The prayer’s effect came from within Garn’s body. Ruen felt the flesh and bone mending, the cuts and bruises on Garn’s face closing. The healing magic enveloped his own life energy, and Ruen stifled a shocked cry.
Moradin’s blessing washed through him, hot like the time he’d stepped into Ingara’s forge. He saw her face in his mind’s eye, working the rare metals for her wedding gift to her man. The image faded, and then he saw Obrin, swinging his axe at a group of drow that surrounded him. They outnumbered him four to one, but he took them on fearlessly, and fatherly pride swelled in Ruen’s chest.
Garn’s memories. Linked to the dwarf body and mind, Ruen felt the dwarf’s memories swell in him even as healing magic swirled through them both. He tried to pull away. He felt like an intruder, but Moradin’s power held them fast.
In memory, Obrin’s battlefield changed to an open plaza, where two dwarves stood, waiting to be married. Was this the future? Ruen thought. Was he seeing Ingara’s wedding? No, it wasn’t Ingara. The female dwarf looked a bit like her, but her hair was golden, more like Joya’s, and the man standing next to her was definitely not Arngam but a younger version of Garn. The couple smiled happily at each other, and the woman leaned over spontaneously to kiss Garn.
The scene melted to the interior of a temple. Garn knelt before an altar, his arms wrapped around Joya as she wept.
“They’re gone!” Joya sobbed. “What am I going to do now, Father? Both halves of my heart-they’ve been torn out.”
“You know better than that,” Garn gently chided his daughter. “Your mother and your goddess are still with you. Be strong, child. Your mother carried so many sorrows. I hoped it wouldn’t be your fate, but we do what we must …”
The vision faded. Images crowded together faster now, dizzying Ruen. Garn being embraced by his king-a feeling of sorrow so strong it choked the dwarf silent, though he desperately wanted to speak to his friend. Mith Barak turned away and ascended his throne. A brilliant flash of light, and suddenly the king transformed, his flesh turning grayish silver and solid. He’d become a statue upon his throne, his eyes staring vacantly at Garn.
Too much. Ruen cried out as the memories blended with his own-images of his mother when he was a child, the people in his village running away when he came near. They were afraid he would touch them. He was ill luck, a child of death. Even his mother had looked at him thus. When she smiled at him, Ruen saw the fear and revulsion lurking just under the surface.
His teachers loomed over him, admonishing him to be strong, to look past his spellscar. None of them understood. The memories pressed in on him all at once, shadows he’d thought long buried, drawn from the dark places in his heart.
Gods, Garn was seeing it all too, Ruen realized, all of his deepest secrets and fears. Their memories blended. He had nowhere to hide. Instinctively, Ruen tore himself away, and a searing pain enveloped his hands.
Then it ended. Ruen came back to himself slowly. Afraid that he’d find himself trapped in another memory, Ruen cautiously looked around. Soon enough he recognized the dark cavern and the smell of death. He lay on his back next to Garn, who was sitting up with Obrin’s aid. Sometime while the two were linked, Obrin must have cleared the rubble to free his father.
“Are you all right?” Obrin asked Ruen, speaking again, haltingly, in the common tongue.
Ruen nodded. The movement revealed a dull ache in his head, as if he’d had too much to drink. Drunk on memories. Ruen almost chuckled at the notion, but he was too weary and heartsick with everything he’d just seen.
He looked at Garn. The runepriest had his eyes closed and fingered the holy symbol he wore around his neck. He spoke softly under his breath, still communing with his god. Ruen didn’t blame him. Moradin’s power still thrummed in his veins-a warm touch, but rough like a calloused hand. Healing energy suffused his limbs. They’d completely healed his broken arm.
“The others are regrouping,” Obrin said as more lights kindled around the cavern, revealing dwarves moving around the battlefield, tending to the wounded and collecting the dead. “We need to be on the move, see how bad the tunnels are.”
“We’ll have a lot of digging ahead of us,” Garn said, opening his eyes abruptly. His voice was clear and free of pain. “Moradin knows we’ll need every hand we can spare to get us back to the city.”
“This attack was just a decoy,” Ruen said, “a distraction. Their target is the sphere, not the city itself. By now they must know Zollgarza’s failed to get it, so they’ll attack the city directly.”
“Then we dig fast,” Garn said. “My hands are healed, and by the gods, I know how to move the earth. Moradin gave me a second chance to do what I do best.” He glanced at Ruen. “And you-you have my thanks,” he said. “When you touched me, I saw-”
“So did I,” Ruen interrupted. “Things we didn’t mean for the other to see. I won’t speak of them, I promise you.”
Garn looked puzzled. “Or maybe we were meant to speak of them,” he said. “Whatever’s inside you, human, it touched me, and it wasn’t death. You shouldn’t be afraid of your power.”
Ruen started to reply, to dismiss the dwarf’s point, but he hesitated under the scrutiny of Garn’s gaze. The dwarf had seen inside of him, his memories and fears. Lies and dismissals couldn’t hide the truth from him.
“Everyone I’ve ever let close has turned from me,” Ruen said. “You saw it for yourself, in my memories. The spellscar made my bones brittle and brought me so close to death that it became a part of me. I can measure your life force just by touching you.”
“Bah, that doesn’t mean you cause death,” Garn said. “You touched me, and I felt warmth, not ice. You brought me back from the brink, cleared my head, and let me reach out to my god.” His voice cracked. “That’s worth something, boy.”
“What if you were in my place?” Ruen challenged him. “What if you’d known before it happened that your wife was going to die?”
“I did know,” Garn said flatly. Beside him, Obrin, who’d been quietly watching the two, put his hand on his father’s arm. “You didn’t see all the memories. I didn’t know it on the day she got sick, but soon after, I saw it. I read it in her eyes. You don’t always have to have magic to know when you’re looking death in the face.” Garn looked at Obrin, staring into his son’s eyes. Ruen realized then that Obrin had his mother’s eyes. “Knowing what I knew didn’t taint the time we had left,” Garn went on. “I wouldn’t let it.”
“This isn’t the same,” Ruen said.
“Isn’t it?” Garn said softly. “Don’t worry,” he added. “I know you don’t want me to speak of what I saw in your mind. I won’t talk about the girl, but you can’t lie to yourself. You know what you feel.”
“What if it isn’t enough?” Ruen said, and this time it was his own body that felt like ice. “What if she rejects what she sees in me?”
“Her choice,” Obrin said, shrugging. “Trust her.”
Ruen looked at Obrin. The gruff, taciturn dwarf actually smiled at him. It was a faint, tremulous expression, and completely out of place on the warrior’s face, but then again, nothing made sense on this battlefield. Ruen had never dreamed he’d be sitting with these two dwarves in the middle of a war, talking about his hopes, fears, and loves.
Yes, he loved Icelin. Garn was right. Ruen couldn’t lie to himself-or her-anymore. He had to get out of here, back to Iltkazar before the drow attack came. He owed her an explanation for why he’d pushed her away.
Reality hit Ruen then. Several tons of rock lay between him and that lofty goal. Not to mention the fact that Icelin was probably furious at him for how he’d behaved. He likely had a lot of digging and then a lot more groveling ahead of him. Ruen groaned silently. “We should get moving,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
GUALLIDURTH, THE UNDERDARK
27 UKTAR