“I don’t understand what the point of pushing the steel deeper into the forge is.”

“The coals at the bottom of the forge oxidize the steel, and more scale forms.”

“Why would you want more scale on the steel?” Mae had only grown more exasperated as Flip had described the process of orcish metalworking. He had anticipated that… but had underestimated how long he would have to deal with the consequences. The team of goats pulling the wagon seemed to be just slower than the average horse drawn cart, and the distance from where they had stopped and the town of Norwen seemed longer than Rovik had let on.

“Ms….” Flip paused, realizing he still wasn’t sure what this family’s surname was. Or if they belonged to a clan, as many dwarves did. Or what to call any of them apart from Bronson, Mae, and sons. It seemed incredibly informal and uncomfortable when he realized that he had been avoiding using their names at all.

“Strongarm.” Mae filled in Flip’s absent hum.

“Ms. Strongarm…”

“Mae.” She corrected Flip again. “I’m not matriarch of the clan. You go around calling me Ms. Strongarm and you’ll make a fool of yourself.”

“Mae…” Flip winced at the very informal name. “Orc smithing is more of an art form than you might be used to. Some times, tradition comes about through trial and error, so we cannot fully explain why a thing works. We just know that it does work.”

“I expected more detail from a wizard… but I suppose you aren’t an orc and you aren’t a smith either.” Mae sighed. “You’re lucky I became a mother before we met. I’d have beat you for the confusion if I hadn’t learned patience from my boys.”

Flip breathed a sigh of relief and gratitude for the boys, still riding along in the back of the wagon. He couldn’t make out what they were talking about now, as they didn’t seem to be speaking in a language he understood. It was similar to the dwarvish language he had heard when learning to read various arcane texts, but still incomprehensible. From what he understood, the language was incredibly dialectic and tonal.

“So. You heat the steel hot enough to fold it, twist it, fold it again and so on… and then you stick in in the bottom of the forge, let the scale build up…”

“No. The metal needs to be thrust into sand or dust or doused in a bitter water. If the folded and twisted metal is scaled too soon, it will bend and flake.” Flip remembered distinctly forgetting that step at least once and being scolded severely for wasting metal.

“Alright. Sand… bitter water?”

“Water that tastes like soda ash. It bubbles up from the ground in many of the Durgothian wetlands. But in Builend, Joanna would mix ashes, clay, and water into a thick slurry for cooling. The hot metal would bring it almost to a solid while it cooled.”

“Ah… so it is a flux? You cool the metal in a slurry of flux?”

“Flux?”

“Hearth bless you, Faengil. You really only do know what you’ve been told, don’t you.” Mae began to chuckle. “That or the orcs mastered steel accidentally. Flux is an insulator. It prevents oxidation while cooling metal.”

“In that case, this sounds… correct.”

“And once you’ve cooled it, then you build up scale and apply the salt? Seems counterintuitive.”

“It needs to be heated to a high temperature after it has been cooled, where there is plenty of air, at the bottom of the forge. Or with fresh coals. It will build up scale, which is both byproduct and helps to peel off the outer layer of steel.”

“I think I understand. It is like peeling the bark away from a tree to reveal the wood grain.”

“I was taught with just that analogy. And the acid in the salt is the finishing blade that scrapes away all but the pattern beneath. Once you have corroded the outer layer, you see the pattern beneath… and then you may polish and oil and treat it as you would any other piece of steel.”

“Goodness, so much work to make a pattern in the metal.” Mae snapped the reins and the goats stopped. “And why the salts then? Why not any other acid compound?”

Flip could not answer. The reins snapping had brought him to his senses and he realized that he had not taken in the world around him for some time. He had been so focused on his memories of working a forge and on describing the process properly, Flip had ignored the scenery.

The wagon had emerged from the forested path and onto a more busy thoroughfare just at the outskirts of a town just smaller than Builend. Houses were built low to the ground and with very little wood, and the only tall structures in sight were chimneys. The air had grown colder. And beyond the town before them, looming like a giant, were the pale cliffs that rose like decapitated mountains. Because they were. The wastes had once been a limestone and granite rich mountain range, with stone in ranges of pale yellow to chalky white. But at the end of the second age, they had been rent asunder and the peaks were no more. The entire range had been left a desolate plateau.

