by Lisa Smedman
That, at least, was something Torrin could help with. “Ease yourself, Sandar,” he told Mara’s husband. “They may quarantine the clanhold, but they won’t lock us in just one room. And it will only be until the Merciful Maiden comes back to cleanse us.”
“She’s not coming back,” Haldrin spat.
The others all turned to stare at him. Haldrin still sat on the floor by the wall. Finally, he raised his head. His eyes were red with tears, and his laugh was bitter. “You heard what the Merciful Maiden said,” he continued. “She can’t cure the stoneplague. We’re all going to die.”
Mara visibly fumed. “Nonsense,” she said, hugging her sister’s shoulders. “That’s not what she said. She couldn’t resurrect the babes because they’ve been dead too long.”
“Weren’t you listening?” Haldrin said. His red eyes glared defiantly. “The Merciful Maiden never spoke those words herself. She just nodded when you asked if that was the reason. It’s not commonly known, but a cleric can raise someone who’s been dead a month-or even longer-if a Ritual of Repose is cast on the body. The Merciful Maiden wasn’t lying about being unable to save the babes, but she wasn’t telling us the truth about why. The truth is, Sharindlar’s clerics can’t cure the stoneplague.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Mara cried. “Sharindlar would never withhold her healing magic, especially from innocent babes. Moradin himself wouldn’t permit it.”
Haldrin’s laugh had a wild edge to it. “Just like he wouldn’t permit the collapse of the Rift, or the fall of Underhome?” he cried. He flung out a hand, pointing. “Moradin let my babies die! What kind of god countenances that?”
“Stop it!” Mara cried. “You’re sounding like Father now.”
“Maybe your father was right,” Haldrin spat back. “The gods care as little for us as we do for the ants underfoot.”
“I won’t hear it!” Mara screeched. “Stop this blasphemy! You’re going to bring the stoneplague upon us all!”
Sandor was breathing heavily. He edged to the door. “I won’t,” he gasped. “I won’t be trapped here. I won’t.” He yanked the door open and bolted from the room.
Ambril sat on the bed, rocking the bloody bundles. “Sunder and Sorn,” she moaned. “That’s what we were going to call you. Oh, my babies. My little ones.”
A part of Torrin’s mind registered the fact that they were boys’ names, and that he’d lost his bet with Kier. Not that it mattered any more.
“Their souls are with Moradin,” Mara said, trying to ease the dead babes out of her sister’s arms. “In his realm. Coddled and protected by the gods. They’ll return to the world again one day. Take comfort in that.”
“Your father didn’t find any comfort in that,” Haldrin said. “Why should we?”
Torrin turned, unable to listen any more. As he did, something crunched underfoot-a chunk of dried mud on the floor. He glanced down at it, wondering whose boot it had come from. Then he realized that the spot had been where the Merciful Maiden was standing when he grasped her arm-the arm that had felt so strangely rough. His mouth went dry as he realized what he was staring at. It was a chunk of calcified flesh, the same color and texture as Kendril’s broken finger.
The Merciful Maiden the temple had sent to aid Ambril with the birthing had the stoneplague.
He used his foot to scuff the chunk of tainted flesh into a corner, where it wouldn’t be stepped on by anyone else. Not that it really mattered. Everyone in the room had either touched the dead babes already, or had breathed in their taint.
Including him.
Ambril’s voice rose to a wail again. Her rocking grew more violent. “My babies!” she cried.
Mara and Haldrin were shouting at each other in a stupid, pointless argument about Moradin and whether he was truly merciful, about whether Haldrin echoing her father’s “blasphemous” beliefs had brought the curse of the stoneplague down upon their clanhold. If they weren’t careful, they would indeed prod Moradin into hurling a curse down upon them.
“For the love of the gods!” Torrin bellowed. “Haldrin, your wife needs you. Tend to her. And you, Mara. Go after your husband and stop him before he panics everyone in Eartheart!”
Both blinked, chastised. Without bothering to see if they did as he’d ordered, Torrin whirled and ran out of the door. His first impulse was to follow Kendril’s advice, to hurry those he loved out of Eartheart, as far from the city as they could run. Instead he ran past Kier’s room, in the direction the Merciful Maiden had gone.
