In a very quiet, awestruck voice, Lynaelle swallowed and said, "I have a book for you, a gift from Ambriel."
STANDARD DELVING PROCEDURE
Lisa Smedman
7 Eleint, the Year of Wild Magic (1372 DR)
Frivaldi strode up to the door. It was massive, made of solid iron, its hinges bolted into the rough stone wall of the tunnel. Its handle was a simple lever. The keyhole under it was shield-shaped. Under the rust that mottled the door's surface, he could see a raised symbol: a curved hunting horn with a six-pointed star above and below it.
"You were right," he called back over his shoulder. "It's the Sign of the Realm, just where you said it would be."
Durin, several paces behind in the darkened tunnel, grunted.
"Oh come on,' Durin," Frivaldi exclaimed. "You've got to be just a little bit excited. Nobody's been through this door in more than seven thousand years. We'll be the first dwarves to set foot in Torunn's Forge since it fell to the goblins. Smile a little!"
"We're not inside yet."
Frivaldi waggled his fingers and said, "Easy as splitting slate. I've yet to meet a lock that was my match."
"You, who became a Delver just eight months ago. This is only your second delve."
"My third," Frivaldi corrected.
"If it was your one hundred and third delve, it might impress me."
Frivaldi shrugged off the snide comment. Durin never lost an opportunity to remind him how young he was-probably because Durin was so old. The veteran Delver was a hundred and ninety-seven, well past his prime. His weathered face had a diagonal scar that carved a valley through his eyebrow, nose, and cheek, and the joints of his fingers were knobby with age. His hair-what remained of it-was steel-gray. His beard, which hung in a single braid tossed over one shoulder with its tip dragging on the ground behind him, was as white as quartz.
Frivaldi's beard, as dark and curly as lichen, had sprouted only the year before. He'd been a late bloomer, celebrating his coming of age at twenty-seven-two years later than most dwarves. He didn't appreciate being reminded of that fact.
He flipped his long, unruly hair out of his eyes and turned back to the door. He squatted and blew dust out of the lock-and blinked furiously as it stung his eyes. Ignoring Durin's chuckle, Frivaldi twisted the magical ring on the forefinger of his right hand, causing a prong to spring from the plain iron band. He inserted it in the lock.
Durin interrupted with a cough.
"What?" Frivaldi asked, irritated.
Closing his eyes, he probed the lock's interior with the prong and located its first pin.
"Standard delving procedure for doors," Durin said, "is 'LLOST: Listen, LOok, Search for Traps.' You looked, but did not listen."
"For what?" Frivaldi twisted the prong but the pin didn't shift. Seven thousand years of rust had frozen the lock's workings. "This door's a palm's width thick, at least. There could be a dragon on the other side and I wouldn't hear it."
"Nor did you search for traps," Durin continued.
"It's been thousands of years," Frivaldi muttered. "Any traps are going to be frozen with rust."
He could hear Durin moving away, retreating around the bend of the tunnel. Standard delving procedure, Durin called it, backing it up with a quote from the Delver's Tome: "When facing a potential danger, one member of the delving pair should remain in a position of safety, thus ensuring that a report can be delivered to the Order in case of calamity." But Frivaldi suspected the exaggerated caution was rooted in Durin's age. The longer the beard, the more fearful a dwarf became of tripping over it.
Frivaldi felt the rust holding the pin give a little, and gave the prong a sharp wrench. The prong bent. Cursing, he retracted it back into his ring. From around the corner, Durin continued to scold. "There may be a ward. When I delved the Halls of Haunghdannar…"
The door bore no glyph. Even through its mottling of rust Frivaldi could see that much. As Durin droned on, Frivaldi rose to his feet, rolling his eyes. Durin was agonizingly tedious-especially when he got on to one of his stories about the delves of decades gone by and the artifacts he'd carried home to Brightman-tle's temple, described right down to the last boring detail. For Frivaldi, delving wasn't so much about the artifact-surely the dwarves had enough magical axes already-as the challenges faced along the way. That lock, for example-the centuries of rust that had frozen its pins in place would have defeated even the most experienced rogue. But where finesse had failed, brute magic could hammer a way through.
He rapped his ring against the door and said, "01-burakrinr
The lock clicked and the door slammed open with a boom that rattled the floor under Frivaldi's boots, releasing a gust of stale air. Beyond the door was a staircase leading down into darkness. Its stairs were cut from the native rock, worn smooth by the feet of centuries-dead dwarves. Grinning, Frivaldi took a step across the threshold-
And something metal clanged onto the floor behind him. A heavy object slammed into his back, knocking him headlong down the stairs. Frivaldi scrabbled for a grip, trying to halt his tumble, but his head slammed against stone. Sparks exploded across his vision, then all went black.
Durin thumbed the cork out of the vial, parted Frivaldi's lips, and poured a dose of healing potion into the unconscious dwarfs mouth. The smell of honey, herbs, and troll's blood lingered in the air as Frivaldi sputtered, then swallowed. His eyes fluttered and he groaned.
Durin touched the egg-sized lump on Frivaldi's head and felt it slowly sink away as the potion took effect. He clucked his tongue, resisting the urge to scold. The boy would either learn from the experience and be a little more cautious around trapped doors, or not.
Most likely not.
"What… what happened?" Frivaldi asked, sitting up. his voice echoing in the cavernous space.
"There was a pendulum trap at the top of the stairs," he told Frivaldi. "Had you followed standard-"
"So it knocked me down the stairs and I bumped my head," Frivaldi said. "So what? I'm good as new, thanks to the healing potion."
"The pendulum was an axe," Durin continued. "Through luck alone, the wood had shrunk and the loosened blade fell off before it struck you. That axe might have cleaved you in two-killed you-and all because you didn't follow standard delving procedure."
Instead of looking properly contrite, Frivaldi rolled his eyes.
"I know," he said. "LOST."
"L-LOST," Durin corrected. "Listen, LOok-"
Frivaldi rubbed his head and finished for him, "-and Spring the Trap."
Durin sighed. Could he teach his apprentice nothing? He recorked the vial and tucked it back into a side pouch of his Delver's pack, then unbuckled the main flap. Reaching inside the magical pack, he pictured the object he was searching for and felt it nudge his hand. He drew out the map he'd assembled through decades of research and carefully unrolled it. The chamber they stood in was large, extending beyond the limits of his darkvision, and had an arched roof high enough to accommodate a giant. Its floor, once polished, had been cracked by some long-ago earth tremor. Skeletons in rotted leather armor lay on the floor where they had fallen-skeletons with grossly elongated arms and wide jawbones set with small, sharp fangs. These were the goblins that had overrun the kingdom of Oghrann and the stronghold of Torunn the Bold.
Frivaldi clambered to his feet and looked around.
His eye settled on the statues that stood on either side of the staircase.
"Are those supposed to be Moradin?" he asked. "They look like they were hacked out with an axe."
Durin bristled. Frivaldi knew nothing about art.
"They are hewn in a style distinctive of ancient Oghrann," he patiently explained. "Do you see the sharp angles of their foreheads, noses, and chins?"
Frivaldi nodded, but his attention was wandering.
"They are meant to resemble the facets of a gem," Durin explained as he strode over to the nearest statue and ran a hand along the stone.
The surface was precise and smooth, not a chip or a mis-chisel on it. If he'd had a block and tackle and a team of ponies, he would have gladly hauled the statues away. They would have made a fine addition, indeed, to the athenaeum in Silverymoon.