While story of the pale wastes traveled far and wide, as it was perhaps the most significant disaster since the forming of the world, Flip had never seen the cliffs himself. Few ever traveled to them. There was no point. Beyond the edge of the cliffs there was nothing but flat dusty rock for miles. It was impossible to navigate, and nothing short of systematically dismantling the mountain range would change that.

“Faengil?”

“Pardon me… I have never seen…”

“Ah. Yes. It is a sight to behold. Like looking up and realizing you have been in the depths of some giant’s bowl your whole life… insignificant and temporary, while a world beyond your sight looms over the edge.”

“That a is very specific metaphor.”

“It’s a very specific feeling.” Mae sighed. “It’s amazing, but I would have given anything to seen the mountains as they were before the calamity.”

“You asked a question?”

“Yes. Why are these salts so special and necessary for the process?” Mae asked as she leapt down and began to unharness the goats.

“It’s a milder acid, and less volatile than an acidic liquid.” Flip clambered down from the front seat of the wagon, following Mae’s example. One of the goats lowered its head and glared at Flip with its strange eyes. “You could achieve a similar effect with other acids, but if the acid is too powerful it will damage the metal. If it is too weak, it will take far too long and require too much. And these are imbued with the essence of a sentient pudding, so I would not be surprised if they imparted some of the creature’s magical nature into the steel.”

“I hope you aren’t lying to me, Faengil. Because you’ve gotten my interest.”

“And she’ll beat you if you’ve lied.” One of the boys called from the back of the wagon, laughing as he helped heft one of the crates away.

“Aye. I’ll beat you.” Mae smiled at Flip in a manner similar to the way he had seen all the dwarves laugh and smile at each other at the camp site. It seemed to be a more comfortable and friendly smile than he was used to. More casual.

“Mae! Let the boys get the goats in the pen. I want you to talk me through this before the wizard does. I have some metal hot and ready to go!” A loud and deep voice bellowed from behind the well built structure Mae had stopped the wagon at. It was clearly a hearth temple, as most were built in a similar style, but this one was newer and less ramshackle. It made sense though, dwarves were closer to the hearth than most other races.

“Really? We’re not gonna let the man rest first?!” Mae shouted back. Flip couldn’t tell if she was actually being cutting with her tone, or if she was being sarcastic. He often struggled to discern between the two.

Mae held up her hand and smiled at Flip, as if waiting to signal something. Then cocked her head and let her hand down as a shouting reply echoed out around the house.

“Work makes you sleep harder, your food taste better, and your heart stronger!”

“I don’t suppose you have a good response to that?” Mae sighed.

“I don’t suppose my age is a good excuse?”

“Not at all.”

With a resigned shrug Flip followed Mae’s lead. One of the boys came running and quickly replaced his mother at the goats. The other two sons were busy moving the second crate back around the temple. When Flip actually saw the space behind the temple, he was genuinely surprised and felt a small wellspring of excitement bubble up inside him. It was the sort of thing he hadn’t felt since he was a boy.

The hearth of the temple had an open back, like the hearth Flip was accustomed to in Builend, but the back of this hearth was drawn out into a much larger forge. The fire by the temple interior side was a warm and comfortable yellowish-red, but as the forge extended away from the building, the coals became a darker red, then violet, then a blue. A large mechanical contraption stood by the forge as well, the purpose of which Flip couldn’t quite tell; though at first glance it likely functioned like a printing press. The whole area was covered by a large barn style awning that hung high off the back end of the temple and was supported by a series of posts along its edge. As Flip walked under the overhang, the chill he had felt before vanished immediately. Despite the drastically different appearance of the forge, and the more industrial smells, it felt like a temple forge, and Flip felt safe. His body relaxed.

“So, you’re one of Joanna’s whelps.” A Broad shouldered dwarf standing by an massive anvil spoke up. His long dark hair was pulled back in a strong braid and his beard was braided similarly so as to keep it away from the fire he worked at. “I miss that woman.”

