by Mel Odom
“It could have been caused by the heat of the forge,” Wick mused. “If the volcano that fed the forge didn’t erupt, that might explain it.”
“I was also told Master Oskarr’s forge was protected by magic,” Bulokk said. “I heard that a wizard put a protective glamour over the forge.”
“I don’t know about that,” Wick said. “Dwarves, as a general rule, don’t hold with magic.”
“But we’re inspired by luck at times,” Bulokk said. “I could see a dwarf wantin’ a bit of good luck for his forge, especially with his family’s fortunes an’ wellbeing tied to it.”
Only a short distance farther on, with Rohoh growing more excited with every step, Wick and the dwarves found themselves standing in front of an arched doorway that stood ten feet tall, an impressive height to a dwarf, though not so much to a human.
Engravings and writing stood out on the beautiful stonework. The engravings showed images of war and weapons, of brave warriors locked in battles where they’d just cut down enemies and ferocious beasts while dressed in beautiful armor and carrying splendid weapons.
The writing over the doorway simply bore the legend: Welcome to Master Oskarr’s Forge. If you’re a friend, you have nothing to fear. If you’re an enemy, may you die on one of our finely crafted weapons. Baldly stated, but there it was.
Inspired by their good fortune, the dwarves took fresh grips on their weapons and strode through the forge entrance. It was smaller than Wick thought it would be. From the descriptions of the forge, he’d believed it would be huge, a vast series of anvils, one after the other. It was said that Master Oskarr had an anvil for every piece of armor that he made. Of course, Wick had mistrusted that piece of information because dwarves learned how to make everything they ever wanted to primarily on one anvil.
Without the ringing of dwarven hammers against metal, the forge seemed surreal, unfinished. Cracks ran the length of the floor, testifying to the elemental forces that had ripped through the city as lava covered it. Despite the goblinkin’s orders to clean the area, gray ash still collected on most surfaces.
At the far side of the room, a pit of molten lava burned red-gold behind a cracked stone wall. The heat rolled over Wick and covered him in sweat at once. The lava stirred restlessly, like a baker’s bread dough, constantly folding into itself as the top cooled and the hotter liquid rock below bubbled up to take its place.
Anvils lay tumbled from the specially carved stone tables. Engravings decorated each of the tables, making each unique.
As if under some spell, the dwarves slowly made their way through the forge, touching each anvil and each stone table in awe. Mesmerized as well, Wick followed them. His quick hands darted over the engravings.
Unable to help himself, he took out his journal and began taking quick sketchings, but only of images that he didn’t recognize or couldn’t tie into one of the dwarven stories he’d been told. None of the dwarves even took an interest in him.
“We were sent here to get Master Oskarr’s battle-axe,” Rohoh said.
“I know,” Wick said. “But—but—this is history.” Journal in one hand and charcoal in the other, he gestured at the forge. “Can you even imagine the armor and weapons that came from this place? The blacksmiths that toiled here? Can you imagine what their lives were like? The hardships they had to endure?”
“Getting attacked by Lord Kharrion was probably pretty bad,” the skink mused. “Probably even worse than if the goblinkin and those thieves catch the lot of us down here in this forge.”
Wick craned his head around to face the skink. He focused on the lizard’s face, then remembered again the danger they were in. There was, after all, only one way out of the forge.
“Where is Master Oskarr’s axe?” Wick asked.
“There.” Rohoh pointed toward the bubbling lava.
“Where?”
“In the forge.”
Wick regarded the molten mass. “It can’t be. If the axe were in there, it’d be melted to slag by now.”
“It’s not.”
Although he didn’t want to believe it, Wick put his journal and charcoal away. Slowly, he made his way through the overturned anvils and studied the lava pit.
“Where are ye a-goin’, halfer?” Adranis growled.
“To find the axe,” Wick replied, his mind searching desperately for a way the skink’s words could be true. Even dwarven-forged iron couldn’t stand the heat of lava. Especially not a thousand years and more of it.
Wick’s announcement drew everyone’s attention. They abandoned whatever had distracted them and fell in with him. Close up to the rolling lava, the torches were no longer necessary because the bright glow filled the immediate surroundings.
“Where’s the axe?” Bulokk demanded.
