Torrin shook his head. “One day, I’ll convince her. But for now, she’s… too busy with her own delves.”
“Perhaps you could join other delves,” Frivaldi said. “I’m sure there’s more than one among us who’d be pleased to have a partner so willing to take on a challenge. They know you’re just as committed to the Order of Delvers as any dwarf. Loyal as a shield brother.” He glanced around the room, then nodded at a gray-bearded dwarf sitting next to the curtained window. “Dorn, for example, could use some help. He’s hoping to find the tomb of Velm Dragonslayer. That’s a quest that will take more than one swing of the hammer.”
Torrin shook his head. Why couldn’t the Delvemaster understand? “No other delve will teach us as much about our history,” he said with dogged insistence. “The Soulforge is where it all began-the portal through which the dwarf race entered Faerun. It can tell us everything about the origins of our people.”
“Lesser finds are also worthwhile,” said Frivaldi. “Every artifact we uncover, every scrap of lore, is a piece of the larger puzzle.”
“It will take more than ‘scraps’ to make the others overlook this,” Torrin replied, gesturing at his human body. “Unless I find the Soulforge, I’ll always be among the second rank.”
Frivaldi paused, as if weighing his words. “You’ll still be human, Torrin. And that means you’ll always be in the second rank, no matter how spectacular your delves.” He took a sip of ale. “Have you ever considered, Torrin, the fact that you might have deliberately chosen your ‘sacred quest’ for the very reason that it is impossible to achieve?”
Torrin clenched his teeth. Frivaldi might be the Delvemaster, but that was bordering on an insult. “I will succeed, this time. The Soulforge-”
“Is in Moradin’s domain.” Frivaldi said sharply, cutting him off. “How else would the god reforge our souls, if it weren’t?”
“Begging your pardon, Delvemaster, but you’re wrong. The Soulforge is here, on Faerun. If you read the ancient sagas-”
“Yes, yes, Torrin. I’ve heard your ‘evidence’ before.”
“And one day,” Torrin persisted, “I’m going to find it.”
Frivaldi sighed. “I see more than a little of Durin in you, Torrin. You’ve got a stubborn vein running through you a league wide, and as hard as granite. Maybe you are what you claim to be, after all.” He rose to his feet. “I’ll leave you to think about what I’ve just said. In the meantime, I must go and prepare for tonight’s Council.”
“The Deep Lords are meeting tonight?” Torrin asked.
Frivaldi nodded.
“What’s it about?” Torrin added. “Are the drow massing at our gates? Has spellfire boiled up out of the Underchasm?” The retort bordered on rudeness, but Torrin was feeling more than a little petulant, after the blunt tone that the Delvemaster had taken with him a moment before.
“Hopefully nothing so serious as that,” Frivaldi said with a laugh. “I’ve only been told that a problem has arisen, and that the Lord Scepter has ordered the heads of each of the city’s guilds and orders to attend. You know as much as I do, at this point.” With that, he took his leave.
Torrin brooded over his empty ale cup, wondering how he’d ever scrape together enough coin to pay a loremaster. As he stared at the table, he suddenly realized that Frivaldi had forgotten something. “Delvemaster Frivaldi!” he called, turning. “Your puzzle!”
Too late. The Delvemaster was gone.
Torrin poked at the links, wondering if the Delvemaster had left the puzzle behind on purpose. Was he trying to tell Torrin that the answer to his puzzle was right in front of him, all tangled together? That if he just kept working at it, he’d solve the puzzle of the runestone on his own?
“Trial and error,” Torrin said, giving the puzzle another poke.
One link shifted against another, and a bar slid out of place. But if the puzzle was any closer to a solution, Torrin wasn’t able to see it.
Chapter Three
“Better a friend at court than gold on the finger.”
Torrin nervously stroked his beard as he waited outside the Council chamber. The murmur of deep voices came from behind heavy oak doors embossed with the crossed axes of Clangeddin Silverbeard. To either side of the closed doors stood a Steel Shield guard, one of the thousands-strong contingent of dwarf knights who patrolled and protected Eartheart. Each stared with cold eyes at Torrin, openly suspicious of the “human” who had been summoned to Eartheart’s inner sanctum.
Two more Steel Shields flanked Torrin, their plumed helmets level with his chest.
Torrin had been forced to leave his Delver’s pack behind, together with his mace. He was, however, permitted to keep his wrist bracers, after a thorough inspection proved them to be non-magical. He’d polished them until the iron shone, and made sure they were turned so that the star embossed on each was visible. The Deep Lords could think what they might of Torrin, but he wore his bracers with pride. He was a true reincarnation of the long-vanished Ironstar clan.
A knock sounded from inside the doors-the signal that the Council was ready for him. Torrin squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. “I am your tool, Dwarffather,” he whispered. “Temper my heart. Give me courage, so that I might speak bravely.”
The doors opened, revealing a large, circular chamber. Ringing its periphery were the Deep Lords who governed Eartheart. The benches they occupied were raised from the floor, three rows high, with a spot directly opposite the door for the Lord Scepter Mariochar Bladebeard. Every seat was filled, and every eye was on Torrin as the Steel Shields escorted him through the doors.
The Deep Lords wore black silk hoods that hid their faces and beards-a means of protecting their identities from the likes of Torrin. They stared at him through eye holes in the hoods. The Lord Scepter was the only one whose face was bare. He scowled down from his seat; his dark eyes as hard as flint, and his steel grey beard plaited in three braids like a pitchfork. His thread-of-gold official robe all but engulfed his stocky body, but his breastplate was visible beneath it-polished mithril reflecting the light from the massive chandelier that dominated the ceiling. The sweet smell of beeswax candles filled the chamber. The room echoed with the whispers of the assembled Deep Lords.
Torrin halted on the spot where he’d been told to stand during his briefing. He bowed deeply. Below his feet was an enormous sigil whose tightly contained magic, he’d been warned, would burn him to ash in an instant, were he to make any threatening moves. Had the Deep Lords been able to see into his heart, they’d have realized how unnecessary that warning was. His appearance before them was his duty, one he took as seriously as would any other dwarf of Eartheart. It was yet another reminder of how hard Torrin had had to work every day to earn the trust of his own people.
As Torrin rose from his bow, the Lord Scepter raised a gauntleted hand. The whispers stopped. “You are the human Daffyd Raltin, who now calls himself Torrin Ironstar?” he said.
“I…” Torrin hesitated, wary of giving offence. It wasn’t his place to correct the Lord Scepter, but he would speak the truth. He had sworn an oath to Moradin to do just that, no matter what the cost. Feeling the eyes boring into him from every side, he carried on. “I am Torrin Ironstar, a member of the Delvers, an order in the service of Dugmaren Brightmantle.”
A buzz of whispers followed. Once again, the Lord Scepter silenced them. “Delvemaster Frivaldi said you had some information about the plague that you wanted to share with us.”
Nervous sweat trickled down Torrin’s sides. He resisted the urge to touch the silver hammers in his beard. “It’s about the quarantine you imposed yesterday,” he said. “A few days ago I had… dealings with a fellow dwarf who was suffering from the illness that the proclamations described.”
Angry shouts filled the air.
“Why was this human permitted into our chambers?”
