UL1 - Book 10 - Chapter 10

Torchlights flickered, casting light from inside the iron gate that swung open.  Blue and orange lights came from gems set inside the metal, creating an ethereal glow around the edges.

Two gods were carved on the inside and outside of each door. One on the left, one on the right.  When sealed, their hands touched. When open, they beckoned all who desired to enter.

Batrire Hammerfall strode out first.  She took a deep breath and smiled. The air carried the hint of oak burning, yeast rising, and cold stone. Just how every dwarven city should.

Clomping out next to her was Fowl Hammerfall, hammer over one shoulder and a foaming tankard in the other hand.

“By my beard, it’s beautiful.”

His wife turned, her smile alone able to keep him warm at night. 

“Of course it worked. We both knew what we wanted.”

At their feet lay a city nestled within the mountain edge.  Terraced ledges rose upward, waterfalls spilled down a section into a pool that fed a stream. Along that stream sat wheels which spun, feeding forges and mills.  

Every piece of stone almost hummed, the magic that had created it still present, but most importantly, it was the perfect home for a dwarf.

A few dozen dwarves stood at the center of town, blinking their eyes as each gazed upon a massive anvil, black metal and radiating with power.  On all four sides of the anvil, a small stone pool sat empty.

Clothed in simple garb, one carried a blacksmith hammer and wore a leather apron. Another had a pickaxe, sturdy clothes, and a helm with a light on top of it. Each had a profession, and they were the firstborn, the ones who would help lead this city to greatness.

All of them looked at their makers.

Fowl drained his tankard dry in a single pull and belched so loud it sounded like thunder.

“Okay,” he said, wiping the foam from his beard. “I suppose it's time we met with our people.”

A dwarf of average size appeared from behind a pillar near them, measuring in at a good five feet three inches. Still he was shorter by a few feet than the gods whom he served. His breastplate looked like overlapping tankard lids. In one hand he clutched a smith’s hammer and in the other a ladle.  Bells twinkled from his braided beard.

He stopped and cleared his throat, bowing once before turning toward those who were gathered.

“Listen, new sons and daughters of Hearth Deep! I am Bryg, first herald of their Lordships Fowl and Batrire Hammerfall! Founders of the Foaming Flame! Healers of Iron and Soul! Keepers of–”

Fowl coughed and their herald turned toward them.

“Too many?”

“Oh no, sorry I was choking on my ale.”

A massive grin formed and Byrg turned back to the people.

“Keepers of our Ore! Rulers of all that is worthwhile! Winner of drinking contests! Healer of Renown! World Champions!”

Clapping came from below and Batrire chuckled as they moved past him, her hand patting Bryg’s head.

“You did fine. Next time, remember, one of us is simple folk.”

“Simple,” Fowl said. “We got a lot to do my love.”

Capital: Hearth Deep

Population: 74,853

Craft Halls Activated: 27

Edicts: None

We do my love, we do.

She took Fowl’s now-empty hand, having waited for him to store his tankard and they walked together toward the center of the hammer-shaped square.  Byrg clanged his ladle against the hammer three times. It rang out, carrying through the stone and water, touching the heart of all who belong. Within minutes, the plaza brimmed with beards and eager bodies.

Batrire lifted her voice. “Children of stone and ember. Welcome home!”

The word home moved through the crowd like a soft murmur. Shoulders relaxed and some faces turned red as emotion inside fought to escape.

“This city has the bones to be a great one, and yet there is much work to be done,” She said. “Forge, carve, brew and heal. Clear out the creatures from the forest and fields, and fight in the dungeons.  Steel your hearts, my children for there is much to be done, but keep them soft enough to enjoy life. Those two are not separate paths, they are one.

Fowl moved forward and raised his hammer.  

“My turn,” he whispered.

Striding forward, he slammed his hammer into the two-story-tall anvil. A popping sound came and then gold liquid poured from a spot on each side, falling into the empty stone pools and filling them with ale.

A fragrant vapor tickled the nose of the dwarf nearby. The scent of dark bread and honey. Something every dwarf loved when listening to a good story. Those closest to the pool sighed. A few even wept.

Fowl summoned his tankard back and dipped it in, drinking it empty.

“Not bad for unlimited ale.”

He turned to face the crowd who looked ready to try the golden liquid as he had.

“This ale is for all who take up a craft. With work comes reward and all those who work may drink of this gift. Those who attempt to do so, choosing not to work but enjoy the blessing of mine… your beard will fall off and we’ll know of your deceit. So work hard and enjoy my gift.”

Batrire rolled her eyes but never let her smile waver.

“What my love means is that craft and care are part of the same stone. Hewn on different faces.”

She opened her hand and moved to the opposite of the anvil, placing it upon it.

Runes formed and all sides, and words sprang to life.

