The Gilded Rune

Chapter Five

Two days after his run-in with the rogues outside the motedisc factory, Torrin was easing his way down a rope toward the spot where his friend, Eralynn, stood. They’d begun their descent into the East Rift at dawn, and only at dusk were finally level with the floor of that vast canyon. High above on the Rift’s edge, the towers of Underwatch-a remote outpost of Eartheart-glowed in the light of the setting sun.

Torrin dropped next to Eralynn, and spoke the command word that caused her magical rope to unfasten itself from the piton they’d driven into the rock above. The rope snaked down toward him, coiling itself neatly at his feet. He picked it up and passed it to Eralynn.

“Do we have much farther to go?” he asked.

Eralynn shook her head. “We’re here,” she said with a jerk of her chin, indicating a spot farther along the canyon floor. “Wyrmtrap portal is just around that spur of rock.” She shoved the rope into her pack, then loosened the bindings on the short sword that hung from her belt. She also checked the throwing dagger that was strapped to her ankle over the leg of her loose-fitting, stone gray trousers.

Torrin glanced around. They were some distance from Eartheart, which lay to the southwest, its own towers looking like a massive cluster of stalagmites on the lip of the great canyon that comprised East Rift. Hammergate was a smaller knob, pressed tight to one of Eartheart’s massive city walls. Directly west, the sun was a ball of orange light above the western wall of the Underchasm.

Torrin shielded his eyes from the sun and tried to pick out the mote that he and Kier had flown to. Had anyone else visited it yet? Was the gold gone? The thought had gnawed at him, day and night, ever since his return to the city.

“What are you looking at?” Eralynn asked.

“Nothing,” Torrin lied. Eralynn was the one person, out of all of his dwarf friends, who came closest to being his shield brother. Or, to be more accurate, his shield sister. He’d been struggling with whether to tell her about his find. Did he really want to split the gold with her? It was a greedy thought, that, and one that made him feel guilty. He’d never thought of himself as a person who could be seduced by the lure of gold. Then again, every last bar of that gold would go toward equipping his expedition to the Soulforge. Surely that was a noble enough cause. What’s more, the Thunsonn clan would be getting a good share of the gold, in any case-Kier’s share. Some of it would wind up in Eralynn’s pockets. Eventually.

Torrin followed Eralynn, stepping carefully over the clutter of stone that littered the canyon floor. They rounded the spur of rock that she’d indicated. Beyond it was an enormous, circular opening in the cliffside, obviously once part of the tunnel system of ancient Underhome. Ten times as tall as Torrin and equally as wide, the opening was ringed with a band of runes. Beyond those, the tunnel curved around to the right, out of sight. Its floor was littered with jagged bits of rock-debris that had fallen from the ceiling, either during the creation of the Underchasm nearly a century ago, or in its aftermath.

“I thought all of the entrances to Underhome were sealed,” Torrin said. He cast a glance at the towers above and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not going to let you defy the edicts!”

“ ‘Let’ me?” Eralynn said. Her eyes narrowed, and her fists went to her hips.

Torrin swallowed. Eralynn might be only as tall as his chest, but her rages could knock the stoutest dwarf back a pace or two. Still, Torrin stood his ground. “The Lord Scepter has decreed that-”

Eralynn laughed, startling him. “Oh, Torrin. Sometimes you can be so… ridiculously stubborn.”

He smiled, relieved to see that the storm had broken before it had begun. “Well, I am a dwarf, after all,” he said with a shrug. “We have a reputation for that.”

Eralynn smiled. “You don’t need to worry,” she said reassuringly. “We’re not going to do anything illegal, amusing though that might be. This portal led out of Underhome, not into it.”

“Are you finally going to tell me where it goes?”

Eralynn’s eyes glittered with anticipation. “The Wyrmcaves.”

“The Wyrmcaves!” Torrin gasped. “Why would our ancestors build a portal that led there?”

