The Ember of Hammerdeep

The Ember of Hammerdeep

The Great Forge of Hammerdeep was never silent. For three hundred and sixty-four days a year, it was a cathedral of noise—the roar of bellows, the scream of steam, and the rhythmic, bone-shaking clang-clang-clang of a thousand hammers shaping the mountains' bones.

But today was the Feast of the Hearth-Fire.

Today, the hammers were racked. The bellows were still. The rivers of molten gold were dammed.

The silence was deafening.

Bori, a Third-Level Apprentice Smith with a beard that was more "enthusiastic fuzz" than "braided majesty," stood in the center of the main foundry floor. He was sweating, but not from heat. He was sweating because he was currently holding the most important object in the entire city with a pair of ceremonial tongs that were slightly too large for his hands.

"Steady, lad," Master Thorgar grumbled, adjusting the gold-embroidered hem of his heavy ceremonial apron. "If you drop that, the ancestors will weep, the mountain will freeze, and I will personally turn you into a doorstop."

"I have it, Master Thorgar," Bori squeaked, his knuckles white on the iron handles. "I am a rock. I am an anvil."

"You are shaking like a leaf in a gale," Thorgar corrected, squinting through his thick crystal spectacles. "Focus on the Ember."

In the grip of the tongs glowed the Hearth-Star.

It wasn't just a coal. It was a fist-sized lump of compressed star-metal and anthracite, infused with the breath of a Sylvani dragon and blessed by the High Rune-Priest. It pulsed with a deep, rhythmic orange light, like a beating heart.

Tradition demanded that on this night, the Hearth-Star be carried from the Great Forge to the Ancestor’s Hearth in the deep levels. There, it would be used to light the Eternal Flame for the coming year, symbolizing the warmth of the mountain protecting its children from the winter dark.

"It's... very warm, sir," Bori noted.

"It's magic fire, boy. Of course it's warm," Thorgar snapped. He checked a massive, complex pocket watch that hung from his belt on a chain made of masterwork steel. "We are on schedule. The procession begins in twenty minutes. I must go don the Helm of the First Smith. You will guard the Ember."

Bori blinked. "Me? Alone?"

"There are guards at the door," Thorgar waved a hand at the two Stone Daughters standing rigid at the foundry entrance, fifty feet away. "Nothing gets in here. Just hold it. Don't put it down. Don't sneeze on it. And for the love of stone, don't let it go out."

"I won't let you down, Master!"

"Hrmph." Thorgar gave him one last, critical look, then turned and marched away, his iron-shod boots clanking loudly in the unnatural quiet.

Bori stood alone in the vast, shadowy foundry. The dying light of the main furnaces cast long, spooky shadows across the anvils. He looked at the Ember. It pulsed. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"Just me and you, little rock," Bori whispered to the coal. "Twenty minutes. Piece of cake."

Scritch-scratch.

The sound came from the ventilation grate near the floor, just behind the main quenching vat.

Bori froze. He turned slowly, the tongs held out like a weapon. "Hello?"

Scritch-scratch. Clang.

The iron grate, which was supposed to be bolted shut, rattled. Then, with a squeal of rusted hinges, it popped open.

A head poked out.

It was grey, bulbous, and had two eyestalks that swiveled independently. It was followed by a body that looked like a bloated sausage made of wet stone, dragging itself on a dozen tiny legs.

A Magma Slug.

"Oh, no," Bori whispered. "Shoo! Go away! Not today!"

Magma Slugs were common pests in the lower ducts. They ate mineral deposits, drank heat, and occasionally spat molten slag at apprentices who tried to broom them away.

This one was big—the size of a boot. And it looked hungry. Its eyestalks locked onto the glowing orange light of the Hearth-Star.

The slug let out a high-pitched chirp. It scurried out of the vent, moving surprisingly fast across the stone floor.

"No!" Bori hissed, waving the tongs. "Bad slug! This is holy! This is not a snack!"

The slug stopped. It reared up on its back legs, sniffing the air. The scent of the dragon-infused coal seemed to drive it into a frenzy. It drooled a drop of glowing lava onto the floor, which sizzled.

"Guard!" Bori tried to shout, but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Guards! Pest!"

The Stone Daughters at the far entrance were chatting quietly. They didn't hear him over the ambient hum of the cooling machinery.

The slug lunged.

It didn't attack Bori. It launched itself at the tongs.

Bori yelped and jerked his hands back. The slug missed, landing on the anvil with a wet slap. It hissed, its body glowing red as it absorbed the residual heat of the iron.

