The rune was empty, the gold flowing back into Moradin’s vein. The Dwarffather would live.
The stoneplague would end.
The first sensation was a white radiance. Cooling. Soothing. Pure.
He felt it more than saw it. The glow surrounded him. Sustained him.
Slowly, the radiance dissipated. A second sensation replaced it-the sound of metal on metal. Each blow reverberated slightly. A hammer, striking forge-heated steel on an anvil.
How he knew that, he could not say.
He realized he was standing. A massive, calloused palm was the floor on which his feet rested.
No. That wasn’t quite right. He had no feet, no legs, no body. Just… self.
Where am I? he asked.
Then a more pressing question. Who am I?
“You were known, in your last lifetime, by two names,” a voice that boomed like thunder said. “You preferred your dwarf name.”
I am Torrin Ironstar, he realized. But no, that was slightly wrong. I was Torrin Ironstar. A delver, of Eartheart. I am he no more.
“Yes,” said the voice.
The clang of hammer on steel continued, as steady as a heartbeat. Sights joined that sound. The soul that had been Torrin could see around itself. The palm that supported him was joined to an arm, and that arm to the shoulder of a figure seated on a throne-a dwarf, with a gleaming white beard that flowed down onto his chest, across his apron-covered lap, to touch the floor between his boots.
A god, seated on his throne.
Moradin.
The soul that had been Torrin bowed low. Silver tinkled, reminding him that he’d once worn the Dwarffather’s hammers braided into a bright red beard. Flashes of memory returned, as fragmentary and as glittering as shards of broken glass. Recollections of dwarves, their faces gray and stiff, dead of a curse masquerading as a plague. One of these faces evoked an especially sharp pang-a boy’s face, twisted with pain. Eyes closed, thin body covered with a blanket. Kier.
Does he live? Did I save him? The clamor of the hammer strikes sped up a little, like an anxious heartbeat.
“You did,” said the voice. “Observe.” Moradin’s other hand lifted. The gold bracer around the god’s left wrist shone as brightly as a mirror. Reflected in its gleaming gold depths was the image of a father embracing his son. The boy was healthy, healed. Awake and alive, and free of the stoneplague. Just behind him stood a cleric, her hand rising and falling in a healing blessing. Maliira, also healed of the stoneplague. The sight of them filled the very air with joy. The soul that had been Torrin felt his cheeks and beard grow wet with tears.
Kier asked a question of his father then. The boy’s lips moved, but the reflected image conveyed no sound. Haldrin’s face grew grim, and then he answered. Kier burst into tears and pulled something across the bed-a boy-sized pack with the letter D embossed upon it. An imitation Delver’s pack. Kier clutched it to his chest, sobbing.
He mourns me.
“You two will meet again.”
But will he know me?
“Perhaps one day. While your mace still lies in the cavern where the duergar inscribed their foul rune, your bracers remain in the Thunsonn clanhold, where you left them. If the boy you will become stumbles across them, he may recognize them. But what truly matters is that Kier will call you ‘Son.’ He will love you and protect you, just as you loved and protected him.”
The soul that had been Torrin should have been comforted, yet a tinge of sorrow tainted the good news. That will be many years from now, he observed, perhaps decades.
“Yes.”
I’ll miss what remains of Kier’s childhood.
“It is as it must be.”
A second memory drifted to mind, causing a lump to form anew in Torrin’s throat: a heart-shaped lump, as smooth and as cool as glass. He remembered a woman’s face. In his memory, she was laughing, one hand brushing back unruly hair. The hand crackled with a blue spellscar.
Eralynn.
“She, too, passed through my halls,” Moradin said. The god’s breath was as warm as a coal fire, as cool as quenching water, all in one. “An impatient one, she was; she couldn’t wait to be reforged anew. Even now, her soul quickens in the days-old body of a child who will not be born for many months yet.”
A dwarf child?
Moradin smiled. “Of course.”
The question was an important one. Vitally important. Or so the soul that had been Torrin believed. And… what of me? he asked. Am I to be cast a dwarf, this time?
Moradin’s flinty eyes stared down at Torrin, peering into the very heart of him. “That was your most heartfelt wish, was it not? Why you sought so desperately, throughout your past life, for something you hoped could be found where mortals dwell?”
I sought… He paused, grasping at the memories that flitted about like wayward candle flickers. I sought your Soulforge.
“And there it lies,” Moradin said, gesturing in the direction of the hammer-on-steel sound.
Torrin turned and stared at a dull red glow he hadn’t noticed before. It emanated from a massive forge a few paces distant from the Dwarffather’s throne. A long line of ghostly shapes stood behind it, some larger, some smaller. The souls of dead dwarf adults and children, waiting patiently to be reforged. Torrin recognized one of them, farther back in the line, as a man he’d known in the life that had just ended-an older dwarf carrying a plumed skyrider’s helm.
Baelar, he breathed.
The soul that had been Baelar glanced up at him and smiled.
The soul closest to the forge-a woman Torrin didn’t recognize-ghosted into it and lay down amid the glowing red coals. Her soul wavered a moment, then melted away into a bright puddle of glowing mithril. Moradin waved his free hand, and the molten metal rose into the air. The god caught it and clenched his hand around it like a mold. He blew onto his fist, and steam escaped from his fingers with the bubbling hiss of forge-hot steel plunged into a bucket of water.
After a moment, Moradin’s fingers opened. Inside them was a diamond that sparkled myriad colors in the light of the forge. Moradin lifted the diamond to his mouth and blew a second time, releasing a gust of warm breath that smelled of rich, life-sustaining blood. The diamond tumbled off his palm and vanished-a soul, seeking its next lifetime.
The soul that had been Torrin watched, awestruck. So beautiful, he breathed.
“What you sought never did exist on Faerun,” Moradin told him, at last answering the question he had asked earlier. “There is only one Soulforge-here, in my realm. Yet you were correct, in one regard. There is a place on Faerun that is the equivalent of my forge, a place from which the dwarf race emerged onto that world. A navel, through which the first dwarf people passed.”
Where?
Moradin chuckled. “Always the curious soul, weren’t you?” he said.
Always the Delver. And as he said it, Torrin realized it was true. He’d been a Delver in his last life-and would be in his next, thanks to Kier. Like his “Uncle Torrin,” Kier would choose a Delver’s life. And he’d pass along that love of adventure to his son, who one day would teach it to his own son. And around and around the wheel would go.
Tell me, he cried, his excitement building as he imagined the delves to come. Where is the place the dwarves emerged onto Faerun?
“You won’t remember.”
Tell me anyway.
“It’s in the Yehimal Mountains. From it, the dwarves spread across all of Faerun, in the days long before the founding of Bhaerynden.”
Had the soul that had been Torrin still had a heart, it would have quickened at that revelation. A portal? he guessed. Leading where?
Moradin’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “That may take you many lifetimes to discover,” he said. “Or, if you’re as determined to get on with your quests as your friend Eralynn proved to be, perhaps only one more lifetime.” The god shrugged. “That remains to be seen.”