Lisa Smedman: The Gilded Rune

At the beginning of Creation, there was naught but darkness and void. Then came light: a single lump of coal, glowing red.

Moradin the Creator breathed upon the coal, and it grew hot. He plucked it from the firmament with his tongs, and placed it into his forge. There it burned brightly, neither dimming nor diminishing in heat for a tenday.

Moradin scooped clay from the earth, and from it made a mold in his own image. He worked the soft clay with his fingers, denting it to create hollows into which molten metal would flow. A thumbprint became a face, surrounded by nail-scored lines for the hair. The chest was a deeper hollow, with more lines upon it that would be the beard. The body he made stout and solid, so that his creation might hold its ground in the face of adversity, as unmoving as a mountain. The legs were the length and breadth of Moradin’s thumb; the arms the length of his strong forefinger.

When the two halves of the mold were done, he set them by the forge to dry.

Once the pieces of the mold were hard, Moradin lifted them and bound the two halves together with a strand of his own hair. He set a crucible upon his forge, and into it put the four noble metals: silver, gold, platinum, and mithril. Those he heated and stirred, until the mixture of molten metals was pleasing to his eye. Then he lifted the crucible from the forge, and poured the swirling liquid into the mold.

When the pouring was done, Moradin set his crucible aside and lifted the mold to his lips. He blew upon it, cooling it. Then he opened the mold, lifted the figure he had made, and cut off the sprue, leaving a mark in the middle of the figure’s belly. He looked upon what he had made, and saw that it was good and true.

Berronar Truesilver, bride to Moradin, came to him then and placed a hand upon her husband’s arm. She, too, looked upon the casting. It was she who said that a man without a companion on life’s path was like a pick without a pail: each was equally needed to mine the earth’s wealth.

Moradin realized the wisdom of her words, and fashioned a second mold in Berronar’s image, with hips suitable for bearing children and breasts for suckling babes. And thus the second casting created woman.

For a tenday, the coal glowed in the forge. For a tenday, Moradin worked-pouring, casting, cutting, and cooling. From his forge sprang men and women, some with hair of gold, some with hair of silver, or hair a fiery copper red, or hair as dark as soot. Moradin took special joy in that adornment, and commanded his creations neither to cut their hair nor to let it grow unkempt, but to braid it and keep it in a manner similar to his own luxuriant beard.

He further commanded his people to spread across the land and multiply, for the riches of the earth were wide. He gave unto his creations the knowledge of mining, smelting, and smithing, of working stone and gemcutting, that they might prosper.

Moradin then breathed into their ears all the secrets of the earth, all the mysteries of the places deep in stone. He set them upon the face of Faerun, and bid them always to worship him, to keep him as secure in their hearts as a gem within its setting.

Thus was the dwarf race forged.

1480 DR THE YEAR OF DEEP WATER DRIFTING

Torrin froze, one hand on cool stone, the other gripping his mace, as an eerie moan echoed out of the cavern ahead. Strong and insidious, it vibrated his body like a struck gong. The tunnel he’d been climbing leveled off ahead into a ledge overlooking a chasm hundreds of paces high and deep. A shape swept downward across the empty space beyond the ledge. A flying creature fluttered there like a flung cloak, its back as black as the darkness of the cavern, its belly as white as bone. Twin points of red-the creature’s eyes-glowed above a gaping mouth. A tail snapped like a whip in the creature’s wake, and then the thing was gone.

A cloaker, hunting.

“By my beard,” Torrin whispered. “That was close.”

His stomach felt loose and fluttery with nausea. His thoughts skittered about like frightened mice and took several moments to ebb. Even protected by his ring, Torrin had nearly succumbed to the cloaker’s magical call.

The moan came again, but from farther away. Then a third moan, still fainter, followed by the shrill cry of a cave bat, abruptly cut off.

Torrin felt nervous sweat trickle down his sides. Had he arrived at Needle Leap just a little earlier, he might have been the cloaker’s lunch.

Torrin stroked his braided beard. The touch of the tiny silver hammers at the end of each braid calmed him. He whispered a quick prayer of thanks to Marthammor Duin, the god that watched over adventurers like himself. Even though Torrin was human by birth, the dwarf god was clearly aiding him.

Torrin prayed that the god’s protection would also extend to the fellow he’d come to the desolate place to meet. Not only were there cloakers nearby, but the passageways through that section of the Underdark were thick with drow marauders. If Torrin had been given any choice in the matter, he would have taken the long way around to Needle Leap. But the dark elves had cut off the longer, safer route, leaving Torrin no other choice but to chance the jump.

He hoped that Kendril would fulfill his part of the bargain, and show up with the runestone. Arranging to purchase it had been a lengthy process-and an expensive one-involving numerous coded messages back and forth, via middlemen of questionable character.

No, Torrin told himself. Kendril had sworn, by Moradin’s beard, that he would deliver, and that was good enough. A dwarf would never renege on an oath like that. In a short time, the magical runestone would at last be in Torrin’s hands.

In the meantime, it was time to cross Needle Leap. Before the cloaker finished enjoying its meal.

Torrin crept out onto the ledge and studied the gap ahead, peering through the magical goggles that allowed him to see in the dark. The chasm extended as far above and below as the eyes could see, as well as to the right and the left. The gap between the ledge on which Torrin stood and the one that opened onto the tunnel leading to Helmstar was dozens of paces wide. And at the center of that gap was a narrow spire of stone-the Needle-whose mostly flat top served as an all-too-narrow landing point between Torrin’s ledge and the tunnel across from him.

At some point in the past, there had been a rope bridge across Needle Leap. But the rogues and outcasts who called Helmstar home had cut the bridge down years before. Moldering strands of rope hung from the pitons that had once secured them. Torrin had a rope, but he had been told not to trust the easily fractured rock. After noting how loosely anchored the rusted pitons were, he thought it wise advice.

Instead, he’d jump. There was just enough room on the ledge to get a good running start, but the gap between the ledge and the Needle was wide. Too wide for more than one young daredevil who had learned it at the cost of his life, after being so unwise as to accept a dare. Even with his longer human legs, Torrin estimated, he’d only just be able to make it. On top of that, the stone here was dewy with condensation from the damp air. Slippery. It would be a treacherous leap.

Torrin slid his mace into the loop on his belt and ensured that his backpack was snug; he didn’t need it sliding about and throwing off his balance. He whispered a quick prayer to the Watcher over Wanderers and kissed, for luck, one of his beard’s tiny silver hammers. Then he ran.