"Get back!" Bori grabbed a hammer from the rack with his free hand. "I am armed! I am a Third-Level Apprentice!"

The slug ignored the hammer. It looked at the Ember. It looked at Bori.

Then, it did something Magma Slugs were not supposed to do. It jumped.

It sprang from the anvil like a coiled spring. Bori swatted at it with the hammer, but he missed. The slug collided with the tongs.

The impact jarred Bori’s grip. The tongs sprang open.

The Hearth-Star fell.

Time seemed to slow down. Bori watched the holy relic, the symbol of his people's survival, tumbling through the air in slow motion. He lunged to catch it.

The slug was faster.

It opened its mouth—a surprisingly wide maw lined with grinding stones—and caught the Ember in mid-air like a dog catching a treat.

GULP.

Bori hit the floor face-first.

Silence returned to the foundry.

Bori looked up. The slug was sitting on the floor. It hiccupped. A puff of golden smoke came out of its ears (or where its ears would be if slugs had ears).

Then, the slug began to glow.

The Ember was inside it. The creature’s grey skin turned translucent gold. It pulsed. Thump-thump.

"Spit it out," Bori whispered, horrified. "Please. Spit it out."

The slug looked at him. It seemed to smile. Born of the mountain's own deep magma, the creature’s gut didn't burn; instead, it metabolized the concentrated magic like a shot of pure, chaotic adrenaline. It felt fantastic. It was full of dragon-fire and star-metal.

It didn't crawl. It shot across the floor like a greased lightning bolt, leaving a trail of scorch marks on the stone.

"Hey!" Bori scrambled up. "Come back here!"

The glowing slug shot straight for the open ventilation grate.

"No, no, no!" Bori dived.

He missed the slug’s tail by an inch. The creature vanished into the dark, square hole of the duct.

Clang-clatter-scuttle.

Bori lay on the floor, staring into the dark vent. Faint, golden light reflected off the metal walls of the shaft, moving away.

Behind him, the heavy doors of the robing room opened. The heavy tread of Master Thorgar approached.

"Bori!" Thorgar called out jovially. "I have the Helm! It is a bit tight, but majestic! Is the Ember ready?"

Bori stood up. He looked at the empty tongs. He looked at the vent. He looked at the angry Stone Daughter guards who would definitely arrest him for incompetence.

He made a decision born of pure panic.

"Just... checking the flue, Master!" Bori yelled, his voice cracking.

He grabbed the tongs. He grabbed the hammer. And he squeezed himself into the ventilation shaft.

"Bori?" Thorgar’s voice was closer now. "Why are you in the wall?"

Bori pulled the grate shut behind him just as Thorgar rounded the corner.

"Cleaning!" Bori shouted through the slats. "Must happen! Tradition! Back in a minute!"

He turned and crawled into the darkness, following the fading golden glow of the Turbo-Slug.

The shaft was tight, smelling of soot and old grease. It was hot.

"Come out to the coast," Bori muttered to himself, crawling on his elbows. "We'll get together, have a few laughs."

Ahead of him, the slug chirped, a sound that echoed mockingly in the metal tube. It was heading up. Towards the high vents. Towards the air intake for the entire city.

Bori groaned and started to climb. He had twenty minutes to catch a magic slug, extract a burning coal from its stomach, and get back to the forge before the entire city realized he had ruined Christmas.

The ventilation system of Hammerdeep was a marvel of dwarven engineering. It was designed to inhale the cold mountain air and exhale the toxic breath of a thousand furnaces.

To Bori, it felt like crawling through the intestine of a dragon that had recently eaten a chimney sweep.

"Just keep moving," Bori wheezed, inching his way up a vertical section of the duct using his knees and elbows. "Think of the honor. Think of the history. Think of Thorgar turning you into a soup ladle if you fail."

Above him, the shaft glowed with a rhythmic, golden light. The Magma Slug—who Bori had mentally named "Sparky"—was moving fast. The creature’s claws clicked against the metal like a manic drummer.

Bori reached a junction. The shaft leveled out, opening into a wider maintenance tunnel that ran behind the main foundry walls.

He scrambled out of the vertical pipe, gasping for air that didn't taste like soot. He spotted Sparky ten yards ahead. The slug was paused near a grate, vibrating happily. The Ember inside its stomach was so bright now that the slug looked like a paper lantern.

"Gotcha," Bori whispered. He raised his tongs, creeping forward on his toes.

