Echoes of Harmony

Constellation Forge

Druthagon Orbit

16 Malmir’s Scourge, 5T5

Billowing smoke filled the room housing the Constellation Forge. Sweltering heat emanated from the center where a furnace with a twenty meter diameter sat. The smell of sulfur was heavy in the air. Fire danced through the open mouth of a Dwarven face, its wizened features staring unceasingly ahead. Within, hundreds of coals were arranged in a single layer to form a massive bed. Near the middle, with flames dancing around them, sat two ceramic crucibles. Each was full of a silvery blue liquid metal, some of the finest mithril to come out of the crust of Druthagon.

Belin Forgebellow smiled as he used a long pair of tongs to grip the side of one of the containers. Carefully, he pulled it towards him. Not a single drop could be spilled. Doing so would doom him and his family to the Tunnels of Krokir for eternity.

Once the crucible reached the Dwarf’s mouth, he set it down on the edge. He switched to a smaller pair of tongs and clamped them to the sides. Slowly, he carried it to the block mold sitting ready nearby. With a steady hand, Belin poured the molten mithril in, watching as it filled every gap and crevice. It hissed at him as it went. Blue sparkles akin to sapphires crystallized in the pool of metal, indicating it was correctly heated to precisely three thousand five hundred and twenty-six degrees on the Forgeheat Scale. Even twenty degrees higher and the bonds within the metal would have broken down, preventing the crystals from manifesting properly. Twenty lower, and they would not have tempered enough in the forge to appear and remain, fading to obscurity after a few moments removed from the heat.

Forgebellow returned to the furnace and used the tongs once more to grab the other vessel. This one was slightly less demanding, put in when the other was halfway complete. Though it did not require the same temperature, it needed no less care. Just a single misstep would result in the entire process falling apart. That would mean a delay he could not afford, not with the astral lords breathing down his neck to produce the Mithril Hammer. Not when failure would have meant his exile or execution.

He poured the second crucible into a mold for a handle. It sizzled and hissed as it entered, already beginning to cool. As it did so, the same sparkles that appeared in the head did not manifest here. However, that was not an issue; in fact, it would have been a failure if the crystallization did develop.

Forgebellow carefully lifted the handle mold and set it aside, putting in on a shelf at the exterior of the room. Returning to the block mold, he found it mostly solidified as expected. He grabbed a chisel and hammer from a nearby shelf. Inserting the former into a narrow opening at the side of the mold, he swung the hammer against it. With a crack, the mold split apart. The block of mithril hit the table with a thud.

Grabbing the tongs again, he gripped the block and inspected it. Not a speck was out of place. It was the perfect size. Some of the crystalline portions had dimmed somewhat, but they were still present. That, combined with the countless others still vibrant and visible, was all that mattered.

He brought the block back to the fire, placing it on the bed of coals and watching as it heated up once more. Whether it was seconds or minutes he waited, he didn’t know. The fire of the forge quickly brought it back up to temperature. A orange glow emanated from the center. It slowly spread outward until the entire block as encompassed.

Pulling it back, Forgebellow brought it to an anvil just a few steps away. Measuring ten meters from heel to horn, it was the largest still in use by the Druthagar Kingdom. Emblazoned on the side was a crown—the crown, that worn by the High King. Hanging next to this was a set of tools, each carefully polished. A hardy hole sat near the heel. The feet at the base resembled the claws of one of the draak, what the Humans called dragons, that once ruled the skies of Druthagon. Before the atmosphere became too thick from the smoke of a thousand thousand forges. Before only heavily armored dwarves and automatons were allowed on the surface. Forgebellow would give anything for the chance to see one of the magnificent beasts in their prime.

With his free hand, he grabbed the hammer hanging on the side of the anvil and felt its weight. It was familiar to him after nearly two centuries of tending the forges. Just like him, it had seen its fair share of metal. Now, perhaps, was time for nearly its most important job.

