The spider scuttled out of sight, and silence returned. As Torrin eased himself out from behind the ore buckets, one of them shifted slightly, threatening to fall. He caught it. To his surprise it was made of stone, not metal, and was terribly heavy. Grunting, he eased it back into place. As he did, what felt like a lip of hardened slag on the edge of the bucket bent easily under his hand. Gold? He reached for a pick and tested its point on the slag. The metal scratched easily.
He was certain: it was gold.
Had the bucket been used to carry molten metal from the River of Gold? That would explain why it was made of stone. It would also explain why a guard bearing religious regalia was down there in the mine.
Perhaps the slaves would be worth talking to.
Torrin doubled back the way he’d come, praying the spider-mounted guard wasn’t doing the same thing. Fortunately, he reached the orc’s slave pen without incident. The orc stared hopefully at Torrin through the grate.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Torrin told him. “I’m going to set you free.”
The orc grinned.
“But not until you answer some questions,” Torrin continued. He showed the orc his mace. “Now back away from the grate. Go to the rear of your cave. Do exactly as I say, and I won’t use this.”
The orc gave Torrin a long, appraising look. Then he nodded and moved back, limping slightly. Still holding the mace, Torrin knocked the padlock open with his magical ring, opened the grate, and stepped inside. He replaced the padlock, adjusting it so that it appeared to be closed, and joined the orc. He held his weapon close to his chest to keep it hidden. With his clothing torn and filth-splattered, he’d pass for a fellow slave at a casual glance, should any guards come their way.
The orc stood, rubbing his manacled wrist. “What you want to know, human?” he asked.
“That gold you showed me,” Torrin said. “You picked it off one of those stone ore buckets, didn’t you?”
The orc’s eyes narrowed, and he darted a wary glance at the exit.
“I don’t care about you stealing,” Torrin said. “What I want to know is where the gold was mined. Did it come from a flow of molten gold that moved through the earth like lava?”
“Ah,” the orc said, suddenly at ease again. His eyes gleamed. “You want gold. Come here steal.”
“That’s right,” Torrin said. If playing the part of a rogue would earn the orc’s trust, he was happy to oblige.
“No good,” the orc said, shaking his head. One of his braids flopped over his face; he flicked it back with a grimy hand. “Go there, get scar. Spellfire.”
Sounds of footsteps approached the pen. Torrin heard voices, repeating a single word every few moments, in duergar. The word was close enough to Dwarvish that he understood it. “Secure. Secure.”
Guards, checking the slave pens! Torrin eyed the padlock and suddenly regretted not having properly closed it. The guards would reach the orc’s pen at any moment.
The orc saw where Torrin was looking. “Down!” he hissed. He scooped a ragged blanket from the floor. “Hide under blanket. I close lock-you open again?”
Torrin nodded. Then he lay on the floor and let the orc cover him. The orc’s chain rattled as he moved across his pen. Then Torrin heard the click of the padlock closing and another rattle of chain as the orc came back again. A sudden weight landed on Torrin’s scratched back. The orc was sitting on top of him. Torrin bit back a groan of pain.
He heard footsteps outside the pen and the squeak of the padlock being lifted. “Secure,” a voice said in duergar. Then a clank. The padlock fell back into place against the grate, and the footsteps went back the way they’d come.
A moment or two later, the pressure on Torrin’s back eased. The orc whisked off the blanket.
“Thanks,” Torrin said, climbing to his feet.
The orc held out his manacled wrist. One eyebrow lifted in a silent question.
Torrin knocked his ring against the manacle. It fell open. As the orc eased it to the floor, Torrin took a step back, still holding his mace. There was no sense in being too trusting.
“One more question,” he said. “After the molten gold was tapped, where did you take it? To the temple in Drik Hargunen?”
The orc snorted. “No allow slaves in city,” he said. “Only allow blind slave.”
“Where did you take the gold?”
The orc shook his head. “Not take.”
“I don’t mean the gold you stole,” Torrin said, thinking the orc must have misunderstood. “I mean the gold you collected in the ore buckets. The molten gold. Where did the duergar tell you to carry it to?”
“Nowhere,” the orc said. “Just pour. Into lines in floor.”
Torrin’s heart beat a little faster. “Lines?” he repeated.
“Scratches. Deep.” The orc traced imaginary lines on the floor with a cracked claw. “Duergar cut floor.”
Torrin couldn’t believe his ears. The “scratches” in the floor had to be rune magic. The rune that had poisoned Moradin hadn’t been inscribed in the temple in Drik Hargunen. It was there in the mine. Somewhere nearby!
“Those scratches-the ones you poured the gold into,” Torrin told the orc. “Take me to them, and I’ll teleport you to wherever you want to go, anywhere on the face of Faerun. I swear it, by every hair in Moradin’s beard.”
The orc shook his head. The wary look was back in his eye. “No can go there,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a child. “Spellfire.”
“Then just show me the way,” Torrin said. “Take me as close to the spot as you dare, and then you can go.”
The orc’s expression grew even more anguished. “No, listen, human. Go there, get spellscar!”
He bent over and undid the rag that bound his calf and foot. Torrin saw a blue glow-veins of spellfire crackling across the orc’s foot and ankle.
“Spellfire,” the orc said in a strained voice. He rewrapped his foot again, hiding the blue glow from sight. He jerked his chin at the padlock. “Open it, I tell you how to go. Draw map.” He shrugged. “You want scar, human, you have.”
“Very well,” Torrin said. He eased off his pack and drew from it a roll of parchment and a slender length of charcoal. “Draw me a map. And hurry, in case the guards return.”
The orc obliged. Torrin watched over the orc’s shoulder as he sketched. If the map was even close to scale, the cavern where the rune magic had been invoked was enormous. Fortunately, by the look of it, it wasn’t too far.
The orc finished his work and picked up the map. Torrin took it. “My thanks, ah…” He suddenly realized he’d never asked the slave’s name.
“Grast,” the orc said.
Torrin pulled his dagger out of his pack and offered it to the orc. “It’s not magical,” he explained. “But at least it’s something. It might help you get out of here.”
Grast juggled the blade in one hand, testing its balance. Torrin, meanwhile, peered cautiously into the corridor-which, praise Moradin, was empty of guards-and used his ring to once again knock open the padlock. He swung the grate open slowly, making sure it didn’t squeak, and stepped out of the slave pen. Grast followed close on his heels.
“No go cave, human,” the orc cautioned again as he eased the grate shut and replaced the padlock. “Gold no worth it.”
“I’m a dwarf, actually,” Torrin said. “And yes, it will be worth it.”
Grast gave him one last puzzled look. Then he shrugged and hurried away.
Torrin glanced around. Then he spoke into his brooch. “Lord Scepter. Can you hear me?”
No response.
“I’ve learned where the rune was inscribed,” he continued.
Still no response. Torrin grimaced in frustration. Was the Lord Scepter simply not listening, or was some rune in the tunnel blocking the brooch’s magic? Just in case the Lord Scepter could hear him, Torrin quickly told what he’d just learned, keeping his voice low. He whispered a quick prayer that the Lord Scepter had heard him, and would find a way to communicate the information to the squad.