Lisa Smedman - The Gilded Rune

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.”

Moradin’s face settled into a solemn expression as he stared down at Torrin. “You’ve done me a great service,” he intoned. “A service beyond price. I might have died were it not for your valiant actions. I will thus watch over you for all of your lifetimes and aid you whenever you call.”

Torrin bowed again. And I will honor you, in all of my lifetimes.

“I know.” the god said, smiling. “There are many things a god can foresee, and that is one of them.”

Moradin rose from his throne. He moved toward the soulforge, still carrying the soul that had been Torrin on his palm. The souls waiting in line at the forge paused, all eyes turning upward. “And now the time has come for you to be reborn,” Moradin said.

Torrin startled. Had he heard correctly? But you said I would be Kier’s son. Has that much time really passed? Is he a grown man already?

The god’s eyes twinkled as he said, “Time is flexible here.”

The soul that had been Torrin breathed a long, slow sigh of relief. In his next lifetime, he would be a dwarf. Kier’s son. Although the boy would never know him, that was something. My thanks, he said.

“No thanks needed,” said Moradin. “It is as it should be.”