it into a pocket, then began scooping his winnings into a coin pouch. “We’ll take our leave,” he said.

“What, now?” Tril cried. “Just when the game has gotten interesting?”

He was slurring his words slightly-likely for Torrin’s benefit.

“Tempting though it is to continue to enjoy your hospitality and relieve you of the last of your gold, I too must decline,” Hathar said, also collecting his winnings. He drained the last of his glass and bowed his farewell.

Torrin rattled the dice. “Your call,” he told the half-elf. “Should we play dice-or turn our attention to the real game?”

The bodyguard tensed. His hands were seemingly at ease on his lap, each close to a dagger. Tril, suddenly looking much more sober, flicked a hand. The bodyguard relaxed-slightly.

“You have a runestone for sale,” Tril said.

Torrin nodded.

“Prove to me you’ve got it,” the half-elf continued. “That we didn’t come all this way for nothing.”

Torrin’s pulse beat in his ears. He was acutely aware of the bodyguard sitting across the table. One of those knives would find his heart before he could blink, if their exchange went the wrong way. For that matter, any of the other patrons trying so hard to pretend they weren’t straining to listen in on the conversation might also be in league with the half-elf.

Willing his hands to stay steady, Torrin untied a coin pouch from his belt. “Are you familiar with the duplication ritual?” he asked, whispering a silent prayer that they were. Well-known to shopkeepers like his parents who took in magical items in trade, it was a spell used by rogues to pass off non-magical duplicates of a ring, a wand, or some other small item as the real thing. The transformation lasted less than a day before the item reverted back to its true form-just long enough for the rogues to leave town.

“I’ve heard of it,” the half-elf admitted.

“I’m about to show you a copy of the runestone,” Torrin said. “A replica, made using that ritual.” In fact, what he was about to show them was the real thing. He paused a moment, giving Val’tissa time to get into position. Torrin wasn’t worried about the half-elf using the runestone to teleport away, as the inn was a long way from the nearest earth node. But if Tril made a grab for the runestone and ran, she’d be there to stop him.

Torrin turned the pouch upside down. His runestone thudded onto the table, scattering gold coins. Tril’s eyes widened. He started to reach for the stone.

The bodyguard caught the half-elf’s arm. “Touch it,” he told Torrin.

Torrin raised an eyebrow.

“You spilled it from the pouch without touching it,” the bodyguard said. “That makes me wonder if it’s ensorcelled.” He nodded down at the runestone. “Touch it.”

Torrin laid down the dice and picked up the stone. “Satisfied?” he asked as he placed it back on the table.

The bodyguard released his master’s arm, then picked up the runestone himself. After a quick examination, he passed it to Tril. The latter barely glanced at it before placing it back on the table.

So far, so good.

Tril leaned back in his chair, toying with his wine glass once more. His movements seemed idle, but his fingertips were white against the stem of the glass. “Where’s the real thing?” he asked.

“In my pack,” Torrin lied. “If you know anything about Delvers’ packs, you’ll know that I’m the only one who can remove anything from it, as Vadyr already found out. And just in case you’re thinking about it, little tricks like dispelling the pack’s magic won’t work. Everything inside it will just… vanish. Permanently. Killing me and reaching in with my dead hand won’t work, either. It’s my will that causes the pack to deliver its contents into my hand. And should you try to magically compel me to pull something out, well, let’s just say the pack will sense the difference, and act accordingly. Whatever I pull out will be a very unpleasant surprise, believe me.”

The last was just a myth the Delvers liked to spread, but the rogues wouldn’t know that. And for all Torrin knew, it might even be true. The manufacture and enchantment of a Delver’s pack was a closely guarded secret that only Delvemasters were privy to.

“Is that what happened to Vadyr?” Tril asked, his eyes cold. “An ‘unpleasant surprise?’ ”

“I have no idea what happened to your… associate,” Torrin said carefully, hoping his honest reply would be believed. “After he tried to steal the runestone from me in Hammergate, Vadyr disappeared. I never saw him again. Although I do know this-a duergar was enquiring about him around the same time.”