“As a trap,” she replied. “Whenever a dragon attacked, Underhome’s soldiers would pretend to flee through this portal. It links to a cavern barely big enough to accommodate a dragon, with a connecting bolthole just large enough for the soldiers to escape through. All they had to do then was wait for the dragon to die.”

“Clever.”

Eralynn laughed. “Not quite clever enough. Some of the smaller dragons escaped. According to some of the runelore I’ve read, that may be how the Wyrmcaves became a lair to dragons in the first place.”

“The wrym biting its tail full circle, hmm?” Torrin said. He stepped forward to examine the runes.

Eralynn grabbed his arm, yanking him back. “Wait!” she warned. “It’s protected by magic.” She released his arm and handed him two pieces of candle wax. “Use these to plug your ears and stand over there. And brace yourself.”

Torrin did as she’d instructed. Eralynn was the more experienced Delver, and he respected her greater knowledge. Some might find her too bossy, but it was her delve, after all. Torrin was simply along as an observer. He firmly pushed a ball of wax into each ear and stood where she’d indicated, then pulled from his pack the runestone he’d purchased from Kendril.

Eralynn walked toward the portal and raised her hands. As they entered the space between the circle of runes, thunder boomed out of the tunnel with such force that Torrin staggered back several paces. The faint lines of magical energy that glowed like veins on the backs of Eralynn’s hands flared outward, creating a shimmering blue wall of magical force in front of her. Even with his ears plugged, Torrin could hear the thunder reverberating back and forth between her magical shield and the bend of the tunnel.

A moment later, the magical shield faded away. Torrin dug the wax out of his ears. A chunk of rock fell from the ceiling of the tunnel, smashing to pieces on the floor. To Torrin, whose ears were ringing despite the protection, it sounded like a muffled thud.

Eralynn said something. Torrin only caught the last couple of words: “… not lethal,” she said.

“What?” he asked.

Eralynn grinned. She was busy tying back her hair, trying to rein in her mop of unruly blonde braids. As she pulled on a padded leather helmet, blue fire crackled in faint lines across the backs of her hands-the residue of the magic she’d just invoked.

“I said… not lethal,” she repeated. “When they built… portal, they… glyphs… look as though… portal led… important, somewhere… magical protection.”

Torrin shook his head and cracked his jaw. It didn’t help. The ringing in his ears was ebbing, but he still wasn’t hearing properly. “Is it safe to approach now?” he asked, realizing belatedly that he was shouting.

“Are you questioning my ability to deactivate a glyph?” she asked sternly.

He’d heard the whole sentence that time. “Of course not,” he said with a grin.

Eralynn’s leather armor creaked as she unslung the shield that was her trademark: a shield made from a single, enormous red dragon scale, rimmed with silver. Having found out where the portal led, Torrin could guess where she’d acquired that scale.

As Eralynn made her preparations, Torrin took a good look at the runes surrounding the portal. The inscription was a passage from an ancient dwarven saga: “Ready now, with swords in hand / Onward march, at my command / Soon, perhaps, to fight once more / Safe against the dragon’s roar.”

Torrin frowned. The first two lines were wrong. “Shouldn’t it be ‘Steady now, with swords in hand / Soldiers march, at my command?’ ” he asked.

Eralynn looked up from her preparations. “You’ve memorized the Faern sagas?” she said grinning. “You never cease to surprise me, Torrin. You’ve got a better memory for obscure poetry than most dwarves I know.”

“Is the inscription a clue to the incantation used to activate the portal?” he asked.

“That’s twice your hammer’s landed true,” Eralynn said with a wink.

“So what are the activation words?”

“I only said I’d show you a portal, and that I’d let you watch while I used it. You’re not coming through with me.”

“But-”

“The Wyrmcaves are no place to wander around in.”

“Exactly my point,” Torrin said, patting the mace at his hip. “It never hurts to have a second weapon, backing you up. Especially a magical one.”

