T Lain - The Sundered Arms

“So it’s morning,” said Devis, warming his hands on his own steaming cup. “We’re miles away from that town. Now will someone tell us where we’re going?”

“You are not going anywhere,” said Tordek. “Not with us. This business is between me and Vadania.”

“Actually,” said the elf, “after last night’s rescue, I suggest that all three of you owe me a favor.”

Tordek scowled but did not dispute her claim.

“Sounds fair to me!” said Lidda. Tordek shook his head at how blithely the halfling promised her help, but he knew her well enough to realize she could never pass up an opportunity for adventure or treasure.

“Say, I didn’t ask to be rescued,” complained Devis.

“Perhaps you would like Gulo to take you back to Caravans Cross and return you to the merchant lord?” suggested Vadania.

“On the other hand,” allowed Devis, nodding toward Tordek, “I am curious why you went to the trouble of tracking down this sour-faced gargoyle.”

Lidda kicked his shin.

“Ow,” complained the bard, but he gave the halfling a flirty wink in return for her rebuke. She turned away a second too late to hide her pleased expression.

“Listen,” said Vadania, “and I shall tell you a story.”

“Yes!” Lidda clapped. “I love a good story.”

Tordek leaned forward attentively, and even Devis perked up at the prospect of a tale.

“Twenty-two days ago,” said the silver-haired elf, “the streams near my home began running red.”

“With blood?” gasped Lidda.

“Don’t interrupt,” said Devis, kicking at the halfling’s shin but missing.

“With iron slag and some stinking, steaming poison,” continued Vadania. “It sullied the water and killed the creatures that lived within it. I tracked the filth to the vents of an ancient dwarven stronghold.”

She paused as if for dramatic effect and watched Tordek for a reaction. At last, the dwarf spoke.

“Andaron’s Delve.” It was not a question.

“Aye,” said Vadania, “the very place.”

“I’ve heard of that,” said Devis. “The dwarves themselves turned against the master of the place, a blacksmith of fabled skill.”

“Andaron the Black,” said Tordek. “A name accursed for over three hundred years.”

“Why was he cursed?” asked Lidda.

Vadania shrugged, and Tordek stared at the fire, refusing to speak.

“In his pride,” said Devis, his voice falling into a taleteller’s cadence, “the smith-king forged a battery of arms for his most loyal thanes. Not content to invest the weapons with the meager blessings of Moradin—”

“Have a care, bard,” warned Tordek, displeased at any slight to the great god of his people.

“It’s a literal translation from the Dwarvish,” protested Devis, “not my personal opinion. Anyway, Andaron summoned an ancient demon, one Grolnark—or something like that—and commanded him to infuse his weapons with infernal power. It worked, or at least it seemed to work. Andaron granted the weapons to his greatest warriors. There were a pair of short swords, a greatsword, a dwarven urgrosh , and a mace.”

“A warhammer,” corrected Tordek. Pronouncing the word made his brows converge in a dark crease over his nose. Unconsciously, he reached beneath his armor and tugged out a leather thong threaded through six long finger bones.

“A warhammer,” repeated Devis, squinting at the necklace. “I had a feeling you knew more about this story than you were letting on.”

“The weapons are cursed,” said Tordek. “Those who wield them turn against their lords and allies. They become nefarious, oath breakers, lower than goblins.”

“Indeed,” said Devis. “They can never turn on each other, however, for those who have wielded the weapons of Andaron the Black become brothers in arms, bound by the same infernal enchantments that imbue their weapons with power. The weapons will not sunder the flesh of those who wield the others, and once one has taken a life with one of the arms, forever is he bound to the other armsbearers. At least, that’s what the legend says.”

“Once they saw how the weapons changed those who wielded them, the other clans realized Andaron’s folly,” said Tordek. “They turned against him and his dark champions in a short but bloody war. After Andaron was slain, they sundered the evil weapons and scattered the fragments. What is more, they buried the anvil on which they were shaped so that they might never be repaired.”

“Yet someone has lit the fires of Andaron’s Delve,” said Vadania. “The waste that pours from its grates is not simply iron slag. It is some noxious pollution, the excrement of foul magic.”

“Someone has restored Andaron’s hell-forge,” said Tordek. “Whoever it is must have found one of the cursed weapons.”

“I thought you said they were destroyed,” said Lidda.

“Only broken,” said Tordek. “They can never be destroyed by mortal hands, and thus their curse lingers on in tale-telling, luring foolish young dwarves to their doom as they seek to recover the lost weapons and employ their powers in chase of glory.”

“Did you?” asked Lidda. “Did you search for them?”

“Nay, not I,” said Tordek. He did not continue, and the other three stared at him from their places around the fire. For a long time, he said nothing. He only stroked the bones on his necklace. At last, their combined gazes broke his composure, and he said, “My brother, Holten.”

Devis and Lidda recoiled and grimaced at the bones around Tordek’s neck.

Tordek stared at them blankly for a moment before realizing the direction of their thoughts. “These are not my brother’s fingers!”

“Whew!” said Lidda.

“Glad to hear it!” said Devis.

“Whose are they?” asked the halfling.

“A demon’s,” said Tordek, glaring at one pointed finger bone before stuffing the necklace back down beneath his breastplate. “They belonged to the fiend who slew my brother.”

“So you killed the demon?” asked Lidda, a note of eagerness spoiling her somber facade.

“Nay,” said Tordek, “but one day, with Moradin’s allowance, I shall.”

Devis shivered with delight and snapped his fingers. “That does it. I’m in!”

“What?” said Lidda. “I thought you said—”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Devis, shaking his head and grinning. “What a great story this will make!”

“I don’t want your help,” said Tordek.” I want you singing the tale of this venture even less.” He scowled at the half-elf but would not look him in the eye.

“Perhaps not,” said Vadania, “but I do. We shall need all the assistance we can get. I came for you because you owe me a debt, and because it is said that the seals to Andaron’s Delve can be opened only by a dwarf.”

“Then how did someone get in to fire the forges?” asked Lidda.

“Perhaps someone came from the great below,” said Vadania. “The underdark.”

“Orcs,” suggested Tordek, nodding.

“Drow,” said Devis, both hopefully and fearfully.

“Or worse,” said Vadania. “Illithids, umber hulks, aboleths, aberrations of every—”

“Stop right there!” said Lidda, hugging her arms. “Name anything else with too much mucous and I’ll change my mind about helping you.”

Despite her admonition, excitement glimmered in her eyes. Tordek had seen that look before, and he knew that nothing would frighten the lithe halfling away from the prospect of adventure.

“Maybe it is another dwarf,” suggested Devis.

“Impossible,” grumbled Tordek. “No dwarf would break the taboo on such a place.”

“Well,” said Devis, “after all, it was a dwarf who summoned the demon and made the weapons in the first place. You said yourself that many dwarves have lost their lives searching for the weapons.”