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There was no time now for his own handiwork. Skald had laid aside his cold chisels and tapping hammers and readied himself instead for the making of weapons. The Stonecut forges were heated white hot as ingots of iron were melted to a red hot liquid and poured into a myriad of molds – some for long barbed arrowheads, some for the slender, deadly points of the oaken staves.
Other halls were beating the metal into long-knives and swords; fashioning metal covers for the small wooden shields. And still others hammered long, sharp nails through thick oak clubs, making them bristle with death giving rippers. And each in their own hall were busy making ready their coats of mail, their thick leather vests, their vambraces, their greaves, their helmets.
An insistent hum filled the caverns beneath the mountains as the loud protests of iron against stone and metal melded together. Grindstones, whetstones, files, and honers all added their thrums to drone of deadly business.
Axes sang as they kissed the abrasive edges of the sharpening wheel. Baruk Khazâd!
The Longbeards were preparing for war . . .
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