“This is a solo delve, Torrin,” Eralynn replied. She pointed at the lip of the Rift, far above. “That’s your way back.” She glanced up at the sky. “It will be dark soon. I suggest you wait until morning to make the climb.”

“I’ll wait for you here.”

“No, you won’t,” she said, nodding at the portal. “That’s a one-way portal. I won’t be coming out of it again. The only way back is to hike back through the Deeps. I’ll see you in a few days’ time.”

“But you’ll miss the Festival of Remembering!”

The smile vanished from her eyes. “I prefer to be alone for that. And rest assured, honoring the dead is the observance that I never forget.”

Torrin bowed. “My apologies. I’ve offended you. That was crass of me, to imply that you’d neglect to honor your parents.”

“I may never have known them, but I carry them here,” Eralynn said, touching the heart-shaped glass pendant that hung at her throat. “And here,” she added, touching the spot over her heart. She blinked several times, her eyes glistening.

Torrin bowed again, mortified at having upset her. “Again, my apologies. I trip over my words, it seems, as frequently as an ale-addled longbeard trips over his braid.”

He was relieved to hear Eralynn chuckle. Her fist punched his forearm affectionately. She had, it would seem, forgiven him.

“Let’s just hope your experiment works,” she told him, nodding at the runestone. “I’ve already thought up a list of ruins I’d like to teleport to and explore. A long list.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep my part of the bargain,” Torrin said.

“I know,” Eralynn said. “You’re a man of your word. It’s nice to know I can count on that.”

“I’ll see you in a few days’ time, then,” Torrin told her. “Good luck with your delve.”

Eralynn nodded and motioned Torrin back. Then she drew her sword and approached the portal.

Torrin kept glancing back and forth between the runestone and Eralynn as she halted just in front of the portal. He heard her whisper in a voice too low for him to make them out. The tunnel beyond the runes blurred slightly, as though seen through streaked glass. Eralynn stepped in and vanished from sight, the glow on the back of her hands leaving a faint smear of blue static that crackled for a heartbeat, then was gone.

Torrin stared hard at the runestone. But, to his great disappointment, he could see no obvious change in it. He’d hoped that the magic within might be activated by the wash of magical energy from a portal opening, that some sort of henceforth invisible command rune might appear on the runestone’s surface, or that perhaps the runestone might orient itself with a particular compass direction, or some other clue manifest. Yet nothing like that had happened. His experiment had been a failure. And a costly one.

Once again, he was outside the city walls. Once again-for a third time-he’d require a cleansing to get back into Eartheart.

Sharindlar’s clerics were performing cleansings on dwarves at a fee of whatever the dwarf could afford, with the balance of each tithe being paid from the city coffers. Tallfolk, however, had to pay the full cost out of their own pockets. And try as he might, Torrin had yet to convince Sharindlar’s priestesses that he was a dwarf.

Thanks to Kier’s little adventure, Torrin owed the temple for not just one cleansing, but two-the silk ribbons around his wrist were a reminder of that. The second time he’d visited the temple, the clerics had made it clear that credit would not be extended to him a third time. Unless he could figure out how his runestone worked, he’d be stuck outside the gates until he found a way to get the gold from the earthmote.

Lowering the runestone, he walked up to the tunnel mouth tentatively, afraid he might activate the thunderclap that had sounded before. He traced his fingers along the runes. The stone felt cool and weathered, but gave no hint of magical energy. Nor did his runestone.

Had he only been imagining the feel of magic, the day that Kendril had handed it to him? Had Frivaldi been correct in his skepticism about the runestone’s worth?

No, wait. If he concentrated on it, Torrin could feel a tingle against his palm. He moved the runestone a little closer to the opening, and the feeling intensified. Something was definitely happening, although there was no visible change in the runestone. He moved his hand still closer. “Trial and-”

Thunder boomed out of the tunnel, knocking Torrin flat on his back. With his ears ringing and his head aching, he staggered back to his feet. He suddenly realized his hand was empty. The runestone was gone!

