The forge sits beneath the castle proper. Rivers of molten metal flow through channels carved into the stone floor. Massive bellows pump air into the flaming furnaces with a wheeze and roar. It reminds me of the human years of my youth spent beside my father before the curse of immortality.
Hròlfr Dravorin stands before an anvil that weighs more than three grown men. His famous beard now grows in uneven patches where his captors sheared it.
The Butcher of Dunrovin. The architect of the weapon that reduced twenty thousand elves to ash and memory.
His massive frame moves with ease despite the iron shackles that connect his ankles with two feet of chain. The manacles around his wrists bear fresh scratches where he has tested their strength, but they hold firm despite his prodigious might.
“It’s you again,” his gruff voice carries over the roar of the furnaces. The dwarf doesn’t look up from his work. His massive arms bring a hammer down on glowing metal with measured strikes.
I settle onto the stone bench that has become my customary perch during these visits. The dwarf and I have developed something approaching mutual respect during the weeks since his capture. It’s mostly built on shared appreciation for craftsmanship.
I pull a wrapped bundle from my cloak. Fresh bread, dried meat, and a flask of ale. Winter is settling over the capital and creeping down from the northern ridges of Aelfheim. The cold will bite even through stone walls soon enough. I have brought him a wool blanket as well.
The guards often forget to feed Hrolf. Now I know why. There is a special kind of hate the elves reserve for him. The murderer of their kin doesn’t merit even basic dignity in their eyes.
Hrolf glances at the bundle but doesn’t stop working. I set it on his workbench and move closer to the forge, drawn by the rhythm of his craft. He is shaping something delicate.
A child’s bracelet, decorated with tiny flowers.
I watch him work for several minutes, noting the care he takes with each petal. My eyes wander to several cloth-covered items scattered across his workbench. One has come partially unwrapped, revealing a small horse carved from pewter. The detail work is extraordinary.
“A commission?” I ask.
“A gift.” He doesn’t look up from the bracelet. “For one of the kitchen master’s daughters. She brings me extra bread sometimes.”
I realize there are more similar packages scattered around his workspace. Dozens of them. “You make toys for the children.”
“Small trinkets that make them smile.” His gruff exterior softens slightly. “They did not choose this war.”
Steam hisses upward as he plunges the bracelet into a water barrel. He pulls the cooled piece from the water, examining it with a critical eye before setting it aside with the others. The pendant has been crafted to resemble mountain orchids, the flowers elven children gather for their loved ones during festival season. Capturing such artistic detail in metal the size of a copper coin speaks to mastery few could achieve even with a lifetime of dedicated practice.
“The elven festival approaches,” he explains, his massive fingers surprisingly gentle as he examines the cooling metal for flaws. “The little ones who bring me food and water have been chattering about it for weeks. Seems their parents can’t afford proper presents this year. Bad harvest, higher taxes. The usual troubles that plague common folk.”
I pick up one of the wrapped toys, unwinding the oiled cloth to reveal a tiny bird with articulated wings. Each feather has been individually carved, the wings designed to flap when a small lever is pressed. It must have taken hours. “This is masterwork.”
“For the children who press their noses against the forge window every morning. Figured I might as well make use of the scrap metal.” But there’s pride in his voice despite himself. “Children are children. They don’t know about kingdoms and blood feuds. They just see pretty things that move.”
He selects another piece of metal, already moving to his next project.
The contrast strikes me. This is the same dwarf who created the weapon that killed twenty thousand elves. The same hands that forged destruction now craft joy for elven children.
“You never told me who you are,” I say at last. “Hròlfr Dravorin son of Durakain.”
Hrolf snorts. “I suppose you told me everything about yourself, vampire?”
Fair enough.
I have nearly a thousand questions about the mysteries of dwarven metalwork. But the morning’s negotiations have left me with queries that extend beyond the craft of smithing.
“That weapon you made. The one that could wipe out thousands. How many are there?”
The rhythmic tapping of his engraving tool stops completely. The silence that follows feels heavier than the hammer blows. “No. I did not make another.”
I wait.
He sets down his tools with care.
“I swear it by the mountains themselves. Only one was ever completed. It is made of substances dug deep beneath the earth, capable of sundering the very foundations of the world.” Hisvoice drops lower. “Even Eirik’s council, the Court of Nightmare, agreed that such an abomination should never be recreated.”
