“What do you-”
“Figure it out yourself, human. I saw how you looked at me. You don’t just dress like a dwarf, you think like one. You hate like one.”
Torrin suddenly realized that Cathor’s skin wasn’t gray because of the stoneplague. Nor was his head bald because he’d shaved it. That strange cast to his eyes. His wiry frame. “You’re… duergar?” he asked.
“One-quarter,” Cathor replied bitterly. “And that was the only quarter that counted. I’m an enemy. Someone to be reviled, to be driven out.” He smirked. “But I’ve had my revenge. And it was sweeter than anything else the gold might have bought. So go ahead and kill me. I’m tired of this life. And these ropes hurt.”
Torrin stared down at his captive. The time had indeed come for justice. And Cathor was all but begging for it. Yet how should Torrin kill the duergar dross that lay at his feet? Perhaps, he mused, with the rogue’s own dagger. Slash his wrists and let him bleed out. Whittle him down slowly, as the stoneplague whittled down its victims. Or perhaps Torrin should smash in the fellow’s head with his mace. It would be a quicker death, but one that would activate the weapon’s ancient dwarf magic. Either would be equally appropriate, not to mention satisfying.
The mace, Torrin decided. He lifted the weapon above his head. His hands were sweaty on the grip. He felt like Moradin, raising his hammer to strike a blow and making a holy pronouncement. His pulse beat in his throat against Eralynn’s pendant. “I strike this blow for Eralynn,” he intoned. “My shield sister. And for Kier, my nephew. And for Ambril, the boy’s mother. Clanfolk, all. I strike this blow in Moradin’s name, for all of the hundreds or even thousands of innocents you so callously afflicted. Utter your final prayer now, to whatever god you think might claim your soul, and-”
A whimper interrupted his pronouncement. Torrin smelled urine, and realized Cathor had just relieved himself like a cowering dog. Despite the bravado of a moment before, the rogue’s eyes were filled with tears. He was crying. Like a child.
“There is no god to claim me,” he whispered. “Only the anguish of the Nine Hells awaits.”
Torrin scowled. “You should have thought of that before committing your foul crimes.”
Cathor looked up, his face twisted with anguish. “You don’t understand,” he said. “You couldn’t. None of the Morndinsamman will take me.”
“That’s not true,” Torrin answered. “Your soul might have been reforged anew, had you repented, instead of gloating over what the duergar did. Moradin would have shown mercy.”
“Moradin, a god for the ‘true dwarves,’ ” said Cathor, his lips twisting with the words. “Not those with duergar blood muddying their veins.”
“Nonsense,” Torrin argued. “Look at me. My body may be human, yet Moradin will welcome me at his side, when the time comes for my soul to be reforged.”
Cathor gave a bitter laugh and said, “You’re such a fool, human.”
“You’re the fool,” Torrin replied, raising his mace again, preparing to finish Cathor. He’d killed before-the half-orc who’d tried to rob his parents’ shop, back when Torrin was just a boy. And the drow he’d slain in battle, during his misadventure in Araumycos with Gamlin and Farrik. Just a few moments before he’d accidentally finished off the dying half-elf. But those had all been in the heat of the moment. The man he was about to kill lay bound and helpless before him.
The rage that had filled Torrin a moment before was leaking out, being replaced by a sick feeling that was mixed with a twinge of pity as he stared down at the crying rogue. Torrin found it all too easy to understand what had stoked the forge of bitter anger inside Cathor. Torrin himself knew what it felt like to be mocked, to not fit in. To not be accepted by his own people.
Yet unlike Cathor, who’d let those hurts fester, Torrin had managed to pull himself away from the self- destructive path he’d been walking, back when he was trying to drink away his confusion and hurt in the years before joining the Delvers. Cathor, in contrast, had turned on his own people, embarking on a horrific scheme of misplaced revenge that had ultimately led to his own destruction.
What had made him walk so different a path?
