Legends of Belariath

Swiftwolf

Quest for a Mithrilsmith

It had been several months since his return from his journey to learn blacksmithing, and in that time SwiftWolf had learned a considerable amount about the working of iron. While most of his work remained piled in the corners of the forge, occasionally there were those that found their way to others hands, like the work of Faux armor that he had made for the elf. His lips curled up slightly as he continued to pound against the white hot iron, remembering the curves and scarred flesh that he had enjoyed several times. His lips narrow again as he turns his concentration back to his work, unknowing of the sylvan elf that had slipped in while he worked, watching the hammer rise and fall again and again. The next time the smith quenched the iron in the brine the clearing of a throat pulled his attention from his working, turning to see the male standing in the doorway. A ranger it seemed, the elf cloaked in earthen tones, a light rapier appeared to be attached to his belt, a bow slung over his shoulder. SwiftWolf turned his attention back to the iron, thrusting it into the bellows to heat again as he turned, speaking in a rough voice as he crossed his arms over his chest, “Can I help?”

The sylvan returned the barbarians cool stare before taking a few steps deeper into the forge, his hand going to his belt and drawing his rapier from the belt at his waist. The blacksmith’s eyes narrowed, fingers tightening around the haft of the hammer, but something seemed wrong about the way the blade glinted in the glow of the flames. The sylvan’s voice was soft, almost musical as he addressed the barbarian, “I need this repaired,” and the blade was lowered onto the anvil.

SwiftWolf immediately noticed the problem, it was rather obvious with the chunk of metal missing from the blade, but the way it glowed signaled that the blade was not of the steel that he was used to working with. His eyes narrowed as he looked closer, releasing his hammer so he could closer inspect the blade and the metal it was made of, before speaking in a low growl, “Mithril?”

The sylvan nodded, taking a step back, watching the smith inspect the weapon. Watching as the calloused hands easily flipped the blade back and forth, inspecting it in excruciating detail, before looking upwards again, “Can you help?”

The barbarians cold green stare turned to the sylvan, and then shook his head, “Mithril…no” the words the only ones he could find to explain then his response given, he turned back to his work, pulling the now heated iron, the sound of Metal on metal soon filling the forge once again. The slight smile on the sylvan’s lips not noticed, nor his departure several minutes later, the smith absorbed in his work and his thoughts.

Nearly a week later the sylvan was leaning against the Naked bird, sheltered from the elements by his cloak and the overhang, when the large shape of the barbarian passed. The barbarian appeared to be dressed for travel, with his leather vest and trousers, leather boots as well, a pack of something resting on his back and his hammer strapped under it. It did not appear as if he noticed the sylvan, and when he passed the sylvan chuckled softly and turned, disappearing into the forest.

SwiftWolf had no clear destination in mind, but he figured the mountains would be a good place to begin, dwarves always having been known for their work with rocks and metals. His supplies started to run out near the foothills, and he was forced into the small farming villages to get more, keep his lips shut and his ears open as much as possible, learning of the dwarves that traveled through the village occasionally on their way to sell their wares. After a few days, with his pack bulging once again he moved down the wooden road, moving deeper into the foothills, and then into the mountains. His supplies continued to steadily dwindle, until his pack was empty, forced to live off the land. But even what he could get from the land slowly dwindled, and then he was forced to seek refuge in a cave as a storm hit the side of the mountain making travel impossible. He was there for several nights, with no food, and only the water he could get from the snow that fell outside, and on the fourth night when he awoke he was greeted by warmth, and a yellow glow.

Blinking in the soft light he turns his head, arms pulling out from under the course blanket that had been tossed over him, staring in confusion at the obscenely low ceiling, the rough earthen texture. His eyes shifted upwards to stare directly at the ceiling again, when the ugliest face he had ever seen loomed into view, shadows playing across a thick beard, and a large flat nose. Sunken earthen eyes sparkling in the light. The barbarian nearly slammed his fist into the dwarves face before he realized what he was, clearing his throat awkwardly, “Wh….where am I?”

The dwarf chuckled, filling the blacksmiths face with the scent of alcohol before backing away. “You sir, are in the dwarven mountains…”

The barbarian sat up, the blanket falling to his waist revealing the fact that his clothes and items had been removed when they had brought him here, his eyes move quickly about the room and nod slightly when he notices them clean, his voice was rough, croaking from his dry throat, “D…drink…” and the dwarf grinned broadly, at the barbarian, thrusting that he had been carrying to him, “That’s my boy!”

