It had taken some time to push past the stubborn resistance of Ryordin Hammerfist, the quarry master. He’d insisted, at first, that the idea “stank like something drow.” Eventually, however, he’d realized there was coin to be made-especially once the chips of earthmote were “tempered” in the magic of a particular earth node near Glitterdelve, ensuring that the magic that kept them bobbing about didn’t bleed away from the worked stone.
The motedisc had been Torrin’s idea, yet he hadn’t seen a single copper of profit from it. And he couldn’t even afford to buy one.
The motedisc factory was located at the very edge of Hammergate, at a spot that afforded a view of the Underchasm. As Torrin stepped out into the rain, he could see the earthmote that he and Kier had visited two days before. He stared forlornly at it, wondering how he was ever going to reach it again. His plan had been to secure a motedisc big enough to support him, then wait until the wind was blowing in the right direction. He’d rig a sail that would catch the wind and ride the motedisc to the earthmote.
Today, the wind was perfect. But he was back to where he’d started-scratching his head and trying to figure out how the runestone worked, so he could use it to teleport to the earthmote, instead.
“Depressing, isn’t it?” a voice asked from near his elbow.
Torrin turned. Few people were on the streets on such a wet, blustery day. He glanced down at the dwarf who’d stopped beside him to also stare out across the Underchasm. His clothing was worn, his posture stooped. His head was balding on top, with scraggly hairs on the sides, and his movements were slow and stiff.
The dwarf gestured at the Underchasm. “So much of our heritage, lost in the collapse,” he said sadly. Then he glanced up at Torrin’s backpack, and his eyes widened. “By Moradin’s beard!” he exclaimed. “You’re a Delver? Yes, yes, of course. I’ve heard of you. The human delver who spoke to the Council the other night. I hear you made quite the impression on the Lord Scepter.” He extended a hand, grunting with the effort. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. What was your name again?”
Torrin reached down to clasp the dwarf’s hand. “Torrin Ironstar. Pleased to-”
Something smashed into the left side of Torrin’s head. Stars exploded across his vision. As he collapsed, he caught a brief glimpse of a human who’d snuck up behind him. The man held a weighted leather sap-a rogue’s weapon. Torrin fell to the ground, fighting to stay conscious, trying to reach his mace. He heard footsteps running away-the dwarf who’d distracted him while the rogue crept up behind.
The rogue grinned, revealing a missing tooth. “Nighty night,” he said.
He slugged Torrin a second time. Consciousness fled.
“Torrin! Wake up. Gods have mercy, don’t let him be dead!”
Kier’s voice finally pierced the heavy red throbbing that filled Torrin’s head. Torrin groaned.
“Praise Moradin!” he heard Kier cry. “He’s alive!”
Torrin winced. He felt cold, wet cobblestones under his right cheek. Rain struck his left temple, where he’d been hit with the sap, each droplet a tiny hammer of agony. The water trickled down into his mouth, carrying the taste of blood.
He felt Kier’s small hands under his armpits, urging him to rise. He sat up, and nearly collapsed again. Vomit rose in his throat. He swallowed it down and blinked, trying to focus.
“Uncle? Uncle!” Kier cried shrilly.
“I’m… all right,” Torrin said. The lie seemed to satisfy Kier. Shakily, Torrin rose to his feet and touched his temple. His fingers came away bloody. His head rang like a struck gong, but at least the nausea was ebbing. Moment by moment, he felt more steady on his feet. Those were good signs.
He realized someone else was standing next to Kier-the foreman from the motedisc factory. He was staring down the street with a furious scowl, his stonecutter’s hammer still raised. “And stay away!” he shouted to an empty street.
He turned to Torrin. “You all right, human?”
Torrin nodded, wincing. “I think so,” he replied. He glanced down and was relieved to see his mace was still on his belt. The rogues hadn’t stolen it. Moradin had shown one small mercy, that day.
Bearded faces peered out of the motedisc factory.
“Back to work, you lot!” the foreman shouted. “The entertainment is over.”
The faces disappeared.
“Any excuse to slack off,” the foreman grumbled. He stomped back to the factory.
Aside from Torrin and Kier, the rain-slick street was empty. There was no sign of the rogues. Torrin’s clothes were wet, but not yet fully soaked through. He hadn’t lain there long.
Kier looked up at him with an anxious expression. “I saw him, too, Uncle,” he said. “A human. He was trying to get something out of your pack.” He pointed in the direction the foreman had shouted. “He ran off when the stonecutter ran into the street. He went that way.”
Torrin clasped the boy’s shoulder, both to steady himself and to hold Kier back. The boy scowled as if he wanted to run after the rogue and teach him a lesson. “You showed the wisdom of a longbeard by not challenging him yourself,” he said. “Those two were professional rogues who knew their business; I was taken in by the old talk-and-tap.”
“Should we call the Peacehammers?” asked Kier.
“Too late for that,” Torrin said. “The rogue and his accomplice will already be long gone. And they didn’t get anything.” He jerked a fist over his shoulder. “Not from my pack, anyway.”
Of that, Torrin could be certain. He might be a Delver of the second rank, but his pack was the same as any worn by a first-rank member. It would only release its contents to the Delver to whom it had been keyed. Anyone else who reached inside would feel only emptiness.
“Why did they attack you?” Kier asked. “Was it-” he glanced around furtively and dropped his voice to a whisper-“Was it because of our delve? Do they know about the gold?”
“I doubt it,” Torrin said. He gently touched his aching head. “I think it was my runestone they were after.”
It all fit. The older dwarf had mentioned the Council meeting. And as soon as Torrin had confirmed that he was the one who’d appeared before the Council, the attack had come. Someone who was at that meeting must have commented on Torrin’s runestone afterward, either within earshot of the rogues or to someone they knew.
It couldn’t have been Kendril’s brother Jorn or the cleric Maliira. Neither had been in the Council chambers when Torrin had spoken of his transaction with Kendril. Nor was it likely that Frivaldi had said anything to tip off the rogues. Torrin might be human, and only a second-rank member, but a Delver’s lips were sealed, when it came to fellow members of his order. And the clerics who’d examined the runestone were also bound by oaths to keep silent about the Delvers’ business.
It had to have been one of the Deep Lords who’d let it slip.
Accidentally, of course. The Deep Lords were honorable to the core. Stout and true… but perhaps, Torrin realized, not when a “human” was involved. And that’s what they had seen, when they had stared down at Torrin. A human.
He sighed. “We’d best get cleansed and into Eartheart, Kier. And as quickly as possible. Darkness only knows what those two rogues might try next.”
Chapter Five
“A golden key will open every lock.”
Two days after his run-in with the rogues outside the motedisc factory, Torrin was easing his way down a rope toward the spot where his friend, Eralynn, stood. They’d begun their descent into the East Rift at dawn, and only at dusk were finally level with the floor of that vast canyon. High above on the Rift’s edge, the towers of Underwatch-a remote outpost of Eartheart-glowed in the light of the setting sun.