The forge was brimming with life. The heavy thud of a dozen hammers thundered in the deep, throwing sparks of searing orange and yellow. A sizzling sound, oil welcoming burning steel, then a chime as the crossguard was hammered onto the freshly-wrought blade. The forge, it awed the beardling.
“Are you ready, lad?”
“Aye, pa.”
Gurrni’s lip twisted upwards, into a warm smile. He was an old dwarf, very important in the Iron Hills, mind you. His skin like unbrushed hide, a mane of fiery orange hair dangling down and cresting around a mighty beard, he looked like one of those looming statues of ancient Dwarrow-Lords, undaunted, unbent, indomitable. Or so he seemed to young Dalbran, at least.
His father lifted a finger, pointing to the entryway to the forge. Above the visage of some great Dwarf hero, written in the Khuzdul, stood the First Lesson of The Forge.
“Sweat must flow before the ale, and apron donned before the mail.” Gurrni said. “That’s the first lesson, passed from father unto son.” He placed his heavy hand upon Dalbran’s shoulder, before gesturing towards the glowing red of the inner forge. “Come, lad, I have much work to do.”
Thung, thung, thung.
The old dwarf took the hammer to the axe-head again, levelling and flattening the heated steel, shaping it into that noblest of weapons. Dalbran passed under his father’s arm, his head nearly colliding with it. He was growing tall and strong, just like ma said. He was very proud of it.
The beardling peered up at the anvil, his tongue poking between his teeth, looking to the craft, his feet tapping lightly against the stone excitedly.
“Pay attention now, little one.” Gurrni spoke again, his eyes still locked to his work. “Place your hand on mine. Have you brought your hammer?”
Dalbran nodded, pulling a minute, yet very finely wrought, hammer from his little belt. The young dwarf did as he was told, placing a hand onto his fathers, pinning the blazing axe-head down.
“Slow and careful, aye? Just like I taught you. Follow my lead.” Gurrni slowed his hand, setting a pace that his son could follow with his hammer.
Twang, thunk, twang, thunk, twang.
They worked in tandem, father and son, Gurrni’s brow soft, his eyes beaming with pride, and Dalbran, focused, his mouth tight and pushed aside, in deep thought.
“There we go!” The older dwarf submerged the axe-head into a tall pot of oil, sending a tower of steam from the sizzling surface. “What shall we call it, then, eh?” He turned to his son, who, even now, was looking wide-eyed at the weapon, peering up to reach it.
“Barak-Midhal.” Gurrni finally answered. “The Keeper of Oaths. A fitting name, I think, eh?”
Dalbran nodded, the long braids of orange hair waving as he did.
“There you go, son. Yours to keep, until all is returned to the stone.” He bestowed the axe onto the beardling. Wrought by a skilled hand, a weaving design carved upon its side, it was surprisingly well balanced, so much so, that the child could wield it one-handed without much trouble.
“Come on, then, little hazkal, run of to mother, show her your axe!” Gurrni laughed, lightly tapping the young beard on the back.
“A real Khazukhan-Kharaz!” Dalbran thought. “Ma will be so proud.”