The barbarian’s nose wrinkled, but his throat demanded attention and he took a long pull from the bottle, eyes widening as the fire burned down his throat, coughing as the dwarf laughed and pounded him on his back, “It’s strong!!”

SwiftWolf had started on the right foot though, the dwarves liking the tall bald stranger, laughing as he moved clumsily through halls built far to small, and when he choked and sputtered on the strong drinks that burned his throat. They humored him and let him watch as they went about their daily lives, some of the smiths noticing that he hung out around the forges more than any of the other craftspeople, eyes watching in concentration as they worked their metals. It was over a week before his rough voice broke into their work, beginning to ask questions, questions only one experienced with the hammer and anvil would be interested in knowing.

At first the dwarves were weary, giving general answers that did nothing to satiate the barbarians burning desire for knowledge. It was several days later when he brought his own hammer down to the forge, unable to sit idle any longer, and claiming a forge in an unused part of the room started to work once more. No longer did he ask questions, he let himself become absorbed in his work. He did not get to work with the metal he had come here to learn, that was guarded to closely but the dwarves did not bother him as he worked with the iron, slowly forging various items with the metal that he knew best. While none of the work matched to what the master dwarves smiths could accomplish , it showed enough of his skill that the dwarves relaxed slightly, watching him work, and taking small tricks that he had learned to add to their repertoire. In passing some of the master smiths gave him pointers that they had learned, and were surprised when he did not scoff at their work as they expected but rather worked to blend their techniques into his. Over the next few months he was slowly ingrained into the dwarves forge, one of the master smith’s taking him under his wing. Slowly, day by day he learned more from the smith, till he was able to work the iron with a precision he had not thought possible before.

Over the next month the smiths seemed to become more agitated, some bickering among themselves, a slight rift seeming to form as something was discussed. The blacksmith noticed but did not let it bother him, continuing with his studies under the dwarf. Finally the matter seemed resolved as the master smith brought SwiftWolf to the forge one day. There was no one there save the three master smiths, and they were very serious. “Today…” one began, but no further words made it from his mouth, unable to continue, the next picking up where he had left off, “Today you begin your training with…” the third continuing from there, “Mithril!” and with the word the first smith grasped the tongs that were near him, pulling a white hot rod of the metal from the forge, the rod spinning through the air as it was tossed, the barbarian instinctively grabbing it, both hands wrapping around it. Then the three smiths were there, their hands closing over his keeping him from pulling away as the heat drove out all thought from his mind, a cry of pain burning the air from his lungs, the faces of the dwarves filling his vision, their combined voices in unison filling his mind, “These secrets are the dwarves. You will not release them unless we allow you. This knowledge we impart is the dwarves, You join us by learning. This pain is the dwarves, and will be shared by us all.” The words imprinting them in his mind, the pain subsiding as it spread among the three dwarves as well. After what seemed like an eternity reality started to reform around the barbarian, the mithril rod held in tongs, his hand screaming in pain as it wrapped around the steel handles, his other hand felt each detail of the haft of his hammer as it clutched it through burnt skin, feeling it fall, hearing the sound of metal on metal as he struck the mithril for the first time…

Over the next months his hands healed, the flesh wrapped in bandages as he learned about mithril. After that first strike he did not get to touch the metal with a hammer again for several months, his instruction was on the feel of the metal in his hands and how it should look, the weight, the texture, everything on how to choose it. Then he learned on how mithril was different from iron. How blows made against iron would destroy mithril, and vice et versa. How mithril bent and pulled differently. It was nearly two months when he was able to pull the bandages off for the last time, his eyes inspecting his hands carefully, lips curled down slightly as he noticed the hammer and anvil burned permanently into his palms….Finally he was able to put to practice what he had learned, and practice he had plenty of. For twelve hours a day, six days a week he worked under the careful eyes of the master smiths, learning everything he could. It was nearly a full year later when they finally decided that the only way he could learn more was to practice it himself in his own forge, everything they could teach having been taught. Within a month SwiftWolf was packed, his belt filled with new tools as he prepared to leave, Scowling darkly nearly everywhere he went, his own way to deal with the loss of the new community he had been brought into, but he knew, and the dwarves knew it was his time to move on. The dwarves led him through the caves and to the base of the mountain setting him on the path back towards Nanthalion where he would be able to once again resume his work as a smith there, but now with a new knowledge…the ability to work with mithril….

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