Borin Ironforge's Arc

Chapter 3 of 20

The next morning Finn came early, ready to make his ten nails. Borin handed him the tongs and the hammer. But the boy's hand swallowed neither well. The tongs were made for Borin's thick fingers. The hammer haft was as wide as Finn's wrist. Finn gripped it, and the head wobbled on the downswing. His first nail bent sideways. His second slipped from the tongs and rolled into the coals. "It won't hold still," Finn said. He shook out his aching hand. Borin took the hammer back and turned it in the firelight. He had forged these tools for himself, a lifetime ago. Every one was sized for a dwarf's grip. The boy could not learn the craft with tools that fought him. Skill meant nothing if the hand could not close on the handle. "Set the fire high," Borin said. "We're not making nails today." Finn stared. "Then what?" "Your own tools." Borin pulled a bar of iron from the scrap bucket. "A smith who can't hold a hammer is no smith. So we build hands that fit yours." He heated the bar until the tip glowed. Then he wrapped Finn's fingers around the cold end and had the boy squeeze. He marked where each finger fell. "That's your grip," Borin said. "Iron remembers it now." They worked through the morning at the old forge. The fire roared behind its scorched stone arch. Borin drew a thin haft on the anvil, half the width of his own. He let Finn hold each piece and say if it sat right. When the boy shook his head, they heated it again. Sweat ran down both their faces. By midday they had a small hammer. The head was light. The haft was thin and smooth. Borin dropped it hissing into the water and lifted it out. "Try it," he said. Finn closed his hand around the new haft. His fingers met clean, no gap, no strain. He raised it and brought it down on a scrap of hot iron. The blow landed square. He struck again. The rhythm held. "It fits," Finn said. His smile broke wide. "It fits my hand." They shaped tongs next, narrow at the grip, and a punch the boy could hold without pain. By dusk Finn had a full set on the bench, each one sized for him alone. He ran his thumb along the small hammer like it was made of gold. Borin watched and felt the craft settle a little deeper into the boy. But a new weight pressed on him. Good tools cost iron, and iron cost coin. He had spent a day's stock on this set and would spend more as the boy grew. The scrap bucket sat near empty now. Finn could grip a hammer at last. Feeding the forge that fed the boy was the next problem, and Borin had no answer for it yet.