Borin Ironforge's Arc

Chapter 17 of 20

Gray's question hung in the hot air. What if he wasted good iron and Finn couldn't sell enough? Borin saw the fear settle into the boy's shoulders. The bar Gray had just mended trembled in his grip. He would not swing again. Not while every ruined piece felt like food stolen from Finn's table. Borin knew this fear. It had frozen his own hands as a young smith. He could not fix it with words. He needed to give the boy iron that cost nothing to spoil. "Set the hammer down," Borin said. Gray obeyed. Borin walked to the door and looked out at the ridge where the old mine sat. Its timber mouth leaned over a black passage. Goblins lived inside, but so did seams of raw ore, thick in the walls. "Your fear is the iron," Borin said. "So we get iron that isn't Finn's." Finn frowned. "The mine's dangerous. Goblins." A cool voice cut in from the yard. "Goblins are simple work." Aelindor stepped through the gate, cloak dusty, one hand raised in greeting. The elf had vouched for Finn before the whole town once. He owed this forge a debt, and he grinned like a man ready to pay it. "I heard the boy needs ore. I've fought worse than goblins for less." Borin studied him. Pride told him to refuse help. But Gray's frozen hands mattered more than pride. "You clear the way. We dig," Borin said. Aelindor drew his sword and nodded. They climbed to the mine at dawn. Aelindor went first through the dank passage, blade flashing. Two goblins rushed and fell. The rest scattered into the dark. Borin set Gray at a raw seam and pressed a pick into his hands. "This ore costs you nothing but sweat. Dig. Ruin it. Learn." Gray struck the wall. Stone cracked. A chunk of ore, gold-flecked and heavy, dropped into the bucket. He struck again, faster. The fear was gone from his face. He filled the bucket, then a second one, red hair matted with grime. Back at the forge, Borin fed the raw ore into the rebuilt chamber. The redesigned flue pulled the fire white-hot. The ore softened and ran. Gray watched metal pour that he had torn from the mountain himself. "It's mine," he said. "I can waste all of it and it's still just my sweat." "Now you'll try," Borin said. Gray took the hammer. He heated a fresh bar of his own smelting and swung without flinching. He bent it wrong. He heated it and mended it. He ruined the next and mended that too. He worked until dark, and not one piece came from Finn's stock. Borin watched the boy learn without fear at last. The obstacle was broken. But a full bucket of raw ore still sat by the door, and Aelindor lingered, restless, his eyes drawn back toward the black passage and whatever waited deeper in.