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Khazad-Dum . . . Spring 1697 S.A.
Patrols went out more often now, and no longer just into the area beyond the East Gate. Now the Orcs and other dark creatures were roaming in the land beyond the West Gate, too. Guards had been set to keep watch ere Sauron’s minions came too close to the gates. And Durin’s Tower now was kept fortified against any intrusions from that direction.
With the lengthening of the shadow from the east, Skald had returned to those early skills taught him by his father. The forging of iron tips for arrows, the barbed tips for oaken lances – these filled his days now. His skills for engraving on stone were put aside; the chisels wrapped in soft leather, the hammers all hung neatly from their hooks. There was armor, too, to be made. Thick helms lined with leather were to be proof against the cudgels and swords of the Orcs. Chainmail, greaves, and vambraces. Metal coverings for the small wooden shields that would hang on the stout arms of the Dwarven warriors.
Swords and long-knives were an altogether different set of skills. One which Skald had not sought to learn. At the Steeledge forge where he was bound this morning with a load of fine iron bars from the Stonecut smelter, he knew he would find Oren manning the bellows for his brothers as they plunged the cold iron into the red coals and brought it out again to be laid on the long anvil and beaten thin, and reheated, and folded and beaten again under the stern eye of their father, Nori. Sharp, serviceable blades would emerge at last, fastened to sturdy grips. Double edged and hefty enough to slice through the neck of a filthy Orc with one swipe.
He’d declined Oren’s offer to make him a sword, saying that it was still the axe that fit best in his hand. ‘A sword will only make me more likely to get cut down,’ he told his friend. ‘Even a sword a finely made as those by your family, still it would take some sort of magic for it to be of any use to me.’ He clenched his fist as if closing it about the thick wooden handle of his axe. ‘A mattock or my pole-axe and I’ll hew down Orcs as easily as a sharp knife cuts butter.’
Skald made his good-byes and headed back toward his family’s workplace. ‘Remember,’ he called back to the Steeledge men, ‘tomorrow evening, there’s to be a gathering in our Hall. My father is tapping the kegs of ale he’s been brewing this last month. Riv and Bror brought in two deer that we’ll be roasting; Unna’s baking bread . . . you can bring what’s needed to fill in the corners of your appetite.’ He grinned at Oren’s father. ‘Your wife’s dried apple pie would be a most welcome addition to my trencher!’ With a last wave, he turned down the hall and headed homeward at a quick pace.
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