“Moradin smite me!” he shouted. At least, he assumed he was shouting. He couldn’t even hear his own voice. Just a throbbing ringing that threatened to split his head like hammer-struck stone. He looked frantically about, but couldn’t spot the runestone anywhere. For one horrified moment, he thought it might have been hurled into the Great Rift. Then he realized where it must be. When the thunderclap had sounded, his hand had been partially inside the tunnel. Fortunately, objects that weren’t being held by a living creature couldn’t pass through a portal on their own. If it had fallen from his hand, it would be there still.

He moved closer. Yes, there it was. He could see the runestone just inside the tunnel. He plugged his ears again with wax, then unslung his mace and poked it slightly into the tunnel, bracing himself. So far, so good. The mace didn’t trigger the thunderclap. But try as he might, he couldn’t snag the runestone and drag it out. His mace seemed to be passing through it, as if the runestone weren’t there. Belatedly, he realized that the runestone was shimmering-partially there, and partially not.

He’d have to pass through the portal to reclaim it.

He stood, chewing his lip in consternation. He had promised Eralynn he wouldn’t follow her. He could wait for her in Hammergate, of course, then bring her back to the canyon floor and get her to enter the portal and fetch the runestone, but in the meantime someone else might claim it. Despite the care he and Eralynn had taken in coming here unnoticed, he couldn’t be absolutely certain that no one had followed them here. If they had been followed, the rogue who’d attempted to steal the runestone from Torrin earlier would be able to get his hands on it in Torrin’s absence-assuming he figured out how to activate the portal.

“I suppose it will be twice Eralynn will have to forgive me,” Torrin muttered, digging the wax out of his ears.

He’d already figured out the answer to the riddle. The key was to speak the two correct words that had been mis-scribed in the inscription above.

Torrin settled his goggles into place over his eyes, unslung his mace, and spoke the words: “Steady, soldiers.” Then he walked through the portal and felt his body wrenched between here and there.

The stench was the first thing Torrin noticed as he glanced around the dead-end tunnel he’d been transported to. A century might have passed since the portal was last used to trap a dragon, but the tunnel still smelled faintly of dung. He saw, to his vast relief, that the runestone lay at his feet, and that it was no longer shimmering. He picked it up and spent a moment examining it, but even though it had passed fully through a portal, there was no obvious change. Disappointed, he placed it in a pouch and secured the pouch in his backpack.

He spent a moment listening, but heard nothing-neither the sound of Eralynn’s footfalls nor any other sounds of movement. Readying his mace once more, he rounded the curve in the tunnel and entered the bolthole Eralynn had told him about. He had to crawl through it on his hands and knees; it was low enough that even a dwarf would have to stoop to pass through it. Torrin wondered how the soldiers of old had managed to move quickly enough through it to escape a dragon that was hard on their heels.

The bolthole led to a large cavern whose uneven floor sloped steeply down to the right and up to the left. Natural pillars of limestone joined floor to ceiling. Torrin sniffed the air. The smell of dung was stronger. Several of the limestone pillars had deep gouges on them-scrape marks left by something big that had squeezed between them at some point.

A dragon?

They weren’t recent marks, Torrin noted. The scratches had been blurred by successive layers of limestone. Whatever wyrm had passed that way had done so years before, maybe even decades before.

Torrin stroked his beard, debating which way to go. Despite his many journeys through the Underdark surrounding Eartheart, he had never ventured into the Wyrmcaves before. The dwarves had avoided them for millennia, since everyone agreed there were no artifacts to be delved there. Yet Torrin knew that they contained more than one exit to the surface-exits large enough for a dragon, and, presumably, climbable.

He licked a finger, held it up, and waited. After a moment, one side of his finger felt cooler-a faint breeze, coming from upslope. The breeze was fresher than the rest of the air down there, but it was as good a direction to choose as any, especially since it led in the opposite direction Eralynn had taken, judging by the boot scuffs leading downslope. Torrin whispered a prayer to Marthammor and slung his mace; he’d need both hands for the climb. Then he scrambled up the slope.