Forgebellow set the block on top of the anvil. He held it in place with the tongs, making sure to lock them to keep the block from sliding. With an echoing bang, he brought the hammer down. Pieces of glowing metal flew from the sides. They sizzled on the ground. They splattered against his apron.

Slowly, the block shortened and widened. He turned it every few swings, ensuring the shaping of the metal was even. The echoing of his hammer against the metal continued for several minutes. Each swing brought it closer to the desired form. Finally, it was a perfectly rectangular prism the precise size dictated by the ancient customs. The edges were chamfered slightly, each one the exact same angle.

Forgebellow set the shaped metal on the anvil and measured it before making a mark at the midway point down the length. He did the same for the width, finding the center. Then he turned it over and did it again.

When both sides were marked, he took a punch and hammered it against the midpoint until a small indentation was made. Satisfied, he returned it to the forge. Once more, he waited for it to heat up, watching as it slowly glowed brighter. Eventually, it was the proper temperature, and he pulled it from the fire.

He returned it to the anvil, ignoring the beads of sweat that snaked down the sides of his head. It wouldn’t be proper for him to acknowledge them. The ritual dictated he didn’t stop for such a paltry notion as wiping them away. Doing so would be disrespectful to not only Movrim but also Krumdar, the Lighter of Forges. No smith dared go against him.

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Pulling one of the punches from the side of the anvil, he placed it against the indent he made. After lining it up with the hardy hole in the anvil, he brought the hammer down. The punch pushed through part of the softened metal, digging halfway down. Either side of the head bulged out slightly. He swung again. It went deeper and through the other side. Using a pair of tongs, he pulled the punch out then turned the metal over. He repeated the process on the opposite end.

After several passes, when he was sure the hole was uniform, he put the block again in the forge to heat. The effort and care put into the Mithril Hammer was what made it so special. It was every smith’s dream to be able to craft the weapon, though very few ever saw the opportunity to do so. Forgebellow knew what an honor it was that he was one of those lucky enough.

Once it reached the proper temperature, he immediately pulled it from the forge and brought it back to the anvil. He placed the punch in the hole and hammered the bulging sides back into place. Flecks of molten metal shaved off the sides and fell to the ground. The block darkened as it cooled. Slowly, the sides expanded where the hole sat, overhanging the bottom though not blocking the hole. Using a brush, he swept away some of the excess mithril.

He continued the process, crafting each dimension of the hammer head to the precise measurements necessary. Much could go wrong. Too hard, too soft, too large, too small, and he would go afoul of the ancient ritual. Then, he’d be denied entry to the Halls of Movrim.

But it was perfect. It was precisely as dictated by custom, one that had not been followed in hundreds of years. He put the head back in the forge, waiting for the metal to soften before pulling it back out. Setting it on the anvil, he pulled a chisel and small hammer from the side of it. The forging of the Mithril Hammer was not just about beating the metal into submission. It was about breathing life into it, shaping not just with fire and strength, but with heart.

His hands moved deftly over the surface of the hammer head as he carved ancient Dwarven runes into the metal. It was now—and only now—that he was allowed to add his own personal touch to the hammer. Every Mithril Hammer crafted included unique runes, ones that spoke to what the crafter felt held the most meaning. Each needed to be as precise as the last, etched with care and patience taught to him over a lifetime of hard work.

“Honor. Strength.” Each word meant something different to every citizen of the kingdom. Together, though, all knew it was what made a Druthagar a Druthagar. “Loyalty. Resilience. Peace.”

His speaking in the old tongue echoed in the otherwise quiet chamber. Only the sound of the forge’s bellows mingled with it. With the completion of each rune, it glowed brightly for a moment before dimming again.

Finally, once the etching was complete, he returned the head to the fire once more. The flames danced around the runes, causing them to blaze with light. Ancient magic. Something Forgebellow didn’t pretend to understand. Unlike Thaseas Shadowbrand, who acted as if it waited for him to call upon it.

