The Lady Penitent

XVI. The Forge-Tender

Holland found herself deep in the underbelly of Dhir Daral, passing beneath the grinding gears and endless machinery that was the city of the dwarves. The heat here was almost unbearable and the air's smell was acrid from the smoke and fumes. It stung her eyes and made them water, but she felt reassured. They were far from pursuit now and Rust had relaxed noticeably. "So tell me of where we're going," she said curiously.

"The city has many forges, but once there was only one. All of their fires once came from the Heartforge," Rust explained. His walk was more of a hobble, bowed legs not wanting to support his weight. He took the pressure off them by grabbing supports and railings, using his powerful upper body to maneuver his crippled frame. "But it is more than just a forge. When every dwarf dies, their bodies are given over to it. The fires there possess an ancient soul, and all the memories of the dwarves who have come before us. If there were any way to convince the people of Dhir Daral of the rightness of your cause, it would be through the Heartforge. They will listen to its counsel over even the will of Olon Drunaast."

"And he is called the Forge-Tender because...?"

"A Forge-Tender is responsible for interpreting the will of the Heartforge," Rust said, glancing over at her. He seemed pleased by her inquiries, like he was a child sharing some special secret with her. Perhaps he was. She wasn't certain how many knew of the properties of this place they were going to. "Seldom does it provide its wisdom in a clear form. But I believe he has been twisting its words to suit his own purpose. It is not out of malice. Olon is...fearful. The fires there whisper of the great evil coming. He wishes to save our people. It is a noble goal, but fear can drive one to terrible mistakes."

Holland took a moment to absorb this. She was still furious with Olon for his treachery, but she supposed she could understand where he was coming from. The Imperium was a terrifying foe to be certain and perhaps an unbeatable one. The dwarves would not be the first people to try and align themselves with it. But invariably, ally became servitor. At least, that was her experience. "How do you know all this, Rust?" she asked curiously.

"Once my family were Forge-Tenders," the dwarf said. "But I was crippled as a boy and people do not have a high opinion of those who cannot work. A dwarf is measured by his crafts. I have no masterpiece to place my name upon. And so I rust away in the shadows, forgotten. I was not considered worthy to speak to the Heartforge." He sounded calm and collected, as if untroubled by the slights that life had given him.

"I'm sorry," Holland said quietly. She certainly knew what it was to be cast aside. "That must be difficult."

Rust chuckled. "It's as easy as falling. Life is a hammer and Dhir Daral is an anvil, and not every craft is a work of art," he said. "But that doesn't mean such pieces aren't useful—I too am a mechanism in Tek's great artifice. Besides, my father's father taught me some of the secrets of the Heartforge, giving me an inkling of its mysteries and its nature. Not a Forge-Tender's full knowledge, of course."

They wound their way deeper into the earth as they cut through the shadows of back passageways and hidden paths. Holland could feel something ahead, something that called to the sorcery in her own body. It was a deep resonance, deep and old, that hummed through her bones. It reminded her of being in Saraqael's presence, though perhaps this was even more ancient.

Rust stopped and turned to look at her. "I believe you when you say the demons cannot be bargained with," he said. "And I will not help sell the fate of the dwarves to the Princes of Iron, Holland. But the decision is not truly mine to make. The Heartforge has always spoken from our soul and its voice cannot be ignored. It will guide us now, as it has always guided us. You must trust me now, though I know Olon has made trusting a dwarf...difficult."