Gotankorongrun Throng
~][~
Imrak Brightbeard walked into the forge-hall to work. The hall was hot and loud and dark; long and three dwarf's height tall. He glanced around and saw the forge stalls, a dozen to each side of the long central aisle of the Forge Hall. Each stall was walled on two sides to chest height, with the blazing hearth in the middle, anvils, tool racks and tables scattered around each stone-sided fire. They were full of smiths and apprentices.
The ringing of metal on metal and the pumping of bellows was all the noise there was. Voices were drowned out. He walked to the overseer's station and looked at the slate board. There were lists of orders and tasks to be completed written out in white chalk; some with names attached, some without. Imrak could only do the jobs without names. He saw the overseer get up from his table and limp towards him.
Imrak frowned.
As the overseer got close enough, Imrak nodded and said, "Greetings, Kaggi son of Kaggi."
The overseer barely nodded to him and grunted out, "Greetings, Imrak Brightbeard."
Imrak looked back at the board, "Which stall am I?"
"Twenty-four."
Imrak nodded. The twenty-fourth hearth was the furthest away from the coal bin, ore racks, and water troughs. The worst hearth. He'd smithed at it every day for the last two years.
"Jobs?" he asked, already knowing what was to come.
Overseer Kaggi jabbed a thick finger at the furthest column. The list was mostly easy, repetitive tasks – making nails or links of chain. Apprentice work.
Imrak nodded slowly, eyes on the board, "And my bellow man?"
Overseer frowned at Imrak and waved his hand at the bench by his table. A young dwarf sat there, staring blankly into the distance, rubbing his hands together nervously – Dorin Veshkin.
Imrak did not sigh or otherwise make it known that he was angry. He was angry every day. He just nodded to Kaggi, hiked up his shoulder bag and walked towards hearth twenty-four, waving Dorin to him as he walked.
The beardling jumped up and stumbled after him.
They reached the forge and Imrak hung his satchel on a wall hook. He pulled out his leather apron and tied it on; he slapped his heavy leather gauntlets down on the anvil. His shiny copper-colored beard was already braided onto a single thick strand, clasped in steel fist-shaped beard-clips, and he tucked it tidily into his apron. He tied his hair back with a length of cloth, the red fabric tight on his forehead.
Dorin Veshkin fumbled around as he put on his apron and head-cloth. His beard was so short it did not need to be tucked away, or even clasped.
"Get us some square stock for nails," he told Dorin.
The boy fumbled with his apron strings for a few more moments, then walked out of the stall and looked around like he'd never been there before. He managed to go off in the right direction.
Normally, Imrak liked to handle the stock before he forged it, but from previous experience he knew that if left Dorin to fire up the hearth, they'd start late and not finish their job lot on time.
Imrak looked at the hearth, the coals glowed dully. Each black rock was a product from the combined ancient knowledge of the miners, engineers, and runesmiths – an alchemical bend of ore, science, and sorcery. Each coal would burn for ten or more years, slowly getting smaller and burning hotter. Without them Dwarf forgecraft would be much slower and the amount of resources needed maintain production levels and standards would be difficult to manage.
He ran his hand along the edge of the hearth, coating his finger tips is fine black dust. He brought one finger to his lips, and took a deep smell. The scent was warm and sooty, comforting and honest. His tongue darted out, tasting the soot. It tasted like earth, like fire, like metal … what dwarfs smelt like.
After he dug out the klinker he turned a small value on the bellows, and slowly worked them up and down. Air rushed up the tunnel and brushed past the coals, they warmed and hissed softly. He worked the bellows harder, pushing more air into the coals, they began to hiss loudly and crackle.
Imrak did this, alternating between slow pumping and fast pumping until Dorin came back. The boy had a dozen arm-length bars of squared iron, the thickness of his little finger. Imrak saw them and knew they'd get through the dozen before break time. But to send the boy back for more would only slow them.
