Borin Ironforge's Arc

Chapter 9 of 20

The gold sat in Borin's pouch, but the ore still mocked him from the corner. He had the work and the coin. He did not have the fire. All night he stoked his forge until the coals glowed white. He shoved a lump of ore into the hottest part and waited. The lump held its shape. It would not soften. Borin cursed and let the fire die. His forge would never smelt this rock. He needed a furnace built for it. At dawn Finn came in and saw the failed lump on the anvil. "Still won't melt," the boy said. It was not a question. Borin nodded. "My fire tops out too low. This ore wants a furnace ten times hotter." Finn frowned at the sack. "Then who has one?" Borin remembered a place at the edge of the valley. A refinery run by orcs, tall stacks pouring smoke, furnaces burning day and night. He had passed it once and never gone near. Most men crossed the road to avoid it. "Get your boots," Borin said. "We carry the ore ourselves." They found the building humming with heat. Chutes clanked. Furnaces roared behind iron grates, their fire orange and endless. A broad orc stepped down a ladder to meet them, a heavy hammer resting on one shoulder. His tusks showed when he grinned. "Smiths," he said, eyeing Borin's scarred hands. "Not customers we get often." He was not what Borin expected. His voice was warm, almost glad. Borin set the sack down and opened it. "Mine ore," he said. "My forge can't touch it. Yours can." The orc knelt and rolled a lump between two fingers. He held it to the light. "Stubborn stuff," he said. "Needs real heat. We have that." He named a price for the smelting. It was fair. Borin counted out coin from the hero's gold. The orc waved them onto the platform to watch. He dumped the ore down a chute into the biggest furnace. The fire swallowed it. Finn pressed close to the grate, his face lit orange, his mouth open. Borin watched the boy more than the fire. Hours passed. The orc drew off the melt and poured it into molds. It cooled into clean gray bars. He lifted one and passed it to Finn. "Your metal," he said. Finn held it in both hands. It was warm and heavier than iron. Real steel, from the ore he had dug himself. "We can start now," Finn said. His voice shook. Borin took a bar and turned it over. The metal was good. The hero's blade could finally begin. But this steel had not come from his own fire. He had solved the heat by paying another smith to do what he could not. The forge back home still could not smelt. That gap would stay until he closed it himself. For now, he had bars, and a boy ready to shape them.