“He says it’s in the forge,” Wick answered.
The expressions on the dwarven faces around him told him at once that they didn’t believe him.
Wick took an involuntary step back from them and pointed to the skink. “He’s the one saying it. Not me.”
Bulokk cursed. “Only a fool would believe that. Ain’t no way even Master Oskarr’s axe would escape bein’ burnt to a crisp.”
“It’s there,” Rohoh insisted. He slithered to the end of Wick’s arm, then sprang to the low lip of the retaining wall holding the molten lava back. “I smell it. And I’m never wrong.”
“Nobody’s ever never wrong,” Adranis said.
“Well,” the lizard mused, scratching his chin in thought, “there was that one time in the Wizard Ekkal’s treasure room that I was … incorrect. But how was I supposed to know that the Cup of Weligan had been turned into a person? I mean, that just hadn’t been done before. In the end, though, I was right and just didn’t know it.”
Together, Wick and all the dwarves peered closely into the lava pit. Wick got so close the heat nearly blistered his face. Tears filled his eyes and dropped into the lava. They hissed into steam before they even reached the molten rock.
Suddenly, Drinnick yelped. He danced away from the lava pit, flailing with his free hand at the flames in his beard from where he’d gotten too close. The smell of burning hair filled the air. By the time he’d reduced the flames to smoking patches, his once beautiful beard was a charred mess.
Angry, he raised his axe and strode toward Rohoh. “Ye vexin’ little varmint! Why I oughtta pound ye into jelly, I should! An’ mayhap I will at that!”
“Wick!” the lizard squeaked, scampering along the wide lip of the retaining wall.
“You’re on your own,” Wick told the skink.
With incredible athletic ability, the lizard leaped and caught hold of the smooth wall. His claws managed to find precarious holds and he scampered up toward the roof and stopped out of Drinnick’s reach. He stuck his tongue out, cursed, and waved a threatening clawed fist.
Wick ignored them and turned his mind to solving the puzzle. If Rohoh was right, and there was no reason other than logic that dictated the skink was wrong, then Master Oskarr’s axe lay somewhere in the lava pit.
“What are ye a-lookin’ fer?” Bulokk asked.
“Aren’t there tongs somewhere?” Wick asked. “Isn’t the metal heated and softened by plunging it into the lava?”
“Aye,” Bulokk said. “That’s one of the secrets of a lava pit. Fire-hardenin’ the metal is a lot easier.” He started looking around as well. “An’ they did use tongs. An’ a sieve in case somethin’ were dropped.” He raised his voice and gave orders to his men to find those tools.
They scattered with their torches. Even Drinnick abandoned his pursuit of the skink to help.
15
Unwanted Truth
The tools, tongs, and the sieve—all equipped with long metal poles encased with wooden handgrips at with end—metal poles encased with wooden handgrips at the end—were quickly found. Bulokk and some of the others began sorting through the lava pit, but they had to frequently stop because even with the wooden grips to cut down on the he
at transfer, the metal got too hot.
Hodnes was even able, through the use of padded gloves and iron will, to leave one set of tongs in so long that the metal turned liquid and dripped off at the end. The other dwarves cursed and slapped Hodnes for ruining one of their tools.
“It’s no use, halfer,” Bulokk said after a while. “If that axe is in there, it ain’t comin’ out.” He spat. “This is a fool’s errand, is what it is. I just hope them prisoners got away of a piece.”
And I hope we can do the same, Wick thought. “The axe has got to be there.”
“It can’t be here,” Rassun said, coming over to them. “I tell ye, them goblinkin’s been all over this area. After them Burrowers uncovered this part of the city, especially when they found the forge, they went over every inch of it. If Master Oskarr’s axe had been here, they’d have found it.”
Wick’s mind examined all the angles, looking for a lever. He lifted his torch and gazed at the anvils. “Where is Master Oskarr’s anvil?”
“Over here.” Bulokk led the way to one of the anvils.
Rather than the pristine thing he’d thought it would be, Wick saw a battered, much-used anvil sitting on the floor. The anvil arms were still straight, and every line looked as though it planed true. But stamped on the sides, the design still bravely cut, was Master Blacksmith Oskarr’s forge mark. The design showed a hammer upright over an anvil, declaring the owner to be a full master of title and rank, with Oskarr’s name and the Cinder Clouds Islands symbol below.