He nodded to the bellows and Dorin put the stock on a table and took his place by the air pumps. Imrak held his hand at his waist and Dorin began pumping the bellows slowly. The smith took a length of iron and put it in the coals. He looked at Dorin and held his hand at chest level, Dorin pumped faster.
While the metal heated Imrak took tongs down from the tool rack and selected a smithing hammer; stared at the coals while he weighted the tool in his hand. When the color was right, he put the hammer down and with the tongs pinched the iron bar and plucked it from the fire, and laid it on the anvil. He snatched up a wire brush and gave the nearly white hot metal two quick brushes. He then took his hammer in hand and with quick, precise, and effortlessly strikes, tapered the end of the rod, stretching a section to three times its original length. He nicked the rod where he wanted the nail to end, leaving a mushroom-looking top of iron as the cap to the length of squared off nail. He cut the shank from the rest of the rod using the cutting tool; quickly putting the rod back into the fire to heat the next section. The now nail-shaped shank was still glowing nicely and he popped it into the header device, flattening the mushroom top. He tapped the nail out of the header tool, and gripped it with this tongs again. He gave the head a few quick taps, to square it off, and then he dipped it into the slack tub, cooling it rapidly. After a quick swirl in the water bucket, he tossed the completed nail into another bucket.
One heat to make one nail. Any competent dwarf metalsmith could do the same but Imrak was a runesmith, doing an apprentice blacksmith work. It might have been disgraceful, but he did not give into disgrace.
Instead he worked. For hours he worked in silence. Indicating to Dorin how quickly he wanted the bellows pumped by where be held his hand. He said no words until it was break time. The only time he spoke was to add his voice to the traditional work-songs or hymns to Grungni or Smednir that came and went around the forge-hall.
He waved Dorin off the bellows, the boy was sweating and red-faced from exertion. After washing their faces and hands, they sat by the cooling hearth and had lunch. Dorin had a small bread roll, plain with no additions, and a small leather bottle of water – he ate his lunch much the way he did everything, blank-eyed and nervous. Imrak had a large meat and cheese filled pastie, and a large tankard of light lunch-ale. He ate slowly, thoughtfully watching Dorin.
The boy disproved the expression that 'every dwarf born knew how to forge.' Dorin would never make the grade to become a smith. He'd never earn his makers-mark. He just did not have what it took. Imrak said nothing, as it was not his place to do so. He was not Dorin Veshkin's father, or craft master, or guild chief, or clan elder – and he thought Overseer Kaggi was doing the boy a disservice by continuing to let him apprentice in the smithy.
He watched the boy finish his roll and asked, "Is that all you have today?"
Dorin looked at him and nodded slowly, face downcast.
Imrak reached into his satchel and pulled out another large pastie. He gave it to Dorin. He also poured some of his lunch ale into Dorin's empty bottle. Imrak supplemented the boy's meager lunch nearly every day.
After their meal they started on the second half of their twelve hour shift. Just as they were about to begin Dorin spoke uncertainly, "Sir…,' he hesitated.
Imrak glared at him and frowned, "What?"
"I was wondering, emmm, you're, ehhh, really good at this. Have you been doing it long?"
Imrak's frown grew even grimmer. The boy tried to engage him in small talk, while actually standing next to a forge. To do so with Imrak it was a grievous mistake; to the runesmith's mind it was a very affront to Grungni himself. He snapped, "I was smithing in Gunbad since before you were in your dad's bags!"
Dorin stared at Imrak, his hands tight on the bellows, "How old are you? Gunbad was overrun by Urk thousands of winters ago."
Imrak snarled at the beardling, "Lad …" he took a deep breath before continuing. He knew the boy did not mean any harm with the talk, but enough was enough, "It's just an old expression. Means I was smithing since before you were born, is all. Now, no more talking. To work."
"Oh," Dorin looked downs at the bellows, his downcast face was reddened by shame.
