Tom Liberman - The Hammer of Fire

“I told the trade master that the Black Fire is running hot and that all shipments are delayed, but he wants you to tell him,” said Jorus and lowered his gaze.

Edorin nodded his head and put his hand to his beard. He wasn’t wearing his metal circlets as they tended to heat up too much down here in the bowels of the Maw where the Black Fire burned hottest. “I understand. I’ll be up shortly. Come here, Jorus, come and look upon the Black Fire.”

Jorus sighed deeply, closed his eyes, and hesitatingly walked forward towards Edorin. The heat was intense, and the boy put his hand in front of his face to try and ward off some of the power of the furnace below. He looked down upon the lava not for the first time and blinked in awe at the power. This was the source of all the wealth of Hot Rock. No one had managed to harness it until Edorin arrived some thirty years ago, before Jorus was born. Now they used it in the smithies to forge the great weapons that were in demand the world over. His wealth was assured for the future as long as Edorin stayed here in Hot Rock and tended the forge.

“What do you think,” said Edorin looking down upon the chaos below. The lava seemed to leap and shake as if trying to remove itself from the channel that contained it.

“The Black Fire runs hot,” said Jorus and blinked rapidly. “Very hot.”

Edorin’s gaze suddenly went far away and he said nothing.

“Is there anything I can do, Edos Edorin,” said Jorus breaking the long silence.

“No,” said Edorin. “Time is the only answer.”

“Time?” said Jorus.

Edorin smiled and his mind drifted back to the ancient wooden chest that contained a half white, half burned hammer haft and eight pieces of metallic slag that still burned to the touch. Or at least he assumed they still burned to the touch. He hadn’t seen them in over thirty years but they had stayed hot for two thousand years after Delius smashed the hammer. There was no reason to suspect that the last thirty years could change that immutable fact.

“Time?” repeated Jorus.

Edorin thought about the scroll in his room that when read would send a signal across the continent to dwarves waiting in the ancient citadel, now shamefully hidden again. This time it would be his family, the Firefists, who would free Craggen Steep from its second, self-imposed exile from the world. This time it was the Blackirons who held onto power like a lover holds the object of his affection. The signal would send his cousins scrambling to pack up the chest and send it south, here, to the Maw. “Yes, time.”

“I… I don’t understand,” said Jorus and lowered his head.

“The Black Fire runs hot,” said Edorin. “But not hot enough.”

“Hot enough for what?” said Jorus and looked at the dwarf with wide, blue eyes.

“Time,” said Edorin. “Soon,” he turned back towards the roiling fire. “Shadak was the first born of Gazadum you know, Jorus. In his essence is the key.”

“I don’t understand,” repeated Jorus and shrugged his shoulders.

“Soon,” said Edorin and turned away from the fire. “Soon you will. But now, let us go to the trade master and alleviate his concerns.”

Edorin and Jorus walked away from the cavern and though Jorus looked back frequently, Edorin only looked ahead.