Sparky’s eyestalks swiveled 180 degrees. It saw Bori. It let out a sound that was distinctly like a giggle—hee-hee-hiss—and spat a glob of molten slag at him.

Bori dived. The slag hit the wall where his head had been, melting a hole in the iron plating.

"Hey! That’s city property!" Bori yelled.

Sparky turned and scuttled away, heading deeper into the system.

"Oh no you don't," Bori growled. He sprinted after it.

The chase led them past the Great Filter Bank—a series of massive wire-mesh screens designed to catch ash. Sparky didn't stop; the slug simply burned a perfectly round, slug-sized hole through the first three screens and kept going.

Bori didn't have the luxury of melting metal. He had to shoulder-check a maintenance latch, burst through the access door, run around the filter housing, and dive back into the duct on the other side.

He was gaining, though. The slug was heavy with the coal. It was slowing down.

They reached the Wind-Chamber. This was where the main intake fans—huge blades of bronze driven by geothermal steam—pulled fresh air into the city.

The roar was deafening. The wind threatened to blow Bori backward.

Sparky was clinging to the wall, using its sticky feet to fight the gale. It was inching toward the spinning blades of the primary fan.

"Don't do it!" Bori screamed over the wind. "You'll be sliced! The Ember will be shattered!"

Sparky looked at the fan. It looked at Bori. It looked at the Ember glowing in its belly.

The slug did the math. It curled into a ball. It released its grip on the wall.

The wind caught it. Sparky became a glowing cannonball, shooting straight toward the spinning bronze blades.

"NO!"

Bori threw his hammer.

It was a desperate throw, the kind of throw a dwarf makes only once in a lifetime. The hammer sailed through the air, end over end. It didn't hit the slug. It hit the gearbox of the fan.

CRUNCH-GRIND-SCREECH.

The gears seized. Sparks showered down like fireworks. The massive fan blades groaned and shuddered to a halt, just as the ball-shaped slug flew through the gap between them.

Bori didn't wait to see where it landed. He squeezed through the stopped blades, ignoring the heat radiating from the seized gears.

He dropped into the chamber beyond. It was the Mixing Hall, a vast, cylindrical room where the fresh air was heated before being piped into the residential districts.

Sparky was uncurling in the center of the floor, looking dizzy. The Ember’s light was pulsing erratically now, flickering like a strobe.

"End of the line, Sparky," Bori panted, brandishing his tongs. "Spit it out."

The slug hissed. It began to swell. Its skin stretched tight, glowing blindingly bright.

"Don't you dare," Bori warned. "Do not explode."

The slug burped.

It wasn't a normal burp. It was a shockwave. A ring of fire expanded from the slug, knocking Bori off his feet.

When the smoke cleared, Sparky was gone. But he hadn't vanished. He had climbed.

Bori looked up. In the center of the room, a massive chain hung down, supporting a counterweight for the city’s ventilation dampers. Sparky was climbing the chain, heading for the high ceiling vents that led...

Bori’s eyes widened.

"The Great Hall," he realized. "Those vents lead directly to the ceiling of the Great Hall."

He checked his pocket watch—cracked during the fall, but ticking.

"The procession starts in five minutes. Master Thorgar is going to be walking into the Hall. If that slug drops out of the ceiling..."

He imagined the scene: The solemn music. The High Rune-Priest. Master Thorgar in his majestic helm. And then, a glowing, lava-spitting slug falling from the sky onto the High King’s table.

"I will be exiled," Bori muttered. "I will be shaved and sent to live with the gnomes."

He grabbed the chain. It was greasy and thick as his arm.

"Okay," Bori said to the empty room. "Climb the chain. Catch the slug. Save the Feast. Easy."

He jumped, grabbed the iron links, and began to haul himself up, hand over hand, chasing the glowing orange star ascending into the darkness above.

Below him, the seized fan groaned, and the pressure in the room began to build.

The ceiling of the Great Hall was a forest of stone ribs and iron chandeliers, hidden in shadow a hundred feet above the floor.

Bori scrambled out of the vent, covered in soot, grease, and sweat. He dragged himself onto a narrow maintenance walkway and peered over the edge.

Below him, the entire population of Hammerdeep seemed to be gathered. Thousands of dwarves stood in solemn silence, their armor polished, their beards braided with silver and gold. The vast tables were set with the feast, but no one was eating. They were waiting.

At the far end of the hall, the Ancestor’s Hearth waited—a massive, unlit brazier of black iron.