They finished the second half of their shift with not a word exchanged, not even when they tidied and cleared up their station. Imrak walked with Dorin to the forge-hall entrance and felt the beardling tug on his sleeve.
"Sir," Dorin muttered, eyes downcast.
Imrak stared at him, waiting, not saying anything.
After a long pause Dorin just about managed to shrug and without another word slunk away down the corridor, dragging his pack by one hand.
Imrak frowned and thought to go after him, but he did not. He was not the boy's master, it was not his place to placate or assuage. Instead, he walked to the Smith's Feast Hall. He had arranged to meet Azgrim Tenstone and Breggi Bighands.
~][~
When Imrak arrived only the armorer was there. The big dwarf raised a hand, and waved him over. The hall was a wide, long, and high chamber, filled with long wutroth clan-tables and benches. The tables were works of art, through the hundreds of year's worth of beer, sauce, and sweat stains they were expertly carved and meticulously engraved. Massive fireplaces were spaced every twenty paces down each wall, and they roared, throwing heat and light through deftly crafted grills of incredible cleverness. Marvelously intricate brass lanterns hung from the ceiling on chains of bronze, candles where mounted on skillfully wrought holders on each table. Drinking tankards were fashioned to look like ships, or dragons, or wolfs; silver cutlery were snakes, hawks, or battleaxes. The Smith's Feast Hall was more than a place of social gathering; it was a shine to the skills of the smiths of the past, a reminder to the smiths of the present to maintain their skills, and an aspiration for the young smiths of tomorrow.
"How do?" shouted Azgrim.
"Nae bad," Imrak grunted and plopped down onto a bench.
His reply was not the whole truth. His money was running out. The money he received from Norgun Rokrison as a caravan hand, and his share in the selling of the all the items they collected from the dead ambushers, plus the horse-ware left behind by the murderous coward Nisco Espada had provided Imrak with enough money to live on for a few years, even after sending half to his family's vault. He earned no money, nor would he have taken any, from the money raised by the sale of the compensation-loot taken from the manor house – all of which had gone directly to Balgor Balgorson's family. But still, his coffers were running low, and his post as a junior blacksmith was not earning him enough to improve his standing. A dwarf without financial reserves was mocked and thought less of, Imrak needed to sort himself out.
Azgrim waved at a servant and held up four fingers, waggling them between Imrak and himself. He said, "Where you working?"
"I'm still at Kaggi's. Been two years and I've still yet to secure an interview with any master Rhunki."
The armourer nodded, not in sympathy, but in understand. "Many folk don't much take to Kaggi. How you finding him?"
Imrak shrugged, "He does what he does. Good overseer, I suppose. His work is average. But it's the beardling I'm stuck with. That boy's as useless as a cold forge." Imrak stopped complaining and looked across of the hall. "Speaking of useless, there he is," Imrak said with a smirk. Breggi Bighands had entered through main archway and was up on his tip-toes scanning around for his mates. Azgrim called out, "Oy, bozdok! Over here!"
The miner gave a high thumbs-up and as he made his way to their table. He shouted irreverently, "How do, scruff beards!"
A hall servant saw him and shouted, "Hey! No boki's allowed in here, mate!"
Breggi turned his head and sized the servant up. With a dismissive snort he turned back to his companions, shaking their hands firmly.
"No boki!" The servant said again, this time pushing his way over to them. Heads turned to see what the commotion was about.
Azgrim stood up and glared at the servant, "This boki is a friend of mine, that alright with you?" He hooked his thumbs into his belt, and flexed his massive arms.
The hall servant glanced from Azgrim's hard face to his harder muscles, and thought better of pressing the issue. Besides, Azgrim Tenstone was a known kladi, a well respected armorer.
