Kier struggled to sit up. “I found gold, Uncle!” he cried. “A king’s fortune in gold.”
“Indeed you did,” replied Torrin, “but not nearly enough to be worth your life.” He glanced at the skyrider, who was still speaking into his magical stone. “Now keep your voice down. We don’t want others chiseling in on our delve.”
Kier also glanced at the skyrider and dropped his voice to a whisper. “This mote was part of Underhome,” he said, looking steadily pinker as the skyrider’s potion did its work. “That box I found… Maybe it held more than just gold. Maybe there’s something else inside it. Something ancient.”
Torrin doubted it. The strongbox had looked brand new. “Do you feel strong enough to stand?” he asked Kier. “We should go.”
Kier rose to his feet; the potion had indeed completed its work. “I’m not leaving all that gold behind.”
“Yes you are,” Torrin replied firmly. He nodded in the direction of the skyrider, still engrossed in his communications with his commander. “Verdagain has blessed us this day by providing us with an escort-one who’s going to be so busy taking me into custody for stealing a griffon, he won’t have time to explore the mote. I’ll come back for the gold later.”
“How can you do that without a griffon?” Kier asked.
“Remember my runestone? Once I figure out how to use it, I can teleport here any time I like.”
Kier’s eyes gleamed.
“In the meantime,” Torrin said, “we’ve got some quick talking to do if we’re going to persuade that guard not to lock me up and throw away the key. I don’t want to be behind bars when your little sisters are born.”
“Little brothers,” Kier corrected. “Mother says they kick like boys.”
“Sisters,” Torrin said. He winked. “I’m going to win our bet, remember? You’re going to be sweeping my room for a month.”
Kier snorted. “If I lose, I’ll pay someone else to do it. I’m rich!”
Torrin felt a gust of wind as the skyrider flew closer again.
“You’re in luck, human,” the guard announced. “Captain Baelar has vouched for you. There’s still the matter of the stolen griffon to be dealt with, but for now I’m going to trust you. Is the boy strong enough to climb back up the rope?”
“I am!” Kier said.
“Then up to the top of the mote, the two of you,” said the skyrider. “We’re flying back.”
Torrin bowed, elated. “My thanks!” he called back.
“Don’t thank me-thank the boy’s grandfather,” replied the guard.
“When will I get my mace back?” Torrin asked.
“When we land in Hammergate,” he replied.
Torrin groaned inwardly. Hammergate? He didn’t want to sit outside the walls for days on end, waiting his turn to be cleansed. Not with the door to the earthmote’s secret room standing open, and the gold inside it just lying around for the taking. Still, what choice did he have? “Fair enough,” he said.
“Now climb,” the skyrider ordered. “The boy first, then you.”
Torrin glanced down at Kier and saw that the boy’s eyes were twinkling. Torrin could guess why. “Don’t think you’re getting up to more mischief,” he warned. “I’m going to have my eye on you every single moment we’re in Hammergate. There’ll be no chats with outlanders and tallfolk, no trips to the Gatehouse Inn. Just days and days of sitting around, doing nothing, waiting for our turn in the temple pool.”
Kier pouted in silence. It seemed to have finally sunk in that his adventure was at an end. Being poisoned hadn’t brought it home, but the prospect of several days of tedium had.
With Kier safe, Torrin’s thoughts turned back to the gold below. A single bar would be enough to pay the tithe for his previous cleansing, if only he could recover the gold. Another bar would pay for the cleansing to come. And there had been far more than just two gold bars-more than enough to equip an expedition to the Soulforge!
All Torrin had to do was figure out how to use the runestone-and quickly-before someone else visited the earthmote and found all that gold.
Torrin placed both of his hands on the dusty counter and leaned in closer to the head stonecutter. “I swear, by Moradin’s beard,” he said vehemently. “There’s a small fortune in it for you. Just loan me one of your motediscs for the day and I’ll cut you in on the profits from my delve.”