He wandered through the Wymrcaves for what felt like at least half the night, climbing up chimneys and down crevices, edging along ledges, wading through icy underground streams, squeezing through vertical fissures, and belly-worming his way through horizontal cracks. After all that, he had found himself once more at the upper edge of the sloping cave the bolthole connected to. He’d gone in a complete circle. Fresh air still sighed past him-from somewhere behind him-but he hadn’t been able to find its source.

He sat down, exhausted, on a grimy lip of stone. “You’ve led me on a merry chase for pyrite, Vergadain,” Torrin said, shaking his head. The trickster god was like that, sometimes.

There was nothing else to be done. Torrin had to go in the direction Eralynn had taken. With luck, he’d be able to sneak past whatever spot she was delving and respect her desire for privacy. Except that Vergadain wasn’t handing out luck. Not tonight.

The realization that it must be close to dawn filled Torrin with even greater weariness. He needed to rest. He decided to lie down, just for a few moments. He cast about for a suitable spot and found a horizontal fissure big enough to squeeze into. He settled into it, his mace in one hand, determined to rest for just a little while. Within moments, however, he was sound asleep.

The sound of something scraping against stone awakened him. He lay in the darkness, his heart pounding. The scrape came again-closer-and as he heard it, Torrin realized the air had changed. The lizard smell was stronger. Barely daring to breathe, he slowly turned his head and saw, through his goggles, an eye as large and as round as a dinner plate.

A dragon!

A pant of warmth enveloped him-the dragon’s breath. The burned-meat stench of it made his nose prickle and his eyes water. But the dragon hadn’t spotted him yet. A moment later, Torrin realized why. The dragon’s “eye” was actually a gaping hole where an eye had once been. The dragon was blind! Yet surely it would smell him, soon enough.

Torrin’s mace was still in his hand. Its magic just might be enough to lay even a dragon low, but he’d never be able to spring out of the crevice and ready his weapon in time to get in a blow. He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing it was likely he was about to die. Moradin, he prayed silently, I convey my soul to your forge. May you find it worthy of recasting anew. And if you would, O Dwarffather, let me be reborn among the clans, this time around. For I have served you well, and…

Just a moment. The cavern felt… different. Torrin opened his eyes. The dragon was gone! It had passed him by! He could hear it slithering away.

Slithering in the direction Eralynn had taken!

Torrin reared up, banging his forehead on the stone above. He heard a sharp crack. Cursing his stupid mistake, he rubbed his forehead. There’d be a bruise there, soon enough, but that wasn’t his main worry. Feeling slightly lower, he touched his goggles. Something sliced into his finger, confirming his fear. The right lens of his goggles had broken.

He rolled out of the fissure and shook the broken glass out of his goggles, still cursing. He carefully checked that there were no more shards. Being temporarily blind in one eye due to the lost lens would be an inconvenience, but being permanently blind would be a disaster. Then he pulled on his goggles. He struggled downslope, seeing only out of his left eye, all depth perception gone. He had to be careful, lest he make a mis-step that would alert the dragon to his presence. Then again, that might not be such a bad thing. If the dragon turned to attack him, Eralynn would hear the sound and be forewarned.

He maintained a cautious distance behind the dragon for some time, fighting down the sick feeling in his stomach and feeling nervous sweat soak through his shirt. He had to keep close enough to the wyrm to see where it went, but far enough back that it wouldn’t hear or smell him.

At one point, Torrin passed a fissure in one wall that opened onto a large cavern whose floor was covered in chunks of rubble. As he passed the fissure, Torrin spotted a faint blue glow inside the cavern, momentarily silhouetting a dwarf figure. The glow had to be coming from Eralynn’s hands, appearing and disappearing as she moved about. A moment later, Torrin saw a soft yellow light as a candle was lit.

Why would Eralynn be lighting a candle, when she could-as all dwarves were able to do-see in the dark?