Perhaps, Torrin thought, Cathor’s hurt was deeper. Torrin could shrug off insults, and had always believed that, if he only tried hard enough and long enough, people would see past his human body and realize that he was, indeed, as much a dwarf as any of the clanfolk. The Thunsonn clan, the Delvers-both had accepted him. But Cathor, with his bald head and gray skin, wouldn’t even have been given the benefit of the doubt.
What Cathor had done-his role in spreading the stoneplague to Eartheart-filled Torrin with revulsion. But did that make what Torrin was about to do the right thing, in the eyes of Moradin? Did it condone the fact that Torrin was now contemplating killing a helpless captive in cold blood? That was the antithesis of all that dwarves stood for. And dwarf law had a word for an execution performed without benefit of trial by council.
Murder.
Was that what Torrin was about to become? A murderer?
He lowered his mace. He would not stoop to the level of his captive. He would instead hand him over to the authorities in Eartheart. Cathor would certainly still be condemned to death, but it would be done in a legal, civilized fashion and according to the law, not at one man’s whim.
Torrin realized something then. He heard a voice, whispering. It wasn’t coming from his captive. It was coming from… He cocked an ear. Inside his shirt?
Torrin pulled up his shirt so that the brooch the Lord Scepter had given him was next to his ear. The stone set into the brooch was definitely emitting a voice.
“… still alive?” it said. “If you can hear me, please answer!”
Torrin blinked in surprise. “Lord Scepter?”
“Yes,” said the voice. “My thanks, Torrin Ironstar. You’ve provided an invaluable service to your city this night.”
Torrin stared at the brooch and shook his head. That geode wasn’t mere decorative element; it was a sending stone! The Lord Scepter had been listening in on everything Torrin had said and heard, ever since he’d left Eartheart! At first, Torrin felt outrage. The Lord Scepter had tricked him into wearing the brooch, had listened in on his most private moments! But then he realized the wisdom of the deception, the necessity of it. Had Torrin known what the brooch actually did, he might have worried about what the listener was thinking, might not have pulled things off nearly so well.
The stone in the brooch was talking again. “Can you describe the cavern you’re standing in? A detailed description?” it said.
“Why?” Torrin asked.
“We’re about to open a portal to your location,” the Lord Scepter told him. “The Steel Shields are coming through to take charge of your captive.”
Torrin thought back to the Lord Scepter’s earlier warning. “Will they arrest me as well?”
The voice from the brooch chuckled. “That order has been rescinded.”
“Very well, then,” Torrin said. He described the cavern’s dimensions, its gold-crusted walls and floor, the cut in the wall. He started to describe the objects scattered across the floor and their placement, relative to one another, but the Lord Scepter interrupted. “That’s enough,” he said. “Stand still, and don’t move.”
“I won’t,” Torrin replied.
He heard a soft popping sound-the rush of displaced air. A cleric of Clangeddin Silverbeard appeared in the middle of the cavern, holding above his head the twin axes that were both the symbol of his faith and his chosen weapons. His silver-plated armor glowed with the blood-red radiance of the battle god’s magic. The light flushed his face, turning his cheeks ruddy, and stained his white beard red.
Four Steel Shields materialized next to him an instant later, their maces drawn and their shields at the ready. They fanned out into the cavern at a nod from the cleric, who was obviously their commander. Meanwhile the cleric, his eyes burning with battle lust, strode to where Cathor lay on the floor. For a moment, Torrin thought the cleric was going to hack the rogue to pieces on the spot. Cathor must have felt the same, for he twisted violently and tried to roll away. But instead of killing the rogue, the cleric stamped a boot down onto Cathor’s chest, pinning him to the ground.
He turned back to Torrin. “Where’s the runestone?” he demanded, his gaze as piercing as a crossbow bolt.
Torrin opened his pack and pulled it out. Although he was reluctant to part with the runestone, he handed it
