“You-you broke the curse.” Standing as tall as him, she did not have to look up to meet his gaze. “So many years… it is not possible!” While one hand held the cape snug around her, the fingers of the other touched here and there, as if to confirm that she was once again a woman of flesh and blood and not of cold, unfeeling steel.
“Among the humans, many strange things are possible.” Bijendra stood looking back at her. “I do not seek out their company, but neither do I forswear it.” Moving to his left, he drew Furcleave from where he had placed it in the crack in the rocks. All but powerless and still in shock, she stared at him uncertainly.
“I am no longer Mistress of Steel, Wardress of the Sword Barrow. At the very last instant, before the beginning of the changing, I whispered a word to the weapons. The message was carried instantly. Whether it arrived at your keep whole and in time to do any good I do not know.” She dropped her head. “I tried. I owe you everything, but I can do no more. Kill me if you will.”
“You did not kill me. Why would I kill you? Come with me to my home and we will see together if you have saved him. I would never slay one who tried. If he lives, he will want to thank you himself. Afterward, if you wish, I will escort you safely to a feyhold, where you may dwell in happiness for what remains of your natural life. Without fear of rust.”
Her eyes fluttered again-noiselessly, this time. “I owe you my true life, Ruhan Bijendra.”
“And I owe you the life of my brother-I hope. Come, Princess. It is dark, it is cold, and I am hungry from this night’s work.”
A furry, muscular arm went around her shoulders, drawing her forward. With the other he held Furcleave stiffly out before him. As they approached the fading but still glowing circle of floating swords, the ring parted to let them pass. As soon as Jiriyel had stepped through, the blue lambency vanished. Inanimate metal once again, the ancient blades fell to the ground. The single loud, unified clanging of their fall resounded across the Downs-a vast metal sigh. Together, the two figures strode with lengthening steps in the direction of distant Hammerfast. Eyes half shut, the eladrin Jiriyel leaned close against the protective bulk of Ruhan Bijendra.
“You know,” she whispered softly, “I had a kitten once…”
TALLFOLK TALES
So it’s a guide you’re wanting, is it? Well, if it’s Araumycos you’re going to, that guide won’t be me. Regardless of the rumors you may have heard around town, I’ve had my fill of that place. Why, even the smell of mushroom wine Now hold on, elf. Don’t be so hasty to leave. I didn’t say there wasn’t a guide to be had. You’ve come to the right person. I know someone who’s as familiar with the twists and turns of Araumycos as that barkeep over there is with this tavern. And best of all, she won’t cost you a sack of coin, the way someone from the guides’ guild will-assuming they’d even take you there. No, she won’t charge a thing. And reliable? Well, listen to my tale and you’ll see that Rook is the person you want one pace ahead of you, if you’re venturing into Araumycos. And I’m the one who can tell you how to find her.
Fetch me some ale and sit down here at my table, and I’ll tell you my tale. But none of that spitfroth the humans try to pass off as lager, mind. Nor any of that honeyed cider you elves seem to love so much. Make it dwarven Samman ale, bitter and brown.
Ah. That’s the stuff. A meal in a glass, as they say.
You’ll be wondering at my taste in drink and my thick red beard. I’ve seen you note the silver hammers braided into it and my iron bracers. The star on them, just above the wrist, is part of my clan name. It’s Morndin you’re talking to, son of… well, son of Moradin, you might say. It was the Dwarffather who forged my soul anew, after whoever I was in my last lifetime died. He took my dwarf soul and cast it in a human mold, this time. Although if you ask me, it’s likely Vergadain had a hand in it too. They don’t call him the trickster god for nothing.
So here I am in this lifetime, a human. That’s why my shield brothers call me Morndin. Compared to them, I’m high as a mountain.
Now don’t raise that eyebrow. Just because it’s odd doesn’t mean it isn’t so. The Dwarffather must have decided there’s something I had to learn in this lifetime, something I could only discover in this body. Or perhaps there was some deed he wanted done. Something it would take this towering, narrowchested human body to accomplish.
I see that smile you’re trying to hide. I know what you’ll be asking next: how is it I came to believe such foolishness. You’ll be wondering if someone cast a befuddlement spell on me, or some such. The short answer is no. The long answer has to do with that footman’s mace leaning against the wall beside me here.
My parents-also human-had a provisions store in Hammergate, down by the Rift. They often took items in trade. I’m told that, a year or two before I was born, a creaky old longbeard said his adventuring days were behind him, and asked my father if he’d like to buy this mace. It’s pretty battered looking, isn’t it, with that slight bend in the handle and one of the flanges missing from the head? My father thought so, too. He didn’t want to take it in trade, but the longbeard said coin would comfort him in his final years more than any weapon would. And so my father bought the mace, tucked it away in the storeroom, and forgot all about it.
Turns out it was a magical weapon forged by the Ironstar clan-light as a feather, and capable of dealing a blow that calls down Moradin’s thunder, if you know the right word to say. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Years later, when I was seven, a half-orc tried to rob the store. He held my mother at knife-point and demanded all the coin in the lockbox. I was in the storeroom, and heard the commotion out front. The mace was the closest weapon to hand. I rushed into the shop, swinging it like a kuldjargh-that’s Dwarvish, by the way, for “beserker.” They say I wielded the weapon like I was born with it in my hand. And here’s the part that will lift that other eyebrow of yours. As the mace cracked against that half-orc’s head, I shouted a word that filled the room with magical, booming thunder. The crack of it split his head wide open.
Once I recovered from the surprise, I wondered how I’d done it. I knew a little Dwarvish; I’d grown on the Rift’s edge, in a shop that catered to dwarves, after all. Both of my human parents spoke Dwarvish, if a bit brokenly, and could read a little. But there was no explaining how I knew what word to shout that day. It wasn’t a word you’d expect, like corl or raugh or rorn. It Yes, yes, I’ll tell you about the guide in a moment. It’s just that you need to know this piece of it, so you’ll understand all that follows.
Could I have another Samman? My ale cup’s gone dry.
Ah. That’s better.
You’re obviously an elf of the surface realms, judging by that longbow you carry. That won’t be much use to you, down here in the Underchasm. And that leafmottle cloak won’t be much use either. Not here in Gracklstugh, where the buildings are as gray and gloomy as the duergar who built them. Nor will it aid you within the musky embrace of Araumycos. Most of the fungus is gray-white, dotted with orange puffballs. That’s what you have to watch out for, by the way. Blunder into one of those, and you’ll die a slow, choking death with spores that clog your nostrils and fruit deep in your lungs. Even a little whiff of it’s enough to scar the lungs for life. And a man whose body is erupting from the inside out with puffballs is a shuddersome sight, I’ll tell you.
But Rook will steer you clear of those.
You obviously have some passing familiarity with the Underchasm, to have made it this far down. And I see by that shield ring on your finger that you know a little about Araumycos’s strange pull. The closer you get to Araumycos, the more vivid those nightmares become. Even with magical protection, they root in your mind by night and fill it with strange whispers by day, telling you to join with… something. Whatever’s at the heart of the thing. Some say it’s a patch of the fungus that’s afire with spellplague and needs live fuel to stoke it. I couldn’t say if that’s true, myself. I just know you have to beware of the golhyrrl’fhaazht.
I see that frown. You’re wondering why I speak Drow. Short answer is, I don’t. They’re a race that’s evil through and through-cruel and depraved-but that word they coined is the best fit I know.
“Dream trap.” That’s Araumycos, all right.
Given their fear of it, the drow normally avoid Araumycos like the spellplague. That’s why we never expected to Yes, yes, I’m getting to the part where I tell you about Rook. But first I have to set the stage.