The half-elf started to glance at his bodyguard, but abruptly checked himself. He released the wine glass, which wobbled and threatened to fall. He caught the glass again, steadying it. His hand trembled just enough that Torrin noticed.

“What did the duergar look like?” Tril asked. “Did he have any tattoos?”

“I don’t know,” Torrin said. “I never saw him, myself. Just heard about him.”

Whoever the duergar was, it was clear the half-elf recognized him. Perhaps the duergar had been on the trail of the half-elf, as well. Making enquiries about the gold, and perhaps killing when he didn’t get the answers he wanted. A duergar in Sundasz wouldn’t surprise Torrin. Tallfolk, dark elves… anyone was welcome, it seemed.

Tril had regained his composure. He nodded at the runestone on the table. “How did you acquire that?” he asked. “The real one, I mean.”

“A dwarf named Kendril sold it to me,” Torrin replied.

Tril’s mouth twitched slightly. “And what happened to him? Did he just… disappear, the way Vadyr did? Or did you have something to do with it?”

“I may be a rogue, but I’m no murderer!” Torrin said vehemently. “Kendril took his own life. When we met to conduct our transaction, he was blind and crippled with the stoneplague, and begging the Dwarffather to forgive him. Then he jumped off Needle Leap.”

“Pushed, more likely,” the bodyguard growled.

“No!” Torrin said. “By Moradin’s beard, I swear it. I tried to stop Kendril from jumping, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Well, then,” Tril said, suddenly breaking into a wide smile. “That certainly clears things up.”

“Clears what up?” Torrin asked, uncertain what had just caused the half-elf’s sudden change of demeanor.

Tril waved the question away with a slender hand. “Another drink is in order, I think,” he said. “To celebrate the start of a new relationship.” He snapped his fingers. “Bartender! More wine for me, and two ales for my companions, if you please!”

Torrin smiled to himself. The half-elf had just saved him a lot of bother. He’d been worried about how he’d get him to order another round, but the fellow had solved that problem. Torrin clenched both fists-the signal for Val’tissa to move to the bar and tip a potion into the half-elf’s glass as the bartender filled it.

“Then you’re satisfied with what’s being offered?” Torrin asked. “You’re willing to buy?”

Tril stared across the table at him. “What’s the asking price?”

“Information.”

“About what?”

The bartender arrived with their drinks. The conversation paused as the half-elf paid him.

“I want to know about the curse,” Torrin said. “Who cast it, how it was done. And how it can be undone.”

Tril stared at his wine glass, idly turning it. “That’s asking a lot,” he said.

Torrin felt sweat trickling down his back. Drink it, he silently pleaded. “The runestone’s worth a lot.”

Tril started to smile, but then hid it by taking a sip of wine. It took everything Torrin had not to sigh in relief. The half-elf was obviously about to lie to him. Thanks to the potion, however, he’d be compelled to speak the truth. Assuming Val’tissa had been successful.

“We were wondering ourselves what caused the gold to become cursed,” Tril said as he lowered his glass. “Kendril thought it was because Moradin was angry. But Cathor here-” he jerked a thumb in the direction of the bodyguard “-said it was probably something the duergar did.”

The bodyguard sat forward abruptly. His left hand was hidden under the table, and one of the sheaths on his bandolier was suddenly empty.

Torrin prayed Val’tissa would notice and position herself accordingly. He couldn’t signal her. A single flick of a finger might be his last. Cathor looked ready to strike. And he was obviously more than he’d seemed-more than a mere bodyguard.

“What duergar?” Torrin asked, his mouth suddenly as dry as rock dust.