The servant shrugged and turned away, going about his business. Azgrim looked around, meeting eyes, "This dirt-thrower is my friend, and he's drinking here. Anyone got a problem with that: come around to the Armorsmith's Forge tomorrow and ask for Azgrim Tenstone. I'll set you to rights." He gave the hall another pass with his baleful eyes and sat down.
He pushed a pint at Breggi and took up his own. In a purposefully loud voice shouted, "To Grungni, to the ancestors, and to friends," and knocked cups with the miner.
The three drank, ate, and talked; about how disgusting Urks were, about the gossip currently circulating about Karak Hirn, about how vile Urks were, about workloads and other workers, about how utterly loathsome Urks were, about the past, about Urks, and about the future. It was on the topic of the future that Imrak said, "I'm thinking of leaving here."
"Oh? Home to Karak Kol?" Breggi asked.
"No," Imrak growled, "Not yet. I need to learn more. Find a new master."
"Where to then?"
"Karaz-a-Kazak."
Azgrim raised a bushy eyebrow. "If'n you don't mind, I'd come with you. I've always wanted to see the Everpeak."
Imrak nodded, "I'd be honored by your company. But what about your work?"
"I'd not think of leaving before my work exchange is finished," Azgrim said with all the finality of a sledgehammer. "It's finished in a few months. We could go then. And you Breggi, wanna come and see the home of our people?"
Breggi stroked his black beard, "Aye, I'd do that. My brother got me a pick-post with his wife's clan, but there isn't much work on at the moment. They need a new seam. I'm sure they'd be happy to have one less mouth to feed and wage to pay."
Imrak smiled at the two of them, excited, "Perhaps we should see if any of the other lads from Norgun's caravan fancies a trip to Karaz-a-Kazak."
Breggi's eyes went huge, "Oh Grungni," he muttered suddenly, as if he just remembered something. "Have you heard from Kraggrim Gorlharazad?"
Both Imrak and Azgrim shook their heads.
Breggi frowned, "I have."
"Oh, and what's become of the ufdi scruff-beard?" Azgrim asked harshly.
"He …" Breggi paused, looked around, and leaned in close. He nodded the others to do the same. Once they were close, he made the motion of scissors cutting his beard.
Imrak lurched back, his eyes going huge; he had to put his hands on the table to steady himself, "No. I can't believe it!"
Azgrim frowned heavily. Before speaking he grimly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, like he was going to be sick, "By Grungni, the shame of it all."
Breggi shook his head knowingly, "Oh aye, it happened. Saw it with my own eyes. Saw the lad walk out the Temple of Grimnir not a month ago, his face smooth as a polished gem. Just terrible."
"Why?" asked Imrak, before quickly correcting himself, "No, nevermind, I don't need or want to know. His shame is his burden alone. I wish him Grimnir's grace."
Azgrim nodded the same, "Aye, may Grimnir grant him a good doom."
They held their cups up and clicked them together, took a long drink, then each spat the floor to avert misfortune from falling on them.
~][~
Imrak worked the metal on the anvil, tapering it for lengths of chain. He paused a moment and stopped. He stared at hard at the anvil, then the hearth, the ceiling. Dorin watched him closely. Imrak waved his hand at the bellows-boy to stop. There was a sound, a deep resonates in the air.
Imrak tossed the hot metal onto the coals and walked out of the stall and looked down the aisle. Other smiths had done the same. They were looking around at each other. Some were pointing down at the ground. The smith in the next stall looked at Imrak and nodded – and tapped his fist to the chest. Imrak frowned and tapped his chest with this forge hammer.
He stumped back the anvil and punched it, "Beggar's couldn't even let us finish our shift!"
"Sir," Dorin said from the stall door, "All the hammers have stopped. That's not happened before. What's happening?"
"Close up the station and get yourself home, lad. Fast as you can. That's the deep summons." Imrak looked at the beardling, "An enemy comes from the darkness below."