Forgebellow resisted the urge to sit. It would not be proper. Doing such would be admitting to the gods he was either lazy, bored, or both. Instead, he stared into the fire and allowed it to stare back at him. There was a certain serenity that came from watching the flames. It felt as if they spoke directly into his soul. The destructive nature mingled with one of beauty and creation, combining into one diametrically opposed entity.

After several minutes, the head was ready to be removed. He grabbed the tongs from their hook and clamped them on the metal. It glowed brightly, perhaps more than before now that the runes added their own luminosity. Setting it on the anvil, he surveyed his work. The sapphire-like sparkles were sporadic, as expected. Each angle, each chamfer, was precise to the nanometer, that he knew. Even the runes were perfectly drawn. Not a single fleck of metal out of place.

Satisfied, he grabbed the mold holding the handle of the hammer. It was still warm to the touch. However, it brought a frown to Belin’s face. He had taken slightly too long in crafting the hammer; the metal was too cool to shape properly. It would need to be returned to the forge, which he did with a certain amount of regret and shame filling his body. It was expected for the handle to not return to the fire. Doing so could weaken its integrity. There was no other choice, however. It would be a greater dishonor and imperfection if it were not crafted to the precise dimensions.

As he watched, a faint sparkle began to show in the handle. A sparkle indicating the crystallization reaction started. If it continued, Forgebellow would have failed in his duty and be condemned for the rest of his life at best, executed at worst.

Panicking, he pulled a lever to the side of the opening. Immediately, the bellows stopped pumping air into the coals. Another lever pulled widened the vent at the top of the forge, allowing more of the heat to escape through the roof. He grabbed a shovel and pushed some of the coals to the side, away from the handle. The sparkling stopped spreading and slowly dissipated. Forgebellow breathed a sigh of relief.

Pulling the handle out with the set of tongs, he moved to a belt grinder. A series of gears connected to the crank, allowing for a change in mechanical advantage necessary to allow the belt to move at the high speeds required for the next step. While the technology existed to automate the next step of the process, it was the Druthagar way to do it manually.

With one hand, he began winding the grinder, watching as it spun in place. His other hand held the handle against the spinning belt. A buzz filled the air as the heated metal touched the ceramic belt. Flecks of metal flew towards the ground. Slowly, the bottom of the handle sharpened into a thick and sharp spike. When it was the perfect length and angle, he released the crank and pulled the handle area. As a test, he pressed it to his palm, not even wincing as a bead of blood appeared in the spot. He smiled.

Returning to the anvil, he grabbed two metal rings he made earlier. These were not required to be made of mithril, instead being constructed from an iron isotope typically found in the crust of Druthagon. Still, they were more than sturdy enough for the job.

He put one of the rings at the top of the handle. The hole of the ring was slightly smaller than the handle’s diameter, requiring him to hammer it into position. Once on, it was snug enough to ensure it didn’t move. He put the hammer head overtop, fitting it much like the ring. This, he was gentler with, not wanting to risk deforming the metal of the head. However, it too slotted into place. The top of the handle poked no more than a centimeter over the head, allowing just enough room for the second ring. He fitted it into place with a well-placed series of hammer blows.

Finally, he set the complete hammer down on the anvil and took a step back to survey his work. The head sparkled like a starry night, one he was sure his ancestors once looked up at from the surface of Druthagon. A view that was now impossible. The handle gleamed in the light playing off the curves and points. Each of the runes pulsed with light as the energy ran through them.

It was not the longest project he undertook. Nor was it the hardest. But by Movrim, it was the most satisfying. He was the first Dwarf to carry out this charge in over a thousand years, when Lorhom Lightbasher challenged then High King Aratrim Stormdelver to a Nurathim. One Lorhom ultimately lost. One that led to a hundred years of war and bloodshed.

As Forgebellow gently lifted the Mithril Hammer and placed it in the ornate box beside a diamond the size of his hand, he hoped this battle would not end the same way.

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