“Where’s his table?” Wick asked when he found that the anvil was devoid of further illustration. Evidently Master Oskarr hadn’t cared much for bragging.
A quick search ensued before Adranis found the table. “Here,” he called.
The table lay on its side. A corner was chipped from it, but otherwise it was unharmed. Soot and ash covered much of its surface.
After tearing a sleeve from his shirt, Wick set to work cleaning all the images.
“Is there anythin’ there about the Battle of Fell’s Keep?” Bulokk demanded.
“No,” Wick answered. And he couldn’t help thinking how strange that was. Had Master Oskarr deliberately chosen not to reveal anything about that fight? Were the rumors true? The little Librarian sincerely hoped not.
Then, in small writing around the edge of the table, barely discernible in the torchlight, Wick found the newest entry, dated over a thousand years ago.
“What is it ye’ve found?” Bulokk knelt beside the little Librarian.
“This is the last entry on the table,” Wick said. “It’s written in an archaic dwarven tongue. The old language of the Ringing Iron Clan in the Iron Hammer Peaks.”
“Master Oskarr’s ma was from the Ringing Iron Clan,” Bulokk said. “But I never heard of the Iron Hammer Peaks.”
“They’re called the Broken Forge Mountains now,” Wick said idly. He translated the inscription with no little difficulty. The Ringing Iron Clan had always been small. “In addition to destroying Teldane’s Bounty—which is now renamed the Shattered Coast—Lord Kharrion also made a deal with the dragon Shengharck to take over the Iron Hammer Peaks. The dragon lived there.” He paused, remembering the dragon’s treasure lair at the heart of the volcano where he and Cobner had fought for their lives. “Until very recently.”
“The Ringing Iron Clan worked metal in volcanoes as well,” Bulokk said.
“Yes.” Wick nodded. “But they were never as successful as the Iron Hammer Peaks Clan. Many of the Ringing Iron Clan was apprenticed by the Iron Hammer Peaks Clan.”
“That’s how Master Oskarr’s ma was born out here,” Bulokk said. “But all I knew was that a few dwarven blacksmiths from near Teldane’s Bounty ended up on the shores of the Cinder Clouds Islands. I don’t remember anything being said about the Iron Hammer Peaks.” He leaned in closer to Wick. “Can ye read it then, halfer?”
Satisfied with his translation, Wick started over at the beginning and read aloud in his best voice. “‘Let it be known that we are facing the end. Lord Kharrion has come calling for us, and we are all prepared to die this day. Let none say there were cowards among us, because we all stand prepared to shed our life’s blood fighting the Goblin King. We are not merely blacksmiths, but we are warriors, too.’”
“Aye,” Bulokk whispered, “they was. An’ fierce ones, too.”
“‘I fought Lord Kharrion’s forces at the Battle of Fell’s Keep.’” Wick’s heart raced as the translation came faster and easier. “‘There we were betrayed.’”
“They was betrayed!” Bulokk said. “There’s proof enough fer ye that it wasn’t Master Oskarr who betrayed the Unity!”
Wick didn’t agree with that assessment, but he wisely kept his thoughts to himself. He wasn’t fleet of foot enough to scamper to the top of the room as Rohoh had been. He continued with the translation.
“‘My axe,’” Wick read, “‘that I forged myself under the watchful eye of my da, Master Blacksmith Farrad, was cursed during that battle.’”
“Cursed!” Bulokk exploded. He grabbed Wick roughly by the shoulder and shook him, feet dangling above the ground. “What do ye mean the axe was cursed?”
Out of self-defense, Wick grabbed onto the dwarf’s big hand. “I don’t know. I’m just reading this part, too.” He looked into Bulokk’s eyes and saw the fear and hatred there, whipped into flames by the orange glow of the lava furnace. “Let me finish, Bulokk. This is what I do. For good or ill, this is what I can do.”
“I don’t want to hear Master Oskarr’s good name sullied,” Bulokk said harshly. His statement was a threat in Wick’s ears.