Still, who else would it be but Eralynn?

So far, she’d been lucky. If she’d struck steel to flint sooner, before the dragon had passed that spot, it might have smelled the candle smoke.

Torrin hesitated, wondering what he should do. Warn Eralynn? Reveal the fact that he’d followed her through the portal, despite her orders not to? Eralynn must have known there were dragons down there, he reasoned. They were the Wyrmcaves, after all. She’d been prepared to enter the Wyrmcaves alone-and she’d made it abundantly clear that it was a solo delve. Torrin had to respect that.

He decided to follow the dragon. He was certain it would eventually lead him to an exit.

A short time later, Torrin heard the whooshing flap of leathery wings. He crept to what turned out to be the opening to an enormous cavern, and peered inside. The dragon had taken flight and was making its way to a ledge at the far end of the cavern. When it landed, Torrin heard a series of high-pitched shrieks from the ledge. Two heads peeked out from a rounded heap of baked mud: the dragon’s young.

At the opposite side of the cavern, a hole pierced the ceiling. A beam of rose-tinted morning sunlight shone down through it, illuminating the floor below.

Torrin shook his head. Was that how Eralynn planned to leave the Wyrmcaves? By tiptoeing through a dragon’s lair? Yes, the dragon was blind, but its young could see. And Eralynn might not realize they were there.

Torrin’s duty was clear. The Morndinsamman themselves must have placed his feet on the path. Solo delve or not, it was Torrin’s responsibility to warn Eralynn of what lay ahead.

Back at the opening to the rubble-filled cavern, he saw that it was indeed Eralynn. She’d lit not one, but two candles. Their faint glow produced starlike reflections in the veins of clear quartz in the rubble-a sight Torrin might have admired, had it not been for the dangers of the Wyrmcaves. He’d expected to see Eralynn moving about, perhaps searching. But if she was on a delve, she was certainly going about it in a strange manner. She’d set the candles on the tablelike slab of stone on which she stood, and was standing next to them, her arms folded tight against her chest, her head bowed. A flask sat on the rock at her feet, a cup next to it.

Torrin made his way toward her. Clambering over the loose stone, it was impossible not to make noise. By the time he had reached the spot where she stood, she was glaring down at him.

“I told you not to follow me!” she cried. Her voice was furious, but her face looked anguished, rather than angry. Torrin noticed tear streaks in the dusting of grit that covered her face.

He clambered up onto the slab of stone, noting that it was covered in puddles of long-cold wax that had once been candles. He prayed Eralynn wouldn’t shove him off; she looked so upset he half expected her to.

“I didn’t mean to follow you,” he explained. “It was an accident. But that’s not what matters right now. There’s a dragon in the next cavern, not far from here. A red, by the smell of its breath. I came to warn you that-”

“Get out,” she said abruptly.

“But-”

“Now. You’re intruding on something private.”

“But the dragon-”

“You think I didn’t know about it? What kind of fool do you take me for?” Eralynn said, shaking her head. “That red was blinded, years ago.”

“Did you know that she’s got two young in her nest?” Torrin asked.

“Of course. It’s a breeding year.”

“You… knew?” Torrin bowed his apologies. Yet he couldn’t help but blurt out, “Then why delve now, of all times? Surely you could have come here some time when the dragon wasn’t sitting on its nest?”

Eralynn heaved a heavy sigh. “No, I couldn’t,” she said. “I’m not here to delve. I’m here for the Remembering.” One hand clenched the heart-shaped pendant at her throat.

“Oh,” Torrin said, suddenly realizing why Eralynn always seemed to vanish around the time of the Festival of Remembering. “This is where you disappear to each year, isn’t it? This is where your parents died. Here. In the Wyrmcaves.”

Eralynn nodded. She stared off into the darkness beyond the candle glow, her eyes glistening. After a moment’s silence, words-and tears-began to tumble out. “My parents were part of a merchant caravan, headed for Harlending through the Deeps,” she said. “They had to travel slowly, for fear of breaking Mother’s glasswork. The others didn’t like that, especially when they got closer to the Wyrmcaves. The rest pressed on ahead, together with the guide. My parents missed the passage and blundered into this cavern-into the Wyrmcaves.”

