Torrin swallowed. He bowed again at the highranking duergar and tried backing away down the stairs. But something pressed into his back, blocking his path. He glanced behind him and saw what must have been one of Drik Hargunen’s guards, wearing an iron breastplate and a small round helmet. He’d turned his quarterstaff sideways, to block Torrin’s path.
Meanwhile, the hooded duergar who had halted on the temple bridge waved his companion on and headed back to the staircase, his lance at the ready. He shouted something at the noble, who shook his head and gestured angrily at Torrin as the tips of the quills oozed a blood red substance that let off tiny wisps of sulfurous smelling smoke. Poison?
Things weren’t going at all well.
“I’m newly arrived in Drik Hargunen,” Torrin explained in Dwarvish, hoping the noble could understand him. “I meant no offense. I’ll just be on my way now.”
The gray-hooded duergar with the lance had reached the staircase. The knot of onlookers parted for him. Clearly, he was someone important, too. The lance alone looked valuable, with an intricately carved shaft and a large black star sapphire set into the shaft just below the blade. The gem had a crack running through it that had nearly split it in two. It reminded Torrin of something. Laduguer’s holy symbol was a broken crossbow bolt… Was the broken gemstone something similar? Was he a cleric of Laduguer?
“You there,” the cleric said in Dwarvish, pointing down at Torrin. “Slaver. Discipline your chattel.” He jutted his chin in the direction of the cowering slave.
Torrin was grateful for the cleric’s mistake. If they thought the grimlock was his slave, it would make things easier. Torrin had planned to pose as a slave trader, and the grimlock was opportunity to make himself look legitimate. He forced a scowl onto his face and kicked the cowering grimlock. “Apologize for your clumsiness, slave!” he bellowed.
The grimlock let out a howl.
The noble sneered and said something to the guard who stood behind Torrin. The quarterstaff nudged Torrin forward. He stumbled up a step.
The cleric flicked a hand, catching Torrin’s eye. “Stupid human,” he shouted. “Do you think you’re invincible — that you’ve been drinking dragon’s blood? Kill that grimlock, or your life is forfeit. Your slave has touched a klegesk! You’re both about to be quilled!”
Torrin blinked in surprise. Dragon’s blood? He suddenly noticed the cleric’s gnarled hand. That was no duergar. That was Baelar, in disguise! He’d just risked the entire mission to intervene, despite what Torrin had done earlier.
“Quit trying to protect your property, human!” Baelar commanded. “Throw him off the staircase. Now!”
Torrin was appalled. Surely there was some other way to escape than murdering an innocent slave! Baelar obviously didn’t like it much, either. Torrin could see the sadness in his eyes that belied his apparently firm, commanding voice.
Torrin swallowed. He knew what was expected of him. The mission depended on it. The lives of people like Kier depended upon it. Yet he just couldn’t kill the slave. Not when there was another way out.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. And he meant it. It was something else Baelar would have to forgive him for. He smacked a hand against the second magical rune on the wall beside him, the one that read “passage.” Instantly, he felt the familiar wrench of a teleportation spell.
As it whisked him away, he heard shouts. The noble’s beard exploded quills that left streaks of smoke as they sped toward him.
Torrin vanished from the bridge, the quills shattering against the wall where he’d stood.
Torrin landed face down in something warm and squishy. He came up sputtering and spitting, frantically wiping the stinking mess from his face. It smelled as though he’d landed in a latrine. The taste of it on his lips made him gag. He heard more than one large creature moving nearby, and low-throated grunts. He dragged a sleeve across the one lens of his goggles. Suddenly, he could see in the darkness.
He’d been teleported to what looked like a slave pen. The walls were gray granite; the floor in the corner where he’d landed was slippery with feces. Between Torrin and the padlocked iron grate that closed off the pen, three huge, muscular ogres stared at him, dull-eyed with surprise. One scratched its head, the chain connecting its wrist to the wall clanking as its hand moved. The other two bared vicious tusks. Drool dribbled from their mouths. Like the first ogre, they were chained to the wall. Yet that chain was plenty long enough for them to reach Torrin.
One of the ogres lurched at him, surprisingly fast. Torrin barely got his mace up in time. He swung it, shouting its command word. Thunder boomed as the weapon connected with the ogre’s reaching hand, smacking it aside. The ogre howled its rage and backed away rapidly, its hand tucked tight against its chest. Blood dribbled from the spot where its fractured fingerbones protruded through its flesh.
The other two ogres barely glanced at the injured one. They advanced more cautiously, fanning out on either side of Torrin, flanking him. Struggling to keep his footing in the slippery muck, Torrin backed up a step. If only he could reach for his runestone, he could teleport out of there! But it was inside his pack, and there was no time to get it out. He’d have to fight his way clear, instead. And he’d have to do it before the duergar official he’d offended on the staircase sent men after him. The duergar would know, after all, where Torrin had wound up. It was their rune that had teleported him there.
But first, he had to deal with the ogres. “It’s not your dinner time quite yet,” Torrin said to them through gritted teeth. He gripped his mace with sweaty hands-wary, yet confident in its ability to protect him. “Now then… Who’s next?”
One of the ogres moved a step closer. Torrin shifted his mace. The other moved closer still, crowding Torrin. Yet still they didn’t attack. What were they waiting for? Were they trying to goad Torrin into charging them, hoping he’d slip and drop his weapon? Ogres weren’t that clever. Or were they?
One of the ogres barked something over its shoulder at the injured one. The latter thrust its good hand out through the grate and slapped the wall outside. Belatedly, Torrin realized that the spot on the wall was glowing faintly. The potion Torrin had drunk was wearing off; the glow indicating the rune’s magic was so dim he’d missed it earlier.
As the ogre’s meaty hand slapped the rune, a wave of magical energy shimmered through the cavern. The ogres grunted in pain and fell to the ground as it swept across them. The injured ogre let out a low moan as its hand struck the floor. Then the wave of magical force reached the back of the slave pen. As it struck Torrin, he felt as though his arms and his legs were suddenly boneless. He crumpled where he stood, the mace falling from fingers that could no longer grip. Helpless, he lay on his side in the muck, unable to move. Even breathing was a struggle. It felt as though his lungs were about to collapse in upon themselves.
“Mar… tham… mor,” he prayed, barely able to force the words out. “Aid… me…” His mind screamed at his body to crawl through the muck to his mace. But all he could do was lie there, as weak as a newborn.
The ogres began to recover from the magical effect before Torrin. They were bigger than him, tougher. Though still shaky, they rose to their hands and knees. One of them crawled to Torrin’s mace and hurled the weapon behind it; it struck the grate with a loud clang. The other flipped Torrin over roughly. Torrin felt large hands ripping his clothing, pawing at his pack, and tearing it off his back. Claws raked his shoulder, and he cried out in pain. Blood streamed down his back. He struggled to rise, but a heavy hand slammed him down. He heard the ogres grunting, panting out a single word in Dwarvish over and over again as they tore at his pack and pockets: “Key, key, key.”