Zollgarza and the Arcane Script Sphere. Mith Barak was right. Somehow, they were the key, important enough that the drow sent their wizards with a sacrificial army.
And we fell right into their trap.
Fury brought renewed energy to Ruen’s body. He had to get out of here, get back to Iltkazar-and Icelin.
First, he had to free himself. Luckily, whatever had crushed his arm initially wasn’t what pinned it now. Wedged between two large boulders, his arm had healed enough from the potion that he could move it with very little pain. He worked it carefully free from the stones’ grip, tearing his sleeve and earning a dozen smaller cuts and bruises in the process.
When he was free, he sat up. Lights had kindled at various points around the cavern as the survivors found torches, and Ruen could begin to see the shadowy remnants of the Hall of Lost Voices. Bodies lay everywhere, though there was very little left of those corpses that had been closest to the enspelled bugbears.
“Garn.” Ruen spoke the name in a hoarse whisper. The runepriest had been near him when the blasts started. Ruen looked around but saw no sign of him. He got gingerly to his feet and moved through the dark cavern, keeping his eyes on the ground. Every few feet, he encountered a body. He knelt next to the still forms and felt for a heartbeat. None that he touched were alive. Grateful for the wavering darkness so he would not have to see the full extent of the mutilation inflicted on the dwarves, Ruen kept moving, searching for Garn.
He worked his way to a wall, leaning against a pile of rubble. The healing potion had mended his arm and taken away the greater share of the pain, but he was still exhausted from the fighting, the squinting and creeping in the dark, and the stench of death that blanketed the cavern.
His leg bumped against a solid object. Ruen heard a soft moan then the hiss of a weapon cutting the air as a dark shape lunged at him.
Ruen threw his hands out blindly-better to lose his fingers than his head-and got lucky. He caught a wooden axe handle, but the weight of the blow knocked him to his knees.
Flashing eyes and a dirty brown beard filled his vision. Ruen didn’t recognize the dwarf at first, but the axe blade had three familiar black horns jutting off it.
“Obrin,” he said. “It’s me-Ruen.”
It took Obrin a long time to recognize him. Ruen’s arms ached from holding back the axe, but finally the dwarf eased back. Ruen expected a stream of curses in Dwarvish to follow, but Obrin did the last thing he ever expected.
He burst into tears.
Ruen caught the dwarf at the shoulders before he fell. It was as if he’d used the last shreds of his strength for the blow with his axe. He sobbed quietly, barely making a sound, but his shoulders trembled violently under Ruen’s hands. Looking over his shoulder, in the dim light, Ruen saw the reason for Obrin’s tears.
Garn lay on the ground, his face swollen with bruises and gashes that made him almost unrecognizable. Ruen wouldn’t have known him if not for the runes still faintly visible under the dirt and blood. A pile of rubble buried the right side of his body. Ruen was convinced the runepriest was dead, but when he guided Obrin to sit next to the body, he saw Garn’s chest rising and falling.
“He’s alive,” Ruen murmured. “Obrin, your father lives.”
Obrin grabbed Ruen’s tunic and jerked him close. “He’s dying,” the dwarf growled in broken Common. His accent was so thick, Ruen barely understood him. “Dying in agony. Can’t even pray!”
“Let me look at him.” Ruen worked Obrin’s fingers loose from his tunic and knelt next to Garn. The runepriest opened his eyes and looked at Ruen. For a breath, there was no recognition in his eyes. “Garn, your son is here,” Ruen said. Obrin’s hands lay slackly in his lap. Ruen lifted one and placed it in Garn’s.
Garn drew in a breath and gasped. Pain clouded his vision. Obrin held his hand and leaned in close, whispering something to his father. Garn moaned softly and moved his head from side to side. Obrin looked up at Ruen imploringly.
“Garn, do you hear me?” Ruen said. He eased his glove off his left hand and laid it on the dwarf’s forehead. He’d expected the cold, but it still made him gasp with its intensity. His heart stuttered in his chest. Inside and out, Garn’s body was broken. It was surely a miracle from his god that he still drew breath at all. “I don’t have any more healing draughts,” Ruen said. “Can you call on your god to heal your wounds?”
Garn moved his head from side to side again. A cough shook his body, wracking the already devastated frame. Garn cried out in anguish. “Leave me. Leave it be!”
“He’s out of his head,” Obrin said. “Doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
Ruen pulled off his other glove, leaned over Garn and put both hands on his chest. Energy tingled at his fingertips, waiting for his call. “Help him,” he told Obrin. “Say the words in the Dwarvish tongue.”
“It’s too late,” Obrin said. “He’s going.”
“He’s not gone yet!” Ruen snapped. “He needs to hear his son’s voice. If he knows he’s not alone, he’ll come back. He just needs to move beyond the pain and remember who he is.”
Obrin scrubbed a hand across his wet eyes and nodded. He began speaking softly in Dwarvish. The words turned into a rhythmic chant, the sounds rumbling from the dwarf’s chest, rolling out smoothly on the air. Ruen closed his eyes and let himself be lulled by the soothing prayer, though he couldn’t understand the words.
Energy, life-it all comes from the hands. His teachers at the monastery had told him this, though he’d never truly understood what they meant. The power provided strength, balance, and peace. He’d never understood because he’d never thought the teaching applied to him. In his mind, the spellscar eclipsed everything, tainted all that he touched, the power that slept inside him.
“That’s why you’re leaving. Will you run forever, Ruen Morleth?”
Carlvaris-his teacher’s words. It had been years since Ruen had thought of him. He’d never liked the man or any of his other teachers, though that hadn’t been their fault.
His mind was wandering. Ruen tried to refocus his concentration, but Garn’s broken body faded, and an image of Icelin replaced it. She smiled at him while flames licked at her flesh. The memory of the dream slammed into him, and Ruen’s resolve wavered. Power surged and died.
“So weak. You’ve always let it hold you back.”
The teacher’s voice cut at him. How can I not? Ruen thought. It breaks down my body, piece by piece, bone by bone. No one should hold death in his hands. How could he touch her, knowing what was in his hands?
Ruen looked down and saw Garn’s eyes open and fixed upon him. Something-a light, a spark of life-kindled in the dwarf’s eyes.
“I feel it,” he rasped. “So warm …”
“I can’t … it’s not what you think,” Ruen faltered. He was no healer. All he felt was cold.
Obrin laid his hand over Ruen’s, linking the three of them. “Moradin, aid us,” he prayed. “We’re alone in the dark and lost. Guide us. Show us the way.” He looked at Ruen as he spoke the words in Common.
Ruen fought to clear his mind. He breathed in deeply and released the breath, forcing himself to release his doubts as well. Garn’s life depended on it. The power surged in his hands, warmth swelling to replace the cold. His life force extended from his hands to cradle Garn. It was not healing, but strength he lent to the dwarf-balance and peace.
Garn opened his eyes wide. A flash of gold light outlined the runes on his face. Obrin gasped, but Ruen couldn’t look away from the dwarf’s eyes. Tears dripped down the runepriest’s face.
“Moradin, be with me,” Garn murmured. “I’m not done yet. Please.”