Imrak trotted with the rest of the smiths for the Kaggi's forge, runehammer in hand, shield bouncing on his shoulder. The device on his shield was that of Karak Kol, the black mountain and inverted hammer. When they reach the rally point, a massive chamber filling with hundreds of dawi warriors, his shield made him turn away from the other smiths. They were all of one extended clan, and they would fight with their clan-kin. Imrak Brightbeard looked around hastily, trying to find a thane.
He saw a powerfully built longbearded thane dressed in burnished heavy steel, wearing a red cloak with gold ancestral-badge clasps, and silver winged helmet on his head shouting orders. An assistant held his glittering runeaxe and polished shield.
Imrak trotted up and shouted, "Oy!" and flashed his shield. The thane took one look and an annoyed shout roared at the top of his voice for all to hear, "Foreign Company forms up on the left flank!" then turned away.
The rhunki moved away and pushed his way through the crowd, to the left flank. One moment he was surrounded by groups of identical shields, then he was through the clan companies and staring at a collection of mismatched shields. There were dozens of them, all different.
A fat, red-faced thane was shouting and pointing, "Foreign Company, form up! Come on you beggars, step to! Step to!"
Imrak pushed his way to the front of the company and watched the thane. His face was red and his eyes wet, his beard was sticky with sweat. He looked nothing like the calm, powerful thane who'd directed him here. But Imrak knew that this thane would be a professional soldier. He'd have to be, to be put in charge of the Gotankorongrun Throng – the Foreign Company, the collection of all non-Karak Hirn dwarfs who answered the muster call to battle.
The Thane shouted, "I'm Thane Algrim Goldteeth of the Brynazamar Clan,' he stumped about, brutally directing folk to positions whilst talking. "When we're formed, we'll march directly behind the vanguard." He wiped is face with a cloth, "I know you think it's because you're not Hirn-folk, that you're being sent in first. Oh no, lads, oh no! When you have a guest in your hall, you let them drink first, am I right?! You'll be honored to be the first to spill the foe's black blood. The Thaggoraki think they can just creep up from the darkness below and steal from us. We'll set them to rights!"
Imrak roared and beat his shield with his hammer, along with the rest of the throng. He looked behind him and saw a handful of dwarfs holding green shields with a twisted rope painted in white. "Where you from, ropemaker?"
"Kruetzhofen," the dwarf grunted back.
Imrak frowned thoughtfully, "Umgdawi?"
The dwarfs from the lands of Man glared harshly at Imrak. The oldest growled, "Never you mind where we were born, beardling. We're as Dawi as the next. We say our oaths to Grungni, Grimnir, and Valaya same like you mountain folk do."
Imrak shrugged. But seeing them made him think. He stepped from the ranks and turned to face the foreign company. He held up his shield and shouted out, "Any Kol-folk here? Karak Kol, gather here!"
"Oy!" came a quick reply. Elgrom Grunnardson the stonemason pushed his way over to him.
"Good to see you, cousin," Imrak nodded. Elgrom replied the same and said, "Madras is on his way, I saw him earlier."
"What's taking him so long?"
Elgrom grinned, "He's got a case of the rutz."
Imrak couldn't help but smirk.
"Make room, cousin," Imrak felt a hand on his shoulder and looked over. Azgrim Tenstone stood there. Under his heavy spiked helmet his face was humorless. Imrak made room for him on his hammer side. Breggi Bighands joined them shortly, along with three other Kol-folk none of whom Imrak knew, but their shields were black with the mountain and invented hammer painted in silver. There was a quick exchange of names, clans, and greeting – Gurni Bromson, Yorri Thorison, and Skaldor Skaldorson. Just before they were about to march, Madras Ironfingers trotted across the front of the entire company, shrugging at the abuse-bellowing thane, and squeezed in with other the Kol-folk.
Thane Algrim roared, "Right, you beggars. Form column, four files wide!" He snapped his fingers at a pair of drummers standing nearby, "Lads, play me a jaunty tune. We march to war!"