“I know,” Wick whispered. “I don’t know what that inscription says, but I could lie to you.” He paused. “If that’s what you want.” Hanging above the ground as he was, the little Librarian had to admit to himself that he’d have told the dwarven leader anything he wanted to hear at that moment.
Adranis stepped forward and put an arm around Bulokk. He looked at the younger dwarf and spoke calmly. “Is that what ye want, Bulokk? A lie? Even if it’s a good one?”
Bulokk didn’t take his eyes from Wick. “This was a mistake,” the dwarf choked out. “We shouldn’t ever have come here.”
“Likely as not, there’s a lot of freed slaves out there that don’t feel all we done this night was for naught,” Adranis said. “We done forged some good outta tonight. Freed them prisoners. Killed some goblinkin. No matter what else happens, we done that.” He took a measured breath. “Now ye decide what ye want: the truth or the lie. An’ try not to scare this little halfer so much that he ain’t got him enough backbone to give ye the truth if it is bad.”
Wick hung helplessly at the end of Bulokk’s arm. Where are Craugh and One-Eyed Peggie? It can’t get any worse than this!
Slowly, Bulokk uncurled his fingers and let Wick drop to the stone floor. The little Librarian’s knees were shaking so bad that he fell on his rump.
“The truth then, halfer,” Bulokk growled. “An’ I’ll know if ’n ye try to lie to me.”
“The truth,” Adranis said, reaching down to help Wick to his feet. “Bulokk’s made of stern stuff. He can take it.”
Trembling, Wick turned back to the inscription. He traced his finger along it, finding his place. “‘I didn’t know about the curse till later,’” Wick read. “‘We were too busy escaping, running for our lives after the sickness took so many of us and rendered so many others unable to fight. Then, back on the Cinder Clouds Islands and once more in this forge, I began to have nightmares of Lord Kharrion. He and others whom I can’t name tried to talk to me. Every day their voices became more clear.’”
Bulokk growled.
Wick lifted his hands, covering his head and thinking that wouldn’t truly help because then his head would be lopped off only with his hands holding onto it. He closed his eyes.
The blow didn’t come.
“Continue,” Adranis stated quietly, stepping up to place himself between Wick and Bulokk.
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Wick didn’t know if Adranis was there to reassure him, which it did, a little, or to stop Bulokk in case he couldn’t control himself—which kind of wiped out all the reassurance. He turned back to the inscription, driven as much by curiosity as survival.
“‘Afraid of the nightmares, I tried to destroy the axe,’” Wick went on. “‘You will never know how hard this was to contemplate, let alone try to accomplish. The axe, my axe, would not break or bend on my anvil no matter how hard I tried. The magic that had infected it had become too much a part of it.’”
Silence hung over the dwarves. Wick was certain that none of them could imagine trying to destroy something they had worked so hard to make. That was a true horror for them, and the curse only made the story more horrific.
“‘In despair, I sank the axe into the lava furnace and hoped that Lord Kharrion’s forces wouldn’t find it there. The axe,’” Wick read, “‘was one of the main reasons the goblinkin invaded the Cinder Clouds Islands.’”
“They came fer the axe,” Hodnes said.
“An’ they’re still here today a-lookin’ fer it,” Drinnick said.
The fact amazed them all.
There is so much Craugh didn’t tell me about this task, Wick thought. But he focused on the words and continued his translation. “‘Years ago, my da, Master Blacksmith Farrad, made home of this forge to an elemental being named Merjul. He is a fire elemental, one of those few oddities that exist even after the Darkling Times that came before Lord Kharrion, when it was said the Old Ones warred and destroyed several of the worlds they had created.’”
“An elemental?” one of the dwarves whispered. “There’s no tellin’ what one of them things will do. Likely as not, it’ll melt ye down in yer tracks as look at ye.”
Wick sincerely hoped not because he knew Bulokk wouldn’t be able to let the matter rest. “‘Unless Merjul has died in Lord Kharrion’s attack, he will still remain there. If you are of my blood, if you know the names of your ancestors, then you may call upon Merjul and he will bring you the axe from the fiery depths. Have a care, though, for the axe is cursed. My only wish is that you find a way to free it because it is the most beautiful weapon I’ve ever hammered out upon my anvil.’” He looked up at Bulokk. “It’s signed, ‘Master Blacksmith Oskarr.’”
