Rook Fenwall's Arc

Chapter 14 of 11

Rook pushed the bellows handle again. The coals brightened, then died back to dull red. He pumped harder. Air hissed out the side of the bag, not the nozzle. He crouched and found the seam. The leather had split down its length, cracked and dry from years by the cold forge. Every push leaked more air than it fed the fire. Thorin cursed and knelt beside him. He pressed the split with a thumb. "Rotten," he said. "No wonder the fire won't climb. You can blow till your arms fall off. Half the wind goes nowhere." He held the notched iron sword over the coals. The metal barely glowed. "I need white heat to seat the stone. This gives me red." Rook stared at the cracked bag. "Can it be patched?" "With what? I've no fresh hide down here." Thorin looked at Rook's armor, then away. "Iron won't stretch. Cloth burns. I need something tough. Something that holds air." Rook thought of the forest above. The tunnels crawled with beasts, but the grove held stranger things. He remembered a stag he had glimpsed near the ridge, days ago. Crystal horns, a hide sleek and thick. Deer skin was strong. Thick enough, maybe, to hold the wind. "There's a stag," he said. "Above. Its hide could serve." Thorin frowned. "You'd climb back up? The beast below could wake." "Then I go fast." Rook took the notched sword from the dwarf's hands. It was dull for cutting stone, but sharp enough for hide. He climbed toward the grove alone. The tiny dragons led him to the true leaves. Near the ridge he found the stag drinking from a pool. Its crystal horns caught the faint light. Rook moved slow, boots quiet on the moss. The stag lifted its head. Rook froze. It watched him a long moment, then bent again to drink. He crossed the last stretch and struck once. The blade went deep. The stag dropped without a cry. He skinned it there and rolled the hide tight. Back below, Thorin cut and stitched the leather over the broken bag. He worked fast, hands sure despite the chain scars on his wrists. "Better than the old skin," he muttered. "This'll hold." Rook gripped the handle and pushed. Air rushed clean through the nozzle. The coals flared. Orange became yellow, then white. Thorin buried the notched sword in the heat and watched it glow. "Now," the dwarf said. "Now we forge." He drew the blade out white-hot and set a shard of tunnel stone into the metal. His hammer fell in steady blows. Sparks flew. The stone bit into the iron and held. Rook worked the bellows without rest, sweat running down his arms, feeding the fire that would make his last weapon. When Thorin quenched the blade, steam roared to the ceiling. The dark iron cooled with strange ripples across its surface. The horror below still waited. But now Rook would meet it armed.