Borin Ironforge's Arc

Chapter 4 of 20

The new tools lay clean on the bench. Finn came each morning and gripped his small hammer, but there was little to strike. Borin had no orders, no work to set before the boy. He watched Finn tap at cold scrap, then set the hammer down. A smith learns by doing real work, not by fiddling. Idle hands would let the boy's raw skill fade before it ever set. Borin knew this town held no rush of customers for a poor smith and a stable boy. So he decided to make the work himself. He would take Finn to the market square and offer repairs on the spot. People always broke hinges, pots, and blades. If Borin found jobs, Finn would have iron to shape and reasons to swing. They set up near the well with a small brazier and the anvil hauled on a cart. Borin called out. A woman brought a cracked kettle. A farmer needed a bent plow point straightened. Finn worked beside him, holding tongs, learning the heat. By noon coins clinked in the pouch, and the boy's hands moved surer with each fix. Then a shadow fell across the anvil. Derek Malone stood over them, a broad-shouldered boy with a shaved head and a chain looped at his belt. He was the town bully, and every child near the well drifted back when he came. He looked at Finn and grinned without warmth. "The stable boy plays at hammers now," Derek said. He kicked the cart. A finished hinge rolled into the dirt. "Should be shoveling dung, not pretending you're a craftsman." Finn's face went red. His hand tightened on the small hammer. Borin set a heavy palm on the boy's shoulder and held him still. "Let him talk," Borin said, low. "A hinge doesn't care who mocks it. It only cares if it holds." He picked the hinge from the dirt, blew it clean, and passed it to the waiting farmer. The man paid and nodded thanks. Derek's grin cracked. He had no answer for coin changing hands. Derek spat near the fire and shoved off through the crowd. Finn let out a shaking breath. "He's not wrong," the boy muttered. "They all think it." "They watched you fix that plow," Borin said. "Words are cheap. Work is proof." He handed Finn the next job, a snapped latch. The boy took it and set it in the coals. By dusk the pouch was full and the cart empty of broken things. Borin had his answer now. The forge did not need to wait for work to come. He would carry the work to the square each week, and Finn would learn on real iron, paid for by real hands. The boy had steady practice at last. But Derek had walked off angry, shamed before the crowd. Borin knew that kind of boy. The insult was settled. The grudge was not.