He caught up to her in the Hall of the Fountain, a vast room that echoed softly with the sound of splashing water. During the day it would have been filled with people, coming to fill water kegs at the fountain’s brass taps. At that hour of the night, it was empty.
“Merciful Maiden!” he shouted.
She kept walking.
Anger flushed his cheeks. “I know you have the stoneplague!” he called.
She halted abruptly. Slowly, she turned. “That’s not something you should be shouting,” she said in a low voice.
Torrin moved in front of her, panting slightly from his run. “You admit it,” he said.
She touched the disk at her chest. “Sharindlar will not permit a lie.”
“What in the Nine Hells was your order thinking?” Torrin blurted out. “They sent a cleric who’s diseased-to a birthing!”
The Merciful Maiden raised a hand as if to touch his shoulder in sympathy, but let it fall to her side as Torrin glared her down. “I pose no danger,” she said. “The stoneplague isn’t spread by touch or by breath. Nor by spittle or by blood.”
Torrin bit back the urge to shout that she was lying. “How can you know that?” he asked.
“The woman who gave birth tonight wasn’t the first one afflicted,” the cleric replied. “Dozens of others, here in Eartheart, have come down with the stoneplague in the past few days. The family members who’ve tended them have all remained healthy, even without the benefit of a healing ritual. In contrast, the Merciful Maidens who have fallen ill-who continued in their duties, unaware that they were afflicted with the stoneplague-did not spread the contagion to those they ministered to.”
“You’re not the only Merciful Maiden with the stoneplague?” Torrin asked, horrified.
“No.”
“But why don’t you heal yourselves?”
The cleric sighed wearily. “We’ve tried. We can’t. Much as it pains me to admit it, Sharindlar appears to be powerless over this illness. But you needn’t worry. We’re not spreading the stoneplague. That’s the one thing we’re certain of.”
“What about… other gods?” Torrin asked as diplomatically as he could. “Couldn’t a cleric from Berronar Truesilver’s temple heal you?”
“When it seemed Sharindlar had turned her face from us, we tried just that,” she said. “We also took one of the afflicted to an elf healer, but it was no use. The cleric’s prayers to Corellon also went unanswered. Nor were magical potions effective.” The Merciful Maiden looked on the verge of tears. “There’s nothing any of us can do.”
Her words turned Torrin’s veins to ice. If the Maidens couldn’t even heal themselves, Haldrin was right.
Eartheart was doomed.
Chapter Eight
“More gold has been mined from the thoughts of men than has been taken from the earth.”
Delver’s Tome, Volume I, Chapter 3, Entry 683
Kier sat at the table in the clanhold’s common room, frowning down in concentration at the soft wax tablet. He moved the stylus with slow, deliberate strokes, copying the runes from the story tablet. Torrin stared over the boy’s shoulder, supervising the lesson, occasionally reaching down to rotate the round wax tablet so that the inscription would spiral inward correctly.
“That’s not bad,” Torrin commented. “But if you’d just take off those gauntlets, you’d have an easier time of it.”
Kier shook his head without looking up.
Torrin sighed. The gauntlets-toy rep
licas of those worn by the Steel Shields-were made of leather, but even so they hindered Kier as he tried to write. The boy insisted on wearing them all the time, even to bed. No one reprimanded him, however. The family was still grieving the death of the newborn twins, and Ambril herself had fallen ill with the stoneplague. It was as if the disease, no longer having babes to feed upon, had turned its attention to the mother instead. Ambril was too ill to rise from her bed, and Haldrin was run ragged caring for her, nearly frantic with worry he’d lose her, too. It had fallen to Torrin to watch over Kier, to keep some sense of order and routine in the boy’s life.
Torrin stared down at what Kier had just written. “It’s delvar, ‘to dig,’ ” he corrected. “You’ve scribed deladar, which means ‘to descend.’ Here, let me show you.” He tried to take the stylus.
“No!” Kier shouted. “I’ll do it.” He yanked the stylus back with such force that his hand knocked over a drinking mug that had been on the table beside him. Ginger beer spilled everywhere, splashing onto the tablets and soaking Kier’s sleeves.