Edict of Hearth Deep

No dwarf shall strike a kinsman in anger. All disputes will be settled at the Anvil Ring with witnesses.

Each citizen learns a craft or teaches one.

No meal or mug withheld from a dwarf in honest need.

Do not waste the gifts of the earth. Broken tools return to the forge. Spilled ale feeds the yeast beds.”

Honor the labor of each other as you honor your own.

The gathered crowd was silent.  Every rule was stern but straightforward, just as a dwarf would expect them to be. They had clear boundaries and embraced strong lines.

Bryg stepped forward and struck his hammer against the back of the anvil.

Sparks washed out from it, floating above the gathered crowd and traveling deeper into the city, where all attempted to draw nearer.

“Place your mark!” he shouted. “Blood, ale, or chisel. All marks bind the same.”

The first dwarf to move was a woman with a cleaver in her hand. She had her hair and beard were tied up neatly, tucked behind an apron. She didn’t wait, cutting her thumb and placing it against the metal. Her name appeared across the side, shining with a silver light.

The crowd moved, each of them pricking fingers, cutting a hand, others using a tool to strike the anvil or a brewer tossing his ale against it.

Each signature was added and the black stone began to radiate with light, going from silver to a soft gold glow.

Fowl stood there, arms folded across his chest, a few tears caught by his beard braids.

“They mark it like they mean it.”

“Of course they do,” Batrire said, slipping her arm inside his. “They’re ours.”

When the last dwarf stepped back, having made their mark, the anvil pulsed. It turned completely golden, causing the onlookers to let out oohs and aahhs.

Batrire pulled Fowl to one side.

“We name this place Hearth Deep because a hearth gives heat in the winter, a place to share bread and light in the dark. Hold on to that and never let go.”

She knelt down and dipped a cup hand into the ale, drinking the golden liquid.

“Now may your work be well done!” she shouted.

“And work yet to come!” Fowl added.

Everyone cheered and raised their hands, laughing and hugging the dwarf next to them.

Clearing his throat, Fowl let out a belch which silenced the throng.

“Right. Now onto lessons.”

He pointed at a muscular dwarf in the center who had a two-handed hammer on his back and a pickaxe in one hand.

“Head out to the northern wall. Find the boulders that are there and smash them into fist-sized chunks.”

The dwarf grinned and hurried through the crowd in the direction he had been sent.

Batrire approached a small group of mothers, each one holding an infant wrapped in cloth. Her hand glowed and she touched one. The baby stopped its fussing and the mother bowed, offering small things as she cried.

Soon, work began in earnest. Teams formed without arguments, each knowing what needed to be done.  Stonemasons carved house fronts from the section of the mountain lined with terraces.  Brewers moved to work in the section Fowl had created, ready to keep the anvil fountain flowing. 

Fowl made his rounds, offering a blunt word when needed or a hammer demonstration when he wanted to show off. He praised quick learning and corrected sloppy work by tapping them on their shoulder with the butt of his hammer.  Wisdom flowed like ale from a cracked cask. A cart squeaked as it passed him, and he splashed with ale from his tankard, declaring it fixed until one could get it oiled. 

No one argued.

Bartrie walked slower, listening more and talking less.  She healed a cut or a scrape with a touch of her finger. An apprentice potter needed to learn that brute strength wasn’t how one centers clay, just as one's life needs a gentle touch. Every action she took whispered the same promise. 

I see you. I love you. You matter.

Hours passed, yet no one seemed to notice.  The city was illuminated as forges cast a warm glow. Songs rose from the people as they worked upon the place that was their home.

Ale for the heart, forge for the hand.

Stone and flame, clan with clan.

We’re grateful for our gods with a plan.

Batrire couldn’t help but sing when some called her to join.  Their voices were like a vein of silver set in rock. A treasure to be enjoyed by whoever encountered it.

Eventually, Byrg approached the pair as they watched the city below their gate.

“Begging your pardon. Supplies are running short on brim-ore and green quartz. Shall I petition Sog or perhaps Cordellia for trade?”

Fowl scratched his beard, shaking his head.

“Sog likes to make things hard… he’ll probably want a favor I’m not ready to give. Cordellia is fair but she’s probably not ready to trade yet. Best if we mine our own first.”

Tapping her chin, Batrire nodded.

“Agreed. Draft a survey team for the eastern tunnels. Put a healer with them. Also find a rune-scribe with steady hands.”

Byrg bowed and hurried off, bells chiming as he went.

Fowl bumped his hip against his wife’s. 

“You lead like fresh ale down my throat. Smooth. They follow you true, my love.”

“They follow us both,” she replied. “Your hammer sets the rhythm. My touch eases the blisters and cuts.”

“I guess we make a fine pair.”

She slid her arm around his waist and grabbed his beard with the other hand.

“The best pair I know of.”