“The ones in Drik Hargunen,” the half-elf replied. “The place where Cathor-”

Tril’s face suddenly went white. Several things happened then in rapid succession. Tril clutched himself as something sticky and wet-blood? — sprayed onto Torrin’s knee, soaking his trousers. Cathor lunged out of his seat and tried to grab the runestone. Before he could reach it, a wristbow bolt, shot by the invisible Val’tissa, thudded into his hand and pinned it to the table.

Cathor grabbed at the runestone with his other hand, but Torrin dived across the table and grabbed the front of his shirt, shoving him back.

Cathor was shorter than Torrin, but stronger. He forced himself forward. His hand closed around the runestone. He shouted something in a language Torrin didn’t understand.

Waves of blue spellfire erupted out of the floorboards and streaked toward the runestone. Terrified, the inn’s other patrons scrambled to get away. Shouts and screams filled the inn.

Torrin’s jaw dropped. Cathor had activated the runestone! How was that possible?

Val’tissa, now visible, raced to their table. “Torrin!” she shouted.

Torrin felt a sudden, familiar wrench. Still clutching the front of Cathor’s shirt, he was yanked sideways by the magic of the runestone. As the pair of them twisted into the space between the inn and wherever they were teleporting to, tumbling end over end together with the table, Cathor’s hand tore free of the bolt that had pinned it. His howl of pain echoed eerily as he and Torrin spun through space. Torrin saw a flash of steel. Despite his injured hand, Cathor had drawn his second dagger! Torrin’s mace was at his hip, but he couldn’t reach for it. He had to keep hold of Cathor or the Morndinsamman only knew where he’d wind up.

“Moradinnn!” Torrin screamed, his wail drawing out the way that Kendril’s had, that terrible day at Needle Leap. “Aid meee…”

Torrin and Cathor landed in darkness, crashing in a heap onto a rough stone floor. An eyeblink later, the table landed on them. Smashed prone, Torrin lost his grip on Cathor’s shirt. Something clattered away in the darkness. Cathor’s dagger? The runestone?

Torrin clambered to his feet. He couldn’t see! Damn his human eyes! He heard a faint noise, down and to his left where the table had landed. He yanked his mace from his belt and smashed downward, shouting the word that activated the weapon’s magic. Thunder boomed, echoing off the walls of wherever they’d teleported to. Torrin felt his weapon strike something that gave way with the crunch of breaking bone. Belatedly, he realized that Val’tissa also might have been caught up in the teleportation. He prayed it wasn’t her he’d just killed.

Torrin stood, panting, and straining to hear any sound. But all he heard was his own harsh breathing. Every muscle in Torrin’s body tensed. He anticipated a dagger thrust at any moment. He swung his mace back and forth and turned abruptly to and fro. One foot bumped something on the floor, and he stumbled and nearly fell. Despite his vulnerability, the attack he anticipated didn’t come.

Cautiously, Torrin shrugged out of one of the straps of his backpack. Another shrug and the pack was hanging against his chest. Holding his mace ready with one hand, he fumbled open the pack and reached inside. “Goggles,” he commanded. They rose to find his hand. He dragged them over his eyes, and suddenly he could see out of his left eye.

He stood in a natural cavern about a dozen paces wide and a hundred long. The floor was littered with stone molds, iron tongs, and stone dippers with long wooden handles. Rough flash-the solidified spill left over from casting-was splashed everywhere on the floor, and was so soft that it bent when he trod on it. A neat slit had been cut into one wall of the cavern. More solidified metal hung from the bottom of it like icicles from the edge of a roof. A warm breeze blew in through this gap.

The table from the inn lay nearby, partially covering a body with a staved-in head. Torrin recognized Tril by his blood-soaked doublet. He was dead. What Cathor had started with his dagger, Torrin had finished with his mace.

The “bodyguard”-who Torrin realized must be yet another rogue in the hire of whoever had cursed the gold, if not the wizard himself-lay a pace or two away, his wounded hand just shy of the runestone in a smear of blood, his other hand slack around his dagger. Torrin heaved a sigh of relief, realizing the sleep poison on Val’tissa’s bolt had done its work just in time. Had Cathor remained conscious a heartbeat or two longer, he might have activated the runestone a second time and teleported away.

