“Your friend Sull offered us similar aid when a pair of spiders attacked us,” Joya interrupted when it looked as if Obrin might wring his sister’s neck. She grinned at the butcher. “He stood in front of us armed with a meat cleaver and a tenderizing mallet. It was so … gallant.”
“Overprotective as a mother bear, but Sull’s meat stew and vegetables will make you weep with pleasure,” Icelin said, grinning at Sull. The butcher blushed.
“Why did you aid us?” Garn said. The runepriest was not nearly as congenial as his daughters were. As they stood talking, he stared into the darkness of the adjoining tunnels with a distant, inevitable expression, as if waiting for more enemies to descend upon them.
Ruen, who’d been quiet for most of the conversation, and who watched the darkness with the same attentiveness as Garn, spoke up. “You had Sull,” he said. “If you’d died, we would never have found him.”
“That’s the only reason?” Garn said, shooting an assessing glance at Ruen. Icelin wondered if he found it as hard to read Ruen’s expressions as she sometimes did.
When Ruen didn’t immediately reply, Icelin said, “We would have helped you, no matter what, had you needed it, but you and your son hardly required our aid. The runes you cast were stunning,” she told Garn, remembering the sense of peace that washed over her when he’d cast the healing magic on Obrin. “I’ve never seen such stable Art.”
“And that’s why you’re hunting the Arcane Script Sphere,” Ingara said, turning her direct gaze on Icelin. “Sull told us why you were exploring the ruins, but he didn’t mention your wild magic.”
“It’s the work of her spellscar,” Ruen said. “We had information that suggested the Arcane Script Sphere could stabilize wild magic.”
“What made you think such information was worth a rothe’s tongue?” Garn said. “Coming from the surface, from the humans? And what made you think you could just take the sphere if you found it?”
“We don’t want to take it,” Icelin said, “just to examine it. We don’t even know if it will help me-”
“But if it does,” Ruen interjected, “that’s another matter.”
This time Obrin reacted to his words. He turned and made a sharp gesture, pointing at Icelin and Ruen and speaking rapidly in Dwarvish. His eyes flashed angrily.
Icelin stepped forward, holding up her hands. “Calm down,” she told Obrin and shot a glare at Ruen. “We’re not thieves. I swear it.”
“It’s not just that,” Ingara said. “You don’t know …” But before she could go on, Joya touched her sister’s shoulder and said something quietly in their native language. Ingara fell silent, but she looked unhappy.
“There are mysteries here,” Icelin said, addressing Ruen. “Did I mention I was sick to death of mysteries, too?”
“Gods’ patience, are we going to stand here arguin’ forever?” Sull said, his rough voice cutting into the tense silence. “At least let’s have a meal and some drink. Aw, why couldn’t you have kidnapped me after I’d gotten the rest of my spices?”
The butcher’s mournful expression made Icelin chuckle. She couldn’t help it. Glancing at Joya and Ingara, she saw them biting their lips to keep from grinning. Some of the tension eased out of the group, and they moved off down the tunnels with Garn in front and Obrin bringing up the rear.
“We’re not far from the city,” Garn said as they walked. “Our king, Mith Barak, will be able to tell you more than we can about what you seek and to decide if you should be punished for your crimes. But my daughters are right, we owe you thanks for your aid.”
The conversation subsided. Despite Garn’s promise, they marched for what felt like hours, and as the time passed, Icelin leaned more and more heavily on her staff. She didn’t want to be a burden, but the remnants of the drow poison lingered in her blood, and the wild magic had taken an even greater toll. She almost called out to Garn to ask for a rest when she saw the tunnel ahead widening. A string of adjoining passages met up with the main one, and voices drifted from the smaller tunnels.
Icelin gasped as the reek of sweat and blood hit her nostrils. On the heels of these grim heralds, a score and more dwarves spilled out into the passage ahead of them. They carried swords, shields, and maces-and litters. At least a dozen dead or injured were among the group. Some of them had no visible wounds, but they shivered and convulsed as if in the throes of some horrible fever. Their bearers stumbled and struggled to keep them on the litters.
“Darlan!” Garn called to one of the dwarves.
Some of the party slowed and turned to greet Garn, and the next moment, Icelin’s group fell in amongst them. Icelin kept close to Sull and Ruen, but the dwarves on the litters drew her gaze.
“There are more dead than wounded,” she whispered to Sull, but the butcher had his eyes on the litters too and didn’t seem to hear her.
“What’s he saying?” Ruen asked Joya, nodding at Garn. “Was it more drow who attacked them?”
Instead of replying, Joya translated for them.
“What news from the Vehrenar Pass?” Garn addressed a red-bearded dwarf with a battered shield hanging from his bandaged arm. Blood soaked through the bandage and dripped onto the ground, but the dwarf didn’t seem to notice.
“We held it until the spiders attacked,” Darlan said, “swarms of them. They just kept coming, so we had to fall back.”
Standing in front of Icelin, Ingara shivered and clutched her axe. Obrin turned to his sister and gave her shoulder a quick squeeze.
“This can’t be all that’s left of your men,” Garn said, incredulous.
“Aye, it is,” Darlan said bitterly. “At the last, we had to collapse the tunnel. We’d have been decimated otherwise.”
A pair of dwarves shouldered past Icelin carrying another litter, but up ahead the tunnel narrowed, slowing the pace of the group and crowding everyone together.
A cold, clammy hand latched onto Icelin’s arm.
Gasping, she tried to jerk away, but the hand held her fast. It was the dwarf on the litter. He stared up at Icelin with a distant, fevered light in his brown eyes.
“Marella,” he said in a hoarse whisper. It sounded like a name. “Marella.” Then he uttered a stream of words in Dwarvish that Icelin didn’t understand.
“I’m sorry,” Icelin said. She looked to the litter bearers, hoping one of them spoke Common. “What did he say?”
“He asked you for water,” said one of the dwarves. “He’s out of his head, thinks you’re his wife.” The litter bearers glanced at each other helplessly then looked back at Icelin. There was something empty and remote in their eyes, as if it took all their strength just to carry their burden. They had nothing left in them with which to attend or comfort their companion.
Icelin fumbled the stopper from her waterskin with her free hand and held it to the dwarf’s lips. The dwarf released her-leaving five angry red marks on her skin-and slurped greedily from the bladder. Rivulets of water darkened his beard, mingling with the tears that dripped from his eyes.
“Marella,” he said again, pushing the waterskin back at her. He coughed once, violently, spraying water and blood all over himself and Icelin.
“It’s … all right,” Icelin said. She put away the waterskin and wiped the blood flecks from her face. “Try to rest. You’re almost home.”
The crowd started to move. Icelin walked alongside the litter until the tunnel widened again and the dwarves were able to hurry forward. Her last sight of the injured dwarf was his hand lifted in the air, vaguely reaching for her.
“Marella …” His voice echoed, lost and childlike.
Icelin took a wavering step as if to follow him, but she found she couldn’t move. She covered her mouth with her hand, suddenly afraid she might be sick.
“It’s all right,” Sull said from behind her. “You did what you could for him.” He draped an arm across her shoulders. Until she felt his warmth, Icelin hadn’t realized she was shivering. She didn’t need Ruen’s gift to tell her the dwarf was near death. She leaned into Sull’s body gratefully and let him support her as they walked on.