She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. “When the dragon attacked, my father used his magic to bring a portion of the ceiling down upon it. He didn’t realize this cavern housed a powerful earth node. It magnified his spell, and the entire ceiling fell.” She gestured at the rubble. “My mother was only partially buried. She survived long enough to tell the rescue party her tale. Then she died. Her body was taken back to the clanhold, in Eartheart. But this is my father’s only tomb. It’s why I come here each year.”

“Despite the dragon,” Torrin said softly.

Eralynn’s head jerked up. The fury in her eyes startled him. “ Because of the dragon. That red is the one that attacked my parents. The rockfall blinded her. One day, when I find the right weapon, I’ll finish her off.”

“So that’s why you delve,” Torrin said.

Eralynn stared out over the rubble, saying nothing.

Torrin nodded down at the flask. “Can I join you?” he asked. “The Remembering isn’t something you’re meant to do alone.”

“I was their firstborn, and a singleton. It falls to me, alone, to raise the glass to my parents.”

“Not any more. I’m here.”

Eralynn suddenly laughed. “Why not?” she said. “At least you’ll have actual names to speak, this year, instead of just ‘Clan Ironstar.’ ”

Torrin smiled. He took a cup out of his backpack and held it out. Eralynn filled it from the flask, then filled her own cup. The smell of ale, flavored with honey and bitters-sweetness and sorrow, in one cup-filled the air.

“Ambert and Vakna Thunsonn, I remember you,” Eralynn intoned as she raised her glass. “Your flames have been extinguished. Moradin grant that one day they be kindled anew.”

Torrin echoed her words. Together, they drank. As he tipped back his cup, he glanced at the entrance to the cave and suddenly froze. Was that movement he’d just seen? He closed the eye that didn’t have the benefit of the lens. Yes. Movement. He was certain of it. Something gleamed dully in the faint light of the candle-the dragon’s scales.

He tapped Eralynn’s shoulder and pointed at the entrance. “Dragon,” he mouthed. He pointed down at the still-burning candles, and at his nose. The dragon must have smelled the candle smoke. Fortunately, not only was the wrym too large to fit through the opening, she hadn’t heard them-yet.

Eralynn nodded. Moving slowly, she set her cup down on the stone. Slowly and carefully, she drew her sword. She whispered something. Torrin heard the name Clanggedin Silverbeard, and realized she was readying for battle.

He didn’t like the thought of that. “Isn’t there another way out?” he whispered.

Eralynn shook her head.

“Right,” he said, untying his mace. “That’s it, then. We fight our way out.” If he managed to strike the dragon on the head and shout the word that activated the magic in his mace at just the right moment, they just might live to see another delve. He pointed at the entrance where the dragon waited, likely thinking its prey hadn’t noticed it yet. “You on one side, and me on the other,” Torrin whispered. He handed her his cup. “When we’re in position, throw this. When the dragon hears the noise, and sticks her head in, I’ll stun her. Then you can finish her with your sword.”

She shoved the cup back into his hand. “Stay where you are,” she said. “This is my fight.”

“I won’t let you take on a dragon alone.”

Her look grew cold. “You won’t ‘let’ me?”

He stared back at her and quoted from the Delver’s Tome. “ ‘Unless it is the only way to complete the delve, no Delver shall abandon his partner, or allow him to face danger alone,’ ” he whispered.

“This isn’t a delve,” she retorted, her face growing red. “Nor are you my ‘partner.’ You’re just a sadly deluded-”

A bellowing roar cut off the rest of her insult. A gout of flame billowed into the cavern-the dragon’s fiery breath. A blast of heat washed over them, searing the bare skin on Torrin’s forehead and arms. The smell of singed mustache filled his nostrils. “Down!” he shouted. No need for silence any longer. The red had heard them arguing and knew they were there.