Torrin shook his head, amazed at what had just happened. He’d been wrong. It wasn’t necessary to be in an earth node to activate the runestone. Its teleportation magic, it would seem, could be commanded from anywhere on Faerun.

Torrin crossed the cavern and picked up the runestone. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. He tucked it away in his pack.

He picked up Cathor’s dagger and sword and put them in his pack as well, for good measure. Then he stripped the rogue naked-there was no telling what form a magical amulet might take-and bound his wrists behind his back, using rope from his Delver’s pack. He tied Cathor’s ankles as well. Finally, just in case the rogue was capable of magic, Torrin stuffed a gag in his mouth.

All Torrin had to do next was wait for the sleep poison to wear off. Meanwhile, he prayed that Cathor didn’t have accomplices nearby. The cavern they’d teleported to, however, was as quiet as a crypt. And, Torrin saw as he walked its circumference, it had no visible exits, aside from the narrow fissure in the wall, which was too narrow for a person to squeeze through. No matter. The runestone was Torrin’s way out-assuming he could figure out how to use it.

Torrin nudged Cathor with his foot. The dwarf was still unconscious, but alive. “Don’t claim him yet, Moradin,” Torrin prayed. “Not until I’m done with him.”

He pulled a lantern from his pack and lit it, then slid his goggles up onto his forehead. He turned his attention to the objects littering the floor. The flash was solid gold, as he’d expected from the way it bent under his boots. The molds were the ones used to cast the cursed gold bars. He inspected the slit in the wall and saw that it led to an almost perfectly round tunnel, perhaps a pace wide, whose walls were coated with a crust of hardened gold. Torrin sniffed and caught the faint scent of molten metal.

“The River of Gold,” he breathed.

He glanced around, shaking his head in wonder. A fortune lay at his feet, splashed all around him like waste slag. Even though he knew its role in spreading the stoneplague, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pure greed at the sight of it. All that wealth made his heart pound. His people had a name for what he was feeling: aetharn or “gold lust.” With that much gold, he could go anywhere, do anything. Fund the most exotic delves anyone had ever dreamed of.

Then he thought of Eralynn, Kier, Ambril and her stillborn twins, and the hundreds of other dwarves who’d succumbed to the stoneplague, and the taste of his fantasies soured. He’d trade all the gold in the cavern-all the gold in the world-for them to be alive again.

He heard a faint movement behind him. Cathor had woken up. He was feigning sleep, but his shivers betrayed him.

Torrin squatted next to the dwarf. His anger banked as he stared at him. Rather than fan it red hot, Torrin let it smolder. The time for vengeance-for justice-would come later.

Cathor’s eyes opened. He strained at his bonds and shivered violently, either from the feel of cold stone against naked flesh or from fear. He shook his head and tried to say something. But all that got past the gag was a moan.

Torrin stared down at his captive. He pulled a tiny glass vial from his pack and showed it to Cathor. “This potion is the same as the one that forced your half-elf friend to talk, back at the inn,” he said. “One way or the other, you’re going to drink it. If I have to, I’ll kneel on your forehead and slice your lips open with my dagger. Or we can do it the easy way, and you can just swallow it.”

Cathor stared up at him, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Perhaps he believed Torrin would free him once he had talked, or perhaps he thought he might yet use the runestone to escape. Whatever the reason, he grunted his assent.

“Good,” Torrin said. He took the gag from Cathor’s mouth. Cathor opened his mouth, and Torrin poured in the potion. Just in case Cathor was lying about being cooperative, Torrin immediately pinched the rogue’s lips shut.

Cathor glared, but swallowed down the potion. Torrin released his hold on the fellow’s lips and stood up.

“And now,” Torrin told his captive, “we’ll talk.”