“The tale is true! You have heard of me-you know I was once a warlock of power. If you will only trust me.”
Gnarl cleared his throat. “Ah, trust.” He smiled apologetically and made a gallant flourish with his hand. “A term resonant of reliability, assurance, certitude-how I’d love to feel all of that! But ‘trust’ also raises the possibility of the opposite… mistrust. Unreliability. Lack of assurance-”
He could hear Sernos gritting his fangs. “Set aside this affected glibness and give me your answer! Think of your life as it is now-and think of what it could be! Yes, yes, you must trust me-but if you trust no one, you will never cease having to empty chamber pots in this ramshackle inn! Will you undertake the mission-or won’t you?”
Gnarl was a person of outsized ambitions, which was why he’d left the sleepy hamlet Desul Torey and the doubtful protection of Baron Stockmer. But this-should he risk it? He’d never entered the Abyss-the Abyss was itself a legend, and the legend was a grim one. But if Glorysade was real-if he could transform the Chaos into a land over which he could rule-it would be worth the risk. It was true, after all, that Sernos was a famed warlock, well known in Fallcrest-and Glorysade seemed to Gnarl a name that tingled with destiny, just as his uncle had said.
He was known for grandiose speaking-and impulsiveness. He said, “Very well. Blow the trumpets of Glorysade! The time for rejoicing is here. Gnarl the Cull will undertake the mission!”
“Then-there is much more I must tell you. A certain dwarf and his adopted sister are visiting Fallcrest…”
2.
“Young fellow, whenever they say ‘mission’ or ‘quest,’ ” declared Rorik the dwarf, clanking his tankard down on the oak table, “watch out! What they really mean is ‘a miserable, unrewarding trudge through the Nine Hells.’ ” Rorik gave a contemptuous snort and set about braiding his long red beard. They were silent for a moment-the muted roar of the falls could be heard outside.
Gnarl leaned against the open doorway of the dwarf’s rented hut and looked questioningly at Miriam, who lounged in a rude chair across from Rorik. She was drinking ale as enthusiastically as Rorik.
Gnarl’s gaze lingered on her: she was lithe, with long raven-wing black hair; her comely features were mostly human but she had the pointed ears and arched eyebrows of a half-elf. Rorik, in previous dealings, had told him something of her. She was the daughter of rangers killed in a skirmish with hobgoblins in the Dawnforge Mountains. A mere girl of seven, she’d fled into a cave. Dwarves found her, a starved child wandering in the mazy tunnels, and took her into their city of Hammerfast where she was adopted by Rorik’s family; a rare thing, as the clannish dwarves were known for fierce loyalty to their own kind.
Gnarl had not been surprised when the warlock had recommend Rorik to accompany him-the dwarf artisan was known for his skill with magical items-but he’d never met Rorik’s adopted sister before, and it seemed strange that Sernos had suggested they take this sinuous beauty along. True, a dragonhide quiver of arrows hung on the back of her chair, the longbow leaning against the wall within reach. She wore a dragonhide kilt and a warrior’s tight-fitting top of chain mail-but her long, tanned arms and legs were bare, and her fingernails were painted with flecks of crushed jade. She turned him a cool appraisal with her dusky olive eyes, then returned her attention to her ale, draining the brass tankard. When she moved, he glimpsed emerald lights in her hair.
Strangely stirred, he looked away from her. Out the open door, the mist of the falls rose, prismatic in the late afternoon sun. An idea was forming. He looked back at Rorik, wondering how he could set the trap.
“So you see, Gnarl,” said Rorik, shooting him a look of warning from under his bushy brows, “we are absolutely, and completely, not interested in signing on to your mission. Particularly as you mention the Plains of Rust. I doubt you know anything about the place!”
“Just the little that the warlock told me,” Gnarl admitted. “Not much. I’ve heard of the Abyss-but I know little of that either.” He put on his best look of heroic defiance. “I’m equal to anything that might claw and scrabble in the bottommost pit of any abyss you can name!”
Miriam covered a smile with her hand at that-but it seemed to Gnarl that his bravado pleased her, too.
Rorik spat into a brass urn on the floor. “Ridiculous! Oh, yes, many in Hammerfast have dreamed of visiting the Plains of Rust-but it is too dangerous, even for our heroes. If you’d done your homework when you were an apprentice, you’d know it is secreted within the Abyss of the Elemental Chaos! It’s said to be awash in howling ghosts and the vilest demons. Even a casual trip to its fringes would be lunacy. I don’t care who your warlock is. And I don’t have time, anyway-we’re going back to Hammerfast. If you were a clansman, I might consider it. But a young human, a punkling such as yourself-”
“Punkling!” Gnarl bridled.
Miriam laughed lightly, catching the tip of her tongue between her teeth. “You’ve offended him, Rorik!”
“What of it! I scarcely know him! He shouldn’t be inviting me on suicide missions! It’s true he did get a ceremonial cup back for the clan, once-but I could have done the job myself.” He shrugged, and looked into a clay jug for more beer. “Wasn’t politic for me to do it. I come here for my work-like to stay on the right side of the locals.”
Gnarl decided to make his move, and damn the consequences. The warlock was dying inch by inch, as the hours passed; Gnarl had sworn to restore him, as well as claim the prize: Glorysade. “You speak of working here,” Gnarl said, with a skeptical oiliness he knew was offensive. “I’ve heard you boast that the local wizards summon you to work special enchantments on devices.”
“Boast?” Rorik scowled at him. “What do you mean, boast? I am the best worker of enchanted items this side of Hammerfast!”
“Come, come, only the best work for the local wizards. But dwarves? They know about simple swordmaking, tunneling through mountains-useful skills, in a minor way, but hardly fit for fine work; dwarves haven’t got the insight, the intelligence-”
Though Rorik was only four and a half feet tall, the little wooden domicile shook when he jumped from the chair to thud to the floor heavily in his armored boots. “You insult my intelligence, punkling?” The hue of the dwarf’s face darkened to match his beard.
Gnarl was afraid he’d have to run. Rorik was short-but powerful. While Gnarl thought of himself as wiry, others thought of him as spindly, and it was true that the dwarf could easily bowl him over. And easily jump on his chest. And then quite as easily jump on his head.
Suddenly, Rorik spun around and stalked toward the opposite wall. Hanging beside a shelf was a battlehammer. But just as Gnarl was about to take flight, he saw that Rorik, on tiptoes, was reaching for a box on the shelf instead. He drew down the little silver casket, ten inches by six, and carried it back to Gnarl, the shack trembling with every booted stomp. He snapped the box open. “Look at this!”
Within, on black velvet, was a many-tool, forged of a precious platinum-based alloy. Its ends divided into gadgets-wedges, sockets, spirals, all angling this way and that. Red and blue gems shimmering with magical energies ran down its length, each gem pulsing in turn. “Do you know what this is?” Rorik demanded. “I’ll tell you! Why, it’s nothing much-it’s only a master artificer’s many-tool, that’s all! This one is especially rare-and doubtless some of the reason your sickly warlock sent you to me. But do you suppose I would risk it in the Plains of Rust? It took seven years to make, by seven toolsmiths, seven hundred years ago! I toil with exquisite precision with this tool! Nothing else will serve!”
“I’m sorry for doubting you! May I…” Gnarl did a credible simulation of awe, gaping at the many-tool wide-eyed. “May I just hold it for a moment? I revere such items!”