Eralynn didn’t need to be told. She was already springing off the slab of rock. Together, they threw themselves prone in the lee of it, just as a second blast of flame flared across the cavern, even hotter than the first. Melted candle wax dribbled down onto Torrin’s bracer and ran down to his elbow, burning through his heavy shirt and searing his right arm. He cursed and slapped at his sleeve.

“What now?” he gasped. “If we try to get any closer, we’ll be cooked meat.”

Eralynn coughed. The air was thick with smoke. “If we wait here, we’ll suffocate,” she said.

Torrin touched the silver hammers braided into his beard as another roaring gout of fire filled the cavern. The air grew still more stifling. His entire body was bathed in sweat, his singed beard limp, and his hair plastered against his scalp. Eralynn didn’t look much better. Hot, sooty air rasped down Torrin’s throat like a sawblade as he tried to draw breath.

“Torrin,” Eralynn said. “I’m sorry.”

Torrin forced a grin. “Everyone has to die, sometime.”

“Not that,” she said with a cough. “About what I said.”

He waved a hand. “You can apologize later.” He coughed again. “In the next life, when we meet again.”

“Small chance of that,” she gasped. “We won’t even recognize each other.”

Torrin hung his head closer to the ground, trying to find cooler air. With all the smoke in the air, it was getting difficult to see. Eralynn struggled to rise, her sword in her hand, but another blast of flame forced her back to her knees.

Then Torrin noticed something-a blue glow. Lines of magical energy were flowing toward the spot where he and Eralynn were crouched, converging on them as though they were the hub of a spoked wheel.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“Something’s activated the earth node,” Eralynn said. “It’s channeling spellfire.” She lifted her hands and squinted at them through the smoke. The glowing veins of blue were no brighter than usual. “But it’s not me. Something other than my spellscar must be drawing it.”

Torrin saw, to his surprise, that the beams of crackling blue energy were converging on the spot where he crouched. “It’s focusing on me!” he gasped back. “But I’m not spellscarred. Why would it-”

Wracked with coughing, he couldn’t continue.

“Your runestone!” Eralynn cried.

Of course! Why hadn’t he made the connection before? The words on his runestone were “earth magic,” and they were at the heart of an earth node: one of the places where the invisible lines of elemental energy that ran the length and breadth of Faerun converged. And perhaps-just perhaps-it would be their salvation. Mages used earth nodes like stepping stones, teleporting from one to the next with a mere thought. Perhaps the runestone would allow even someone without knowledge of magical rituals to do the same. And not just from one earth node to the other, but to-as Kendril had said-“anywhere you want to go.”

Torrin ripped off his pack and fumbled with the runestone. Immediately, the sparkling lines centered on it. A ball of blue light formed around the runestone, sending tingling shivers up Torrin’s arms.

“What should I do now?” he shouted.

“I have no idea!” Eralynn rasped out between coughs. “Try concentrating on somewhere else.” Yet another wave of heat and smoke boiled over them as the dragon exhaled again. “Anywhere else!” She cupped her hands around Torrin’s, and the blue glow intensified. Crackling veins sprang into bright relief on the backs of her hands.

“Hold on!” Torrin shouted. He squeezed his eyes shut, one hand on his pack and the other holding the runestone. Out of here, he thought fiercely. Get us out of here. Take us-

Fire curled over the slab as the dragon exhaled its most powerful breath yet, the flames licking down over the lip of the stone. As they seared Torrin’s scalp and smouldered his hair, he screamed in pain. “Home!”

He felt a sudden wrench.

A twisting sensation followed-a long spinning slide along lines of blue fire. Then a sudden thud, blessed coolness, and the press of wooden boards against his cheek.

He lifted his head and saw Eralynn lying unconscious-but, praise Moradin, still breathing-beside him on the floor of his parents’ shop in Hammergate.

“We made it,” he gasped.

Then he collapsed.