“She was a good woman.” Flip nodded, a pleasant smile drawn unnaturally across his face.

“I’m Bronson. Welcome to the Strongarm temple.” Bronson stepped up to Flip and grasped his hand in a firm but gentle handshake. The dwarf’s hand almost completely engulfed Flip’s, though Flip still stood a good two feet over him. “I’m told you have something special to share with us in trade?”

“He ran me through the method, and I think it’s doable here. Strange. But doable.” Mae chimed in.

Bronson’s wife had pulled a heavy leather apron over her neck and made her way over to the forge, where a length of steel was resting over the coals at the blue end.

“We gonna need anything other than these acidic salts?” Bronson lightly kicked the closest crate, letting a gentle rattle of glass ring out.

“A trough to hold a slurry, and then things to make a flux slurry.” Mae answered. “I can prepare most of it, if you want to lend an ear to Faengil he can walk you through the process quickly. And no interrupting, it’s a strange thing, but we can work through the strangeness when we actually put a hammer to the metal.”

“Aye, I’ll listen.” Bronson sighed mid nod. “Put on an apron, we have some big enough for you over there.”

Flip complied and began to explain the process again to Bronson as the dwarf followed him over to where several leather aprons were hanging from a hook. The dwarf nodded slowly as Flip explained, and gave several pained expressions when the wizard reached the parts of the process that clearly went against the dwarvish tradition. Flip idly watched Mae assemble a trough and several other substances at the other end of the forge while he spoke. No matter how many times he saw dwarves at work, he was always intrigued by how quickly and accurately they moved.

“If I waste steel because of you, you’ll not be welcome back here. I hope you know that.”

“So everyone keeps saying.”

“Alright. Mae, get me the large square head and bring that blank over with the tongs.” Bronson ordered as he slapped the anvil with his bare hand. Flip noted several burn scars across the back of his hands that he hadn’t seen before. “I’ll have you hold the blank for twisting and folding, Faengil. You seem to know more of what you mean than we do.”

----------

The next six hours were spent working the metal. Between bending the metal across the anvil while Bronson worked it, the heat of the forge, and the insulation of the apron Flip was beginning to sweat excessively. Mae kept a close eye on the two of them, bringing them water and bread to tide them over while the metal went back into the flames after cooling on the anvil. Not long into the process, Mae had stepped in to try and repeat the parts that Flip had been demonstrating. Once the two dwarves had gotten in sync for the process they began to work much faster and eventually moved the steel from the anvil to the contraption Flip hadn’t recognized. The machine worked like a combination of an anvil and a hammer, the heavy top head of the machine slammed down on the bottom die of the machine where the steel sat and a mechanism wound by a goat moving along a circular path lifted the head back up again.

The dwarves worked tirelessly, eager and excited as they began to see the process work. By the time the blank had been mostly shaped into a blade and ready to quench in the slurry Flip was exhausted. Bronson and Mae, however, still looked like they could repeat the work they had just done twice over. When the time came to bury the metal deep in the coals of the forge, Bronson looked gravely conflicted, but he did it all the same.

“What do you know about the pale wastes?” Flip asked the question unprovoked, but they would be waiting on the steel for a good period of time and he felt it was an appropriate time for conversation.

“My, aren’t you captivated.” Mae chuckled.

“Not much.” Bronson muttered. “Why are you asking?”

“I was hired for work in the wastes.” Flip answered carefully. Dovhran didn’t seem keen on sharing the details of the job with most people, particularly dwarves, and there was probably a reason that Flip couldn’t comprehend behind that.

“Not work to be had. Unless you’re a stone hewer. It’s about all the wastes are good for. That and ghost stories.”

“Ghost stories?” Flip was genuinely curious. Dwarves seemed to have a habit of indulging in stories designed to scare children.

