Icelin didn’t know what to say. The cold specter of the invasion hung over even the golden-lighted forge. She wanted to help, but again she felt like she was only one small pawn in a greater game, a conflict as ancient as the dwarf race. But small steps could be taken, even by an outsider like her.
“You said you wanted me to look at those rings you took off the drow?” Icelin asked. “May I see them now?”
“Of course.” Ingara led them to the forge fire and took out the rings. She laid them in a semicircle on the anvil. “My father’s right. I don’t like keeping dark magic here, but I hate to melt them down without knowing what they do. Next time we face the drow, maybe we can turn their magic against them.”
Icelin held her outstretched hand above the rings and murmured the words of a spell. She felt the focused energies pass through her body, channeled and steadied by her staff.
Whispers folded around the arcane words, coaxing out any magic that might be hiding in the depths of the rings. At once, Icelin felt an answering call, a magical thread that wound around her fingers like icy needles. The sensation unsettled her. She’d never felt Art that was this cold and unwelcoming before. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised, but still, she was glad to lower her hand and sever the connection between herself and the rings.
“The rings hold magic,” Icelin said. “It isn’t strong, and I sense it’s not inherently destructive in nature.” Carefully, she picked up one of the rings from the anvil and slipped it on her middle finger. She dismissed the chill that passed through her body as nerves. “Did you hear any of the drow using command words to activate the rings?” she asked Ingara.
The dwarf woman nodded. “Are you going to try to activate that one?”
“Can you control it?” Ruen asked.
“Yes, but I’ll only test them if you want me to, Ingara,” Icelin said. “This is your home, your private sanctuary. I won’t bring forth hated magic if it will hurt you.”
Ingara touched the anvil and then touched her chest, as if following an invisible thread between them. “My thanks for that,” she said. “You understand better than most outsiders. I want you to test them. Nothing is sacred while the drow stand at our doorstep.”
“Stand back, then,” Icelin said, “to be safe.”
Ingara and Ruen gave her space, and Icelin stood with her back to the forge. “The command word is arachendrek,” Ingara said, the syllables scraping from her throat.
Icelin held up her hand, repeated the word, and waited.
Spiders poured from the dark corners of the forge.
They were small, scurrying brown spots at first. Then, as the magic pulsed more quickly from the ring, they grew larger, their hairy bodies and bottomless black eyes shining in the forge light as they formed a circle around Icelin.
“It’s all right,” she said, speaking more to reassure herself than Ingara and Ruen. “They aren’t attacking. They obey the wearer of the ring.”
“Icelin,” Ruen said in a strained voice. “Banish them-quickly!”
A sharp cry ripped Icelin’s attention away from the dozens of spiders now gathered at her feet. Across the room, Ingara clutched Ruen’s arm with both hands. The dwarf woman was obviously strong. Ruen winced in pain, but he did not try to break Ingara’s grip. Her face was white and frozen in a wretched, terrified mask. She stared at the spiders, unable to look away.
More came.
Glossy-bodied arachnids as tall as Ingara’s stone table crawled from the shadows on graceful black legs. There must have been hundreds of the smaller ones now, swarming over the tables, the anvil, forming a living carpet on the cloth covering Ingara’s axe.
Seeing that, the dwarf woman broke. Screaming, she dropped to her knees, covering her eyes with her hands. Sobs wracked her body. “Moradin’s mercy, make it stop!” she cried. She scratched at her skin and yanked her braids, tearing loose strands and making wild tangles around her face. “It’s everywhere! I can’t get it off!”
Icelin tore the ring off her finger, scooped up the others from the anvil and hurled them all into the forge. The fire surged hungrily, consuming magic and metal at once. Icelin turned away from the heat, though the sweat that poured down her face had little to do with the fire.
At her feet, the smallest spiders turned and scurried away from the heat and light, retreating to their dark corners. The larger ones simply vanished.
Icelin leaned unsteadily against the stone table. “Illusions,” she said. “Forgive me-I should have seen it at once. “The ring’s magic attracts smaller spiders and uses their forms to create illusions of much larger ones. Seeing a massive swarm like that coming at you in a battle would be enough to shake the morale of even the toughest soldiers. The drow are using that fear to gain an advantage against Iltkazar.”
“Icelin,” Ruen said quietly.
Icelin pushed off the table. Ingara crouched on the floor, her face in her hands. She trembled violently. Icelin went over and knelt beside her. When she touched Ingara’s shoulder, the dwarf woman flinched away and pulled into herself even more, as if she could disappear.
“It’s all right,” Icelin said soothingly. “They’re gone. They’re all gone.”
“What’s going on here?” a gruff voice rang out from the doorway.
Icelin looked up to see a thick-chested dwarf enter the forge. He had pale blond hair and beard, almost white, which contrasted oddly with his darker skin and eyes. When he crossed the room, Icelin noticed he walked with a slight limp, barely noticeable had he not been moving so quickly.
He crouched in front of Ingara. Ruen stood to make room. “Taerin,” the dwarf whispered, gently prying Ingara’s hands from her face. “Ingara, taerin, gordok en vin.”
Ingara looked at the blond dwarf with wide, red-rimmed eyes and shook her head furiously from side to side. She reached up to claw at her hair again, but the man caged her hands between his own and whispered soothing sounds that rolled out like low, distant thunder.
Breaths went by, but Icelin dared not move. Every movement made Ingara flinch and whimper, as if she expected the host of spiders to descend on them again in an instant. Icelin’s knees were cramped and cold from being so long on the floor, but she ignored the pains.
Meanwhile, the blond dwarf was slowly getting through to Ingara. He whispered softly to her in Dwarvish, and Ingara answered-intimate words not meant for outsiders to hear. Icelin felt a flush of shame, but still she dared not move for fear of breaking the calm, protective circle that she, Ruen, and the blonde dwarf had formed around Ingara.
At last, the dwarf kissed both Ingara’s hands and leaned close to brush away the tears that lingered at the corners of her eyes. They rose to their feet together and the man pulled her close, stroking his fingers through her wild hair. When they broke apart, Ingara was smiling tremulously.
“You must be Arngam,” Ruen said, holding out a hand to the blonde dwarf. The dwarf nodded coolly to him but did not free his hands from Ingara’s waist to clasp Ruen’s forearm.
“Well, I’d hope so,” Icelin said, smiling at Ingara. Her expression faltered. “Forgive me,” she said again. “I had no idea.”
“It’s not your fault,” Ingara said. “Don’t look at them that way, Arn.” She stepped from Arngam’s embrace and smoothed her hair. “It was my own stupidity,” she said. “Godsdamned drow worship spiders. I should have been expecting something like that. Tell the patrols the next time they’re overrun by spider attacks that they’re probably illusions,” she said to Arngam. “That’s what the rings we’ve been finding on all the drow corpses do. They’re trying to break us with the fear of seeing so many of the bastards at once.”