“Now look what you made me do!” Kier shrilled.
Torrin kneeled beside the boy. “It’s all right, Kier,” he said. “We’ve done enough for today. Let’s stop.” He picked up the stylus rag and dabbed at the tablets. But when he tried to pat dry Kier’s gauntlets, however, the boy reared back. It was as if he didn’t want Torrin to touch his hands.
Torrin suddenly felt his face pale. “Kier,” he said in a low firm voice. “Take off your gauntlets.”
“No!” Kier cried as he shot to his feet, nearly knocking over the bench.
Torrin clasped his shoulder gently. “Kier, you can trust me. I’m your delving partner, remember? Your uncle. Whatever’s wrong, you can tell me.”
Slowly, jerkily, Kier took off his left gauntlet. Torrin knew, the instant he saw the first wince of pain, what he would see. The sight, however, still made him ill, made him feel as if he’d been punched in the stomach hard enough to make him vomit. Kier’s fingers were crooked and gray; the discoloration had spread up his hands, almost to the wrists.
The stoneplague.
“Oh, Kier,” Torrin said in a hoarse whisper. He held out his arms. Kier fell gratefully into them, allowing himself to be hugged. To be touched.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Torrin asked.
Kier buried his face in Torrin’s shirt. “Everyone’s so scared,” he said in a muffled voice. “I worried what people would do to me. People are acting so… badly. I’ve seen what they do.”
Torrin felt his anger rise. He pulled back slightly so the boy would meet his eye. “Nobody’s going to hurt you,” he said. “If they try, I’ll-”
“Moradin is punishing me, isn’t he?” Kier whispered, an anguished look in his eyes. “I’ve offended the Dwarffather.”
Torrin grasped the boy’s shoulders firmly. “Nonsense,” he said. “You’re a fine boy. What could you possibly have done?”
“I… don’t obey my parents,” Kier whispered, his eyes locked on the floor. “I sneak out. And… I took grandfather’s griffon-and that gold bar. Now the gods are punishing me. The very next day after I flew to the earthmote, my fingers started to feel funny.”
“Kier, listen,” Torrin said. Gently, he lifted the boy’s chin. “That gold bar was yours by law. It was an honest find. You know what they say: ‘Delvers, keepers.’ I was there, too, and the stoneplague hasn’t touched me.”
“Of course not,” Kier said, meeting Torrin’s eyes briefly before glancing away again. “Because you’re…”
The unspoken word hung in the air between them for an uncomfortable moment.
“Human,” Torrin said at last, the word coming out as a sigh. In all those years, Kier had never once called him that.
Kier gave the slightest of nods, further twisting the dagger in Torrin’s heart. “Everyone knows the stoneplague only strikes dwarves,” he said.
Torrin opened his mouth to protest. But no words came. He was a dwarf, no question of that. Until that moment, he’d fully expected to eventually succumb to the disease. And yet, he was forced to admit, his body was indisputably human, and thus he likely would never have to fear the stoneplague. He…
“Moradin smite me,” Torrin cried as the implication struck home. “ That’s why he did it!”
Torrin’s sudden burst of wild laughter made Kier back up a step. “Uncle?” the boy asked. “Are you…?”
“Quite sane, I assure you,” Torrin said, wiping tears from his eyes. It was all clear to him: why Moradin had recast his dwarf soul in human form, why he’d sent Torrin that cryptic dream. Torrin was immune to the stoneplague. Immune. Yet he was a dwarf!
He knew his destiny, at last. He must save his people. But how?
Torrin stared across the room, thinking hard. He felt certain that the answer was buried somewhere in the dream he’d had. The runestone was a “puzzle,” the god had said, and the clue was that the runestone was gold. Molten gold. When Torrin had used the runestone, back in the Wyrmcaves, molten gold had dripped on his arm. Yet the more he twisted that fact back and forth, the more tangled the puzzle became.
Molten gold…
Gold bars with a counterfeit mark. Gold that had been melted down, and recast. Could that be the clue?
Torrin might not have figured out the entire puzzle yet, but a link had just fallen into place. He knew where to begin his search for answers: Sharindlar’s temple, in Hammergate.