The foreman folded his burly arms across his chest. He was short, even for a dwarf, with a forked beard whose two braids had been pulled to the top of his head and clipped together-a peculiar style that no doubt raised more than its share of snickers. But judging by the defiant glint in the foreman’s eye, he enjoyed a good fight.
“No credit,” he repeated. “Especially for humans.” He picked up his hammer and chisel and glared at Torrin a moment more, as if daring him to provide an excuse to use the tools on Torrin’s skull. Then he turned toward the workroom where knappers banged away at slabs of earthmote that had been secured to worktables with vises, so they wouldn’t drift away.
Torrin swore under his beard. He was knee-deep in irony. He’d invented the motedisc-not that anyone ever believed him when he told that tale. Four years after he’d discovered he was really a dwarf recast in a human body, he’d sought out an apprenticeship in a suitably honorable trade, as a stonecutter at a quarry near Glitterdelve. Wielding a hammer and a chisel all day throughout his teenage years had given him his bulging biceps. The smell of stone dust still took him back to the days before he’d taken up an adventurer’s life.
One day, during an all-too-rare visit to the surface permitted during his apprenticeship, Torrin had noted that the chunks of stone that sometimes crumbled from an earthmote continued to float for some time, after calving off from the main body of the mote. Inspiration struck. What if, he thought, he could find an earthmote comprised of flint or chert-stone that split easily into sheets-and then split off chunks of it and shape them into circles. The shield-sized floating discs would be similar to the metal “driftdiscs” the drow crafted with their dark magic.
It had taken some time to push past the stubborn resistance of Ryordin Hammerfist, the quarry master. He’d insisted, at first, that the idea “stank like something drow.” Eventually, however, he’d realized there was coin to be made-especially once the chips of earthmote were “tempered” in the magic of a particular earth node near Glitterdelve, ensuring that the magic that kept them bobbing about didn’t bleed away from the worked stone.
The motedisc had been Torrin’s idea, yet he hadn’t seen a single copper of profit from it. And he couldn’t even afford to buy one.
The motedisc factory was located at the very edge of Hammergate, at a spot that afforded a view of the Underchasm. As Torrin stepped out into the rain, he could see the earthmote that he and Kier had visited two days before. He stared forlornly at it, wondering how he was ever going to reach it again. His plan had been to secure a motedisc big enough to support him, then wait until the wind was blowing in the right direction. He’d rig a sail that would catch the wind and ride the motedisc to the earthmote.
Today, the wind was perfect. But he was back to where he’d started-scratching his head and trying to figure out how the runestone worked, so he could use it to teleport to the earthmote, instead.
“Depressing, isn’t it?” a voice asked from near his elbow.
Torrin turned. Few people were on the streets on such a wet, blustery day. He glanced down at the dwarf who’d stopped beside him to also stare out across the Underchasm. His clothing was worn, his posture stooped. His head was balding on top, with scraggly hairs on the sides, and his movements were slow and stiff.
The dwarf gestured at the Underchasm. “So much of our heritage, lost in the collapse,” he said sadly. Then he glanced up at Torrin’s backpack, and his eyes widened. “By Moradin’s beard!” he exclaimed. “You’re a Delver? Yes, yes, of course. I’ve heard of you. The human delver who spoke to the Council the other night. I hear you made quite the impression on the Lord Scepter.” He extended a hand, grunting with the effort. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. What was your name again?”
Torrin reached down to clasp the dwarf’s hand. “Torrin Ironstar. Pleased to-”
Something smashed into the left side of Torrin’s head. Stars exploded across his vision. As he collapsed, he caught a brief glimpse of a human who’d snuck up behind him. The man held a weighted leather sap-a rogue’s weapon. Torrin fell to the ground, fighting to stay conscious, trying to reach his mace. He heard footsteps running away-the dwarf who’d distracted him while the rogue crept up behind.
The rogue grinned, revealing a missing tooth. “Nighty night,” he said.
He slugged Torrin a second time. Consciousness fled.
“Torrin! Wake up. Gods have mercy, don’t let him be dead!”
Kier’s voice finally pierced the heavy red throbbing that filled Torrin’s head. Torrin groaned.
