Chapter 5 - Magma Ox Forge!
Carts moved constantly in and out of the forge entrance—ores, ingots, broken weapons, tools, cookware—anything made of metal passed through here.
As we got closer, the temperature steadily rose.
Ding…
Dingg…
Dinggg…
The sound of hammering echoed from within, layered and relentless.
Outside, hundreds of dwarves filled the area. Some had stalls set up, others sold food, and a few simply loitered around, laughing and talking. A small bazaar had formed around the entrance, growing livelier as we approached. The echoes from the tunnel ahead only made it louder.
“Ashtir!”
“Hey! It’s Ashtir!”
“Ashtir is back!”
My father waved casually at the dwarves greeting him.
Then he tapped my head and lifted me up.
“This is my treasured son! The one I’ve been telling you all about—Ashvir! HAHAHAHAHA!”
Before I could react, he carried me straight into the forge.
“A grand entrance!”
“Ashvir Grayhorn has arrived! HAHAHAHAHA!”
---
Inside, the forge opened into a massive network of rail lines.
The main track splits into three paths. The center had five lanes, the left had two, and the right had three. From what I could see, ores and ingots moved through the center, tools and cookware exited from the left, and weapons moved in and out along the right.
This forge wasn’t general production.
It was specialized.
Primarily for ingots.
---
Black ores, bluish ores, and yellowish ores were fed into the center. On the other side, black, silverish, and brown-toned ingots came out.
Bluish… copper?
That matched what I had read before.
The black ones should be iron—but something felt off. They looked too uniform.
…A higher grade?
Or something else entirely?
---
The cart we were on entered the central lane and began descending, like a log ride in an amusement park.
An orange glow appeared at the end of the tunnel.
The air grew heavier. Hotter.
The sounds shifted—fire roaring, metal clanging, voices echoing.
Then light flooded the tunnel.
Yellow. Orange. Blinding.
---
We emerged into a massive underground chamber—two, maybe three football fields wide.
At the center stood a colossal crucible engulfed in flames.
Above it hung a banner bearing the image of an ox. Beside it, several flags displayed a symbol I recognized—the same one etched onto my father’s arm.
A crucible, with a horn rising from its side.
Inside it, the stylized head of a dwarf with a long beard and a horned helmet.
---
At first glance, they all looked the same.
But they weren’t.
---
My father’s mark had something extra.
---
At the top and base of the crucible symbol were additional markings. They were faint—but there were layers to them. Too many. And far more complex than they should be.
They didn’t look decorative.
---
I had seen something like them before.
In the old books.
Ancient diagrams.
Symbols no one could read.
---
Which means…
This isn’t just a mark.
It’s something else.
---
As we reached the end of the cart line, I looked at the crucible again.
Up close, it was even more complex. Valves lined its sides, and thick pipes extended outward, connecting it to smaller crucibles nearby. Two or three dwarves stood beside them, pouring sacks of unknown materials and mixing them carefully.
Below, another pipe led into a large, layered box—likely molds for ingots.
It was essentially an assembly line.
Not automated, but controlled. Each stage was handled manually, ensuring consistency and quality at every step.
---
As I stared at it, Ashtir patted my head and handed me a jacket.
“Wear this,” he said. “Your body is still too fragile. The heat here could cook you alive. Normally, children aren’t allowed here, but since you’re my son… I’ll make an exception.”
He carefully dressed me, covering my face, legs, and feet with thick protective fabric. It felt suffocating—like preparing for extreme cold—except this was to survive the heat.
---
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he said. “You can feel the passion of everyone here just by watching them.”
His gaze shifted toward the crucible.
“This forge was built thousands of years ago. Our ancestors maintained it for generations. But about five hundred years ago… something was lost.”
He paused.
“I don’t know what it was. It didn’t lower the quality of our work. But…”
He frowned slightly.
“Something is missing.”
Then he looked at me again, a faint smile forming.
“Maybe one day, you’ll figure it out.”
---
“Let’s find an open forge at the back,” he said. “We’ll start working there.”