“Don’t worry, Kier,” he said. “I’m going to find a way to cure you. I swear it. By Moradin’s beard, I will not rest until I do.”
Kier stared up at Torrin. Hope glimmered behind his tears. “I believe you, Uncle.”
Torrin passed through the gates that led from Eartheart proper to Hammergate, and started toward the temple of Sharindlar. In contrast to the near-empty corridors of Eartheart, Hammergate was bustling.
With the arrival of the stoneplague-not just in the Thunsonn clanhold, but in clanholds throughout the city-a significant number of its fifty thousand occupants had either fled or retreated behind their doors. Even when the general quarantine that had closed the city’s gates was lifted, those who had yet to succumb barricaded themselves inside their clanholds, barring the doors and refusing to emerge.
It was generally acknowledged that the stoneplague struck only dwarves, and the tallfolk were reaping the reward. Far and wide, the word spread about how the dwarves of Eartheart would pay good coin-no matter how steep the asking price-for food and water from outside the city, guaranteed not to have been touched by dwarf hands, delivered to their clanholds by tallfolk. In response, outlanders flocked to Eartheart like crows, drawn by the ready coin.
As he walked, Torrin passed nomads from the western Shaar, their breeches and felt hats dusty from the desert, leading pack-laden horses through the crowds. Elves from the Riftwood trod lightly in their in forest-dapple clothing, with small recurve bows strapped across their backs and bulging coin purses on their belts. Well-dressed merchants from the distant port city of Delzimmer, gold rings glittering in their ears, supervised gangs of packers whose ponies carried baskets of brilliantly colored textiles, aromatic lamp oils, exotic fruits from the south, and spiced cheeses made by those few halflings who’d survived Lurien’s deluge.
It was an open secret that neither rituals nor magical potions would cure the disease, yet people still sought magical preventatives or curatives. And the tallfolk were more than happy to supply them at grossly inflated prices. Perversely, those who sought out preventative blessings most avidly were typically the next to fall ill.
Every day, the stoneplague spread. Every day, dozens more fell ill. Torrin had observed, first hand, its dire results. Sometimes it started with the calcification of the eyes-slowly, the victim turned blind. Others seized up like arthritic old folk with brittle bones. Still others suffered as Kendril had-their skin grew crusty and flaked away like slate. Their gaping sores oozed blood the consistency of mud.
The Merciful
Maiden who’d attended Ambril that terrible night was right. The stoneplague seemed to pick its victims at random. A husband would fall ill, yet the wife who shared his bed remained unafflicted. In some clanholds, only one or two people succumbed; other clans saw one after another sicken. Strangely, the latter tended to be the wealthier families. It was as if the gods had suddenly decided to punish hard work and thrift.
Rumors about the cause of the stoneplague washed through the city like dirty tides. Some said it was spread by fleas; a purge of rats followed. Others blamed bad water or miasmic air; that prompted a steep climb in the price of drinking water and face scarves. One loremaster opined that it was a second flaring of the spellfire that had wreaked such havoc upon the land nearly a century before. As a result, still more families fled Eartheart, fearful of another collapse like the one that had taken Underhome.
So far, the stoneplague had nearly always struck adults. Only a handful of children had succumbed. That lent credence to the belief that the disease was Moradin’s will. Children, after all, were innocents, without sin in the eyes of the gods. Believing that the Morndinsamman were punishing the dwarves for flagging in their worship, people flocked to their temples and heaped offerings upon the altars. Yet still the stoneplague continued.
When Torrin reached Sharindlar’s temple, he had to knock several times at the front entrance before someone responded. The Merciful Maiden who opened the door was an older woman with an ample figure and long gray hair that hung loose against her back. Deep worry lines etched her forehead-deeper than before, no doubt, thanks to the stoneplague. Dark gray circles shadowed her eyes. Perhaps, Torrin thought with a shudder, it was the start of the stoneplague.
“If it’s healing you want, human, go elsewhere,” she said in a weary voice. “We have enough of our own to tend to.”
Torrin let that slide. “I’m not here for healing,” he said. “I need to speak to the Merciful Maiden named Maliira.” He gestured at his star-embossed bracer. “Tell her Torrin Ironstar is here, to discuss an urgent matter.”