Icelin poured more fire into the other spider’s eyes. The room blurred as weakness overcame her. Too fast, she thought, too much. At least the spell hadn’t gone wild.
“Icelin, stop!” Ruen crouched beside her. “The creature’s dead.”
Shaking, Icelin reined in the fire and instinctively grasped her staff. Responding to her touch, red light filled and swirled in its wooden cage. Power, balanced and carefully contained-the symbolism was not lost on her. Focusing her thoughts on the staff, the strength and stability of its magic, Icelin felt a little calmer.
“Are you all right?” Icelin asked, turning to Ruen with a slightly dazed expression.
“You’re asking me that?” Ruen nodded to her hands where she clutched the staff. They trembled still, knuckles white against the wood. “You shouldn’t have spent yourself like that.”
“That’s what my great uncle used to say whenever I did something foolish. I’m sorry, but I’m not fond of spiders,” Icelin said weakly, “especially when they’re bigger than I am.”
The younger dwarf snarled something in his native language as he held a hand against his wound. Black ichor dripped from his axe.
“What did he say?” Ruen asked.
The dwarf’s father nodded at Icelin. “He agrees with her,” he said. He hesitated, then held out a hand to Ruen. “You fight well,” he said grudgingly. “I’m Garn Blackhorn.”
“Ruen Morleth,” Ruen said and clasped the dwarf’s hand briefly. “She is Icelin Tearn.”
“The young one’s my son, Obrin,” Garn said. “Did you get much of the poison?” he asked his son.
The dwarf grunted. He lifted his hand away from his wound. Some of the greenish liquid flowed down his arm. Icelin couldn’t smell the poison anymore, but the pinched look of the dwarf’s face and the pallor of his skin told her he was in pain.
Garn went to his son. He held up a hand and traced a symbol in the air with his index and middle fingers. The short, gnarled digits were anything but graceful, yet that was the only word Icelin thought of when she beheld the glowing orange rune with roots of blue and purple that flowed from the dwarf’s fingertips, hissing in the cold cavern air.
The symbol faded. Garn unfastened Obrin’s gauntlet and rolled up his sleeve to expose the spider bite. A breath later, Obrin’s torn flesh glowed, and the same rune Icelin had seen traced on the air rose up as if from deep within Obrin’s skin.
The delicate shape of the rune fascinated her-two interlocking rings with a horizontal line drawn across both. A symbol impossible to translate, yet its effects lingered in the air long after the rune had faded away completely. Warmth, protection, healing. Be at peace, the magic whispered in a voice without words, strong and firm. The younger dwarf closed his eyes briefly as the rune melted into his flesh, the orange light covering the wound and closing it.
Icelin allowed her eyes to drift closed for a moment. So often she’d only felt the touch of wild magic, but the soothing presence of this kind of stable Art made her breathing slow and washed away the sick feeling in her stomach.
When she opened her eyes, she met the younger dwarf’s curious gaze. Embarrassed, Icelin looked away. “You also fought well, Obrin,” she said. The dwarf shot her an irritated glance and muttered something, again in his own language. “Doesn’t he speak the common tongue?” Icelin asked.
“He speaks it, and he understands everything you’re saying, but he doesn’t speak to outsiders,” Garn said. “It’s beneath his dignity.”
“But not yours,” Ruen observed.
The elder dwarf stroked his beard, his fingers tracing the runes on his cheek in a significant if absentminded gesture. “My son is his own man. He acts as he sees fit, and so do I. You’re both skilled enough in battle, even if you are thieves and plunderers,” he said.
Icelin and Ruen exchanged a glance. “Don’t look at me,” Icelin said wearily. “You’re the thief-and probably the plunderer, too. All I want is Sull.”
“Why did you capture him?” Ruen asked. “If you thought he desecrated your burial grounds, why didn’t you just kill him?”
“Because he told us you’re looking for the Arcane Script Sphere,” Garn said. “That changes things.”
“Do you know of the artifact?” Icelin asked.
A flicker of disdain passed over Garn’s face. “It’s not my place to tell you of it. We’ll take you to your friend, but it’s a long way down, deeper than I think you intended to go.”
“Will you let us come back out again?” Ruen asked.
Garn didn’t answer. He examined his son’s wound one more time and, appearing satisfied, helped him to his feet. “Your lady looks exhausted,” he said, nodding to Icelin. “She can rest once we get to the city. Our king will want to speak to you about the artifact.”
“A city?” Icelin said as Ruen helped her to stand. “And a king? I suppose we were just discussing new adventures, weren’t we?” she said to Ruen. “I really should learn to keep my mouth shut. The gods have a way of listening when I start going on about adventure.”
Ruen picked up the torch. “Lead on,” he told the dwarves.
CHAPTER FOUR
GUALLIDURTH, THE UNDERDARK
21 UKTAR
The scouts stood before Mistress Mother Fizzri Khaven-Ghell and gave a terse report on their latest forays to the outposts of Iltkazar. Fizzri listened to their account, but her attention kept diverting to the shadowy corners of the room. At any moment, she expected Zollgarza to appear, watching her with that murky red gaze of his. When several more minutes passed and he did not show himself, the mistress mother’s heartbeat quickened.
She imagined her goddess’s hands stroking the back of her neck, Lolth’s words a soft whisper-and a warning-in her ear.
Don’t lose him, Fizzri.
The hands turned to claws, poised to rend her flesh. The words were a sharp hiss, an inhuman sound that penetrated her deepest thoughts.…
Fizzri blinked and shook away the phantoms of her imagination. The scouts gazed at her expectantly. How long had she been lost in her own thoughts and fears? She fixed an impassive expression on her face and looked each of the scouts in the eye, but her strength again faltered when she noticed the empty place at the back of the room.
The scout leader, a male named Velzick, didn’t seem to notice her discomfort but continued to drone on endlessly about Iltkazar. “We can safely report that the city’s population is greatly diminished from what was once spoken of centuries ago,” he said. “Iltkazar is the shell of a dead empire. If not for the lingering strength of its defenses, we should have conquered it long ago. An assault will require careful planning and execution, but I’m confident we can take the city.”
He sounded eager, and why shouldn’t he? Iltkazar, with its vast, empty halls, cleared of dwarf vermin, was a territorial prize for Guallidurth. No doubt Velzick expected Fizzri to be exultant at her impending victory, but at that moment, she was hardly listening. Able to contain herself no longer, she blurted out, “Where is Zollgarza?”
The scouts exchanged glances, and Velzick stepped forward. “Mistress, the dwarf patrol we captured claimed that at least one of our own scouts was taken in fighting near the southern outposts. Zollgarza is the only one unaccounted for.”
Slowly Fizzri rose to her feet. She allowed her serpent, Ulgatta, to curl around her arm and rest its head against her inner wrist, where her pulse beat an erratic rhythm. Approaching the scout, she laid her hand against his cheek in a gesture as tender as it was threatening. She knew he could see the serpent hovering inches from his chin.
“You didn’t answer my question, Velzick,” she cooed. “Perhaps you’d like to try again.”
The scout looked down at Fizzri and said, “It’s possible Zollgarza has been captured by the dwarves of Iltkazar, Mistress.”