And marching down the central aisle, looking magnificent in the golden Helm of the First Smith, was Master Thorgar. He carried an empty, ornate box, unaware that it was empty because Bori hadn't put the Ember in it yet.

"Oh, stones," Bori whispered. "He's almost there."

Chirp.

Bori looked up. Sparky the Magma Slug was hanging upside down from the central chandelier, directly above the Hearth. The slug looked green. The Ember was pulsing violently inside him, flashing like a warning beacon.

"Don't you do it," Bori hissed, inching out onto the iron support beam of the chandelier. "Don't you get sick."

Sparky hiccuped. A spark of magical fire dripped from his mouth and drifted down, fizzling out before it hit the floor.

Below, the High Rune-Priest raised his hands. The crowd hushed. Master Thorgar reached the steps of the Hearth. He opened the box to present the Ember to the Priest.

Bori knew exactly what was about to happen. Thorgar would open the box. It would be empty. The Priest would frown. The city would panic. The sun would never return (metaphorically).

Sparky convulsed. He was about to blow.

Bori didn't have time to climb down. He didn't have time to think. He had the tongs, and he had gravity.

"For the Forge!" Bori yelled (quietly, so he wouldn't ruin the ceremony).

He leaped from the walkway, catching the chain of the chandelier. He slid down, the metal burning his gloves, swinging wildly.

Sparky saw him coming. The slug panicked. It opened its mouth and heaved.

The Hearth-Star shot out of the slug’s mouth like a cannonball, streaking straight down toward the gathered dignitaries.

Bori let go of the chain with one hand, swinging out over the void. He extended the tongs. It was the catch of a lifetime, less a feat of master dwarven dexterity and more a miracle of desperate, blind panic. CLINK.

The iron jaws of the tongs snapped shut around the falling Ember in mid-air.

Bori’s momentum carried him through the arc. He let go of the chain.

He dropped the last twenty feet, tucking and rolling as he hit the stone dais. He landed in a crouch, soot falling from his tunic like black snow, directly between Master Thorgar and the Rune-Priest.

Silence. Absolute, stunned silence.

Master Thorgar stood there, the empty box open in his hands. He stared at Bori. He stared at the soot. He stared at the glowing Ember held triumphantly in the tongs.

Bori breathed hard. He straightened up, trying to look dignified despite looking like he’d been chewed on by a dragon.

"The Ember, Master," Bori gasped, placing the glowing star-metal into the brazier. "Delivered... via the... ancient... ventilation... rite."

Thorgar looked at the Ember. It sat in the brazier, glowing hotter and brighter than ever before, supercharged by its journey through the slug. It ignited the prepared wood instantly, sending a roar of golden fire up toward the ceiling.

The crowd gasped in awe. The fire was beautiful.

Thorgar looked at Bori. His eyes twinkled behind his thick spectacles.

"A bold entrance, Apprentice," Thorgar murmured, closing the empty box. "The crowd loves a spectacle. You've made the ritual memorable, and for dwarves, a good show is worth a dozen rehearsals." He glanced at the soot. "And a very... traditional... amount of soot."

Thorgar turned to the crowd, raising his hands.

"The Hearth is lit!" Thorgar bellowed. "The warmth returns! Let the feast begin!"

The hall erupted. Cheers shook the dust from the banners. Drums began to beat. The tension broke into a wave of joy.

Bori slumped against the dais, his legs turning to jelly.

Plop.

Sparky landed on Bori’s shoulder. The slug was grey again, no longer glowing, and looked very tired. It nuzzled Bori’s ear.

"You," Bori whispered, petting the creature's warm head. "You are grounded."

Later that night, the feast was in full swing. The ale flowed like a river, and the roast mushrooms were perfection.

Bori sat at the apprentices' table, a hero. He hadn't told anyone about the slug—he let them believe his drop from the ceiling was a calculated stunt.

Master Thorgar walked by, placing a heavy hand on Bori’s shoulder.

"Good work, lad," Thorgar said quietly. "Though next year... try to use the door."

He dropped a small pouch on the table. Bori opened it. Inside was a set of Masterwork Tongs, engraved with his name.

Bori smiled. He looked down at his lap, where Sparky was happily eating a piece of coal Bori had snuck him.

"Merry Hearth-Fire, Sparky," Bori whispered.

The slug chirped, blew a tiny smoke ring, and went back to sleep.

The mountain was warm. The city was safe. And the Ember burned bright.

"Enjoyed this story? Get a Mythra Novel here"