“When I was young, younger than you,” Bronson grinned and took a seat on an anvil, “I heard the story of the pale wraith for the first time. Miners working the quarry started reporting that there was something moving in the distance above the cliff and deep into the wastes. A black speck of a creature, far away. And then miners from the Galepost quarry up north came stumbling through the wastes. Miles away, miles across the nearest short peninsula of the wastes. They come scrambling down the quarry at the first sign of life they see. They’re exhausted, half alive, dehydrated, rambling about being chased from their own quarry and into the wastes by some kind of black cloaked spectre. As it chased them through the wastes, and as the miners that tended to them looked back over the edge of the cliff and into the waste, that black speck that had been lingering in the distance looked just a little bigger.”

Mae scowled at her husband and went to mind the forge more closely. Flip was transfixed.

“The next day, the miners put up a watchman at the top of the cliff, looking away from the quarry. And every day, the watchman would say the dark figure was growing ever closer. Becoming ever larger. But no one believed them. And then one day, the watchman fell asleep at his post. When his replacement came to take over, he thought the watchman was drunk, but it was worse. He was weak, delirious, barely able to move. His skin had shriveled in the heat and his eyes had gone dim. It was like he’d had years taken off his life. He refused to take watch again. Then another guard met the same fate, drained of nearly all of his life after falling asleep at the post. They stopped keeping a guard there after the second incident… but they say that if you fall asleep up in the wastes, even if you’re only feet over the edge…” Bronson jumped off the anvil and shot his arm out quickly in Flip’s direction, just barely avoiding slapping the wizard’s chest in a grabbing motion. “The pale shade will suck the life out of you.”

Flip had frozen the moment Bronson jumped up to scare him. The dwarf was laughing boisterously, but Flip's mind was running through the long list of creatures he knew of that could drain the life out of a man.

“Relax, Faengil.” Bronson was still laughing. “It’s a story we tell to scare the kids from going up on the ridge with friends and drinking and making merry. That and to keep the miners sober.”

“Right.” Flip muttered.

“It’s been well over a hundred years since the stories started Faengil. And we’ve not heard anything like them in almost as long.” Mae said as she shot Bronson a scolding look. “Mostly, we don’t venture into the wastes, but they’re beautiful. That’s part of why the temple was built so far from the cliffs and out of the heart of town.”

“Aye, they’re beautiful in the morning.” Bronson sighed, finally abandoning his laughter. “Don’t suppose the metal’s ready…”

“Pull it out and look.” Flip gestured to the tongs by the forge.

Bronson grabbed the tongs and quickly pulled the long piece of metal out of the depths of the coals. The dark black blotches of scale had already covered most of the blade. Flip was familiar with the rough material, it was like rust, but burned into the metal.

“You could leave it in longer, but you should be able to get through to the grain with this much scale built up.”

“Alright, Mae, get a trough filled with salt.”

Bronson directed his wife to an empty stone trough that was probably used for quenching metal in water or oil. Mae lifted one of the jugs of salt and poured its contents into the trough, emptying it out. Bronson brought over the blade, but Flip held a hand out to stop him before he could place it down.

“Cover your mouths, and your eyes if you can.”

The two dwarves nodded and lifted cloth wraps from around their necks to cover their mouths and noses. Flip merely stood back and let the dwarves do the work. The metal was placed down in the salt and a strong foul odor began to spread through the air. Flip’s eyes began to water, but he managed to stay where he was and keep an eye on the process. The blade was flipped over and the dwarves made an effort to bury the metal in the salt as well as they could. Not long into the process, and several flippings of the blade later, both dwarves began to laugh triumphantly.

“It’s beautiful!” Bronson proclaimed. “Get Faengil into a guest room to clean up. I’m going to finish this before dinner.”

Bronson pulled the blade from the salt and fully quenched it in another trough of fluid. Flip saw the pattern on the metal only briefly, but recognized the style clearly. It was like wood grain or flowing water. And it was beautiful. The wizard was immediately glad that he had been able to recreate the process he had learned in his youth, almost resisting the tug of Mae’s hand as she pulled him towards the temple door.

Flip collapsed on the bed as soon as he was shown it in a small guest room. He could hear loud snoring from another room on the same hall and it wasn’t long before he joined in.