He picked me up, carrying the broken tools we had brought.
---
As we walked deeper into the forge, we passed hundreds of dwarves. Just as my father said, you could feel their passion. They were so focused on their work that most didn’t even notice us passing by.
Each station was carefully managed, with heat adjusted depending on the metal being worked. Streams of molten metal flowed through controlled channels, guided by tools and steady hands.
---
At the back of the forge, I saw a smaller setup.
It looked like a miniature version of the main crucible system. Several of them were lined up, but no one was using them.
---
“Ashvir,” Ashtir said, setting me down, “this is the training area. Most new apprentices start here, but they’re currently on break, so we can use this place freely.”
He gestured toward the smaller setups.
“These are called calf forges. The large one in the main chamber is the ox forge.”
“These are used to learn the basics before working on the main system.”
---
He grinned.
“This will be your first lesson—ingots.”
“One of our specialties.”
“I’ll show you how to make one.”
---
The calf forge had a much smaller crucible—more like a heavy cauldron. It was connected by short pipes to four smaller crucibles, each leading into its own mold system.
Each one could produce around six ingots.
So in total—
Twenty-four per cycle.
---
“Ashvir, this is where we melt the metals,” Ashtir said as he placed the broken tools and cookware into the crucible. “Since we’re working with scrap, we’ll start with iron. The most basic material—but also the most important.”
---
He pointed below.
“This is the ember pit. This is our heat source.”
---
He poured coal into the pit, then placed a metal grate over it.
“This keeps the crucible from collapsing into the fire if something goes wrong.”
---
“Do you understand so far?”
“Yes.”
---
It really did feel like a stove.
---
Ashtir picked up two small bags and brought them closer.
“Ashvir, look carefully.”
---
He opened one.
Inside was a white, powder-like substance.
Then the other—
Yellow.
---
“These are fire salts,” he said. “We use them to control the temperature of the fire.”
“To start a proper flame, we mix them.”
---
He poured a small amount into a mortar.
“Two spoons of yellow. One spoon of white.”
---
He ground them carefully into fine powder.
“Cover your nose.”
---
Once done, he made a small hole in the center of the coal, added wood shavings, and sprinkled the powder over it.
Then he lit a large match and tossed it into the pit.
---
A bluish flame erupted.
---
“Now we wait,” he said. “To speed things up, we add more mixture—equal parts this time—every few minutes.”
---
An hour passed.
The metal inside the crucible had fully melted.
---
“Come here, Ashvir.”
---
He lifted me up.
Inside, molten metal glowed bright orange, with black residue floating on the surface.
---
“Those are impurities,” he said. “We remove them to ensure quality.”
---
He scooped them out carefully until only clean molten iron remained.
---
Then he opened the valve.
The molten metal flowed into the smaller crucibles, dividing evenly.
---
“Ashtir,” he said, “now we decide what kind of iron we want.”
---
He pointed to the first crucible.
“One spoon of charcoal. Ten minutes.”
“This gives us crude iron—cheap, weak, and disposable.”
---
The second—
“Two spoons. Twenty minutes.”
“Wrought iron. Stronger. Reliable. Good for tools and basic weapons.”
---
Then the third.
“Four spoons. Forty minutes.”
“Steel.”
“Stronger, more durable—this is what we use when it matters.”
---
“What do you think, Ashvir? Are you learning?”
“Yes!”
---
“So basically… we just increase the amount and time?”
---
He chuckled.
“…That’s one way to see it.”
---
Then he pointed to the last crucible.
---
“This one is yours.”
“What do you want to make?”
---
I stared at it for a moment.
---
“Six spoons,” I said. “And fifty minutes.”
---
Ashtir raised an eyebrow.
Then he grinned.
---
“Oh?”
“Go on, then.”
---
He lifted me up as I poured the charcoal into the crucible.
---
“Now I’ll handle the mixing,” he said. “You sit there and watch carefully.”
---
Ashtir began to stir the molten metal with steady, precise movements, his focus sharpening as he controlled the flow and balance of the mixture like a true craftsman.