The Crystal Shard(The Icewind Dale Trilogy 1)(32)

A block of the purest mithril, a small leather bag; a golden coffer, and a silver scroll tube capped on one end by a diamond were spaced exactly as Bruenor had lain them so long ago.

Bruenor's hands trembled, and he had to stop and wipe the perspiration from them several times as he removed the precious items from the chest, placing those that would fit in his pack and laying the mithril block on a blanket he had unrolled. Then he quickly replaced the false bottom, taking care to fit the knothole back into the wood perfectly, and put his phony treasure back in place. He chained and locked the box, leaving everything exactly as he had found it, except that he saw no reason to chance accidents by rearming the needle trap.

* * *

Bruenor had constructed his outdoor forge in a hidden nook tucked away at the base of Kelvin's Cairn. This was a seldom traveled portion of the dwarven valley, the northern end, with Bremen's Run widening out into the open tundra around the western side of the mountain, and Icewind Pass doing likewise on the east. To his surprise, Bruenor found that the stone here was hard and pure, deeply imbued with the strength of the earth and would serve his small temple well.

As always, Bruenor approached this sacred place with measured, reverent steps. Carrying now the treasures of his heritage, his mind drifted back over the centuries to Mithril Hall, ancient home of his people, and to the speech his father had given him on the day he received his first smithy hammer.

"If yer talent for the craft is keen," his father had said, "and ye're lucky enough to live long and feel the strength of the earth, ye'll find a special day. A special blessin' - some would say a curse - has been placed upon our people, for once, and only once, the very best of our smiths may craft a weapon of their choosing that outdoes any work they'd ever done. Be wary of that day, son, for ye'll put a great deal of yerself into that weapon. Ye'll never match its perfection in yer life again and, knowing this, ye'll lose a lot of the craftsman's desire that drives the swing of yer hammer. Ye may find an empty life after yer day, but if yer good as yer line says ye'll be, ye'll have crafted a weapon of legend that will live on long after yer bones are dust."

Bruenor's father, cut down in the coming of the darkness to Mithril Hall, hadn't lived long enough to find his special day, though if he had, several of the items that Bruenor now carried would have been used by him. But the dwarf saw no disrespect in his taking the treasures as his own, for he knew that he would craft a weapon to make the spirit of his father proud.

Bruenor's day had come.

* * *

The image of a two-headed hammer hidden within the block of mithril had come to Bruenor in a dream earlier that week. The dwarf had understood the sign at once and knew that he would have to move quickly to get everything ready for the night of power that was fast approaching. Already the moon was big and bright in the sky. It would reach its fullness on the night of the solstice, the gray time between the seasons when the air tingled with magic. The full moon would only enhance the enchantment of that night, and Bruenor believed that he would capture a mighty spell indeed when he uttered the dweomer of power.

The dwarf had much work before him if he was to be prepared. His labor had begun with the construction of the small forge. That had been the easy part and he went about it mechanically, trying to hold his thoughts to the task at hand and away from the disrupting anticipation of crafting the weapon.

Now the time he had waited for was upon him. He pulled the heavy block of mithril from his pack, feeling its pureness and strength. He had held similar blocks before and grew apprehensive for a moment. He stared into the silvery metal.

For a long moment, it remained a squared block. Then its sides appeared to round as the image of the marvelous warhammer came clear to the dwarf. Bruenor's heart raced, and he breathed in short gasps.

His vision had been real.

He fired up the forge and began his work at once, laboring through the night until the light of dawn dispelled the charm that was upon him. He returned to his home that day only to collect the adamantite rod he had set aside for the weapon, returning to the forge to sleep and later to pace nervously while he waited for darkness to fall.

As soon as daylight faded, Bruenor eagerly went back to work. The metal molded easily under his skilled manipulations, and he knew that before the dawn could interrupt him, the head of the hammer would be formed. Though he still had hours of work ahead of him, Bruenor felt a surge of pride at that moment. He knew that he would meet his demanding schedule. He would attach the adamantite handle the next night and all would be ready for the enchantment under the full moon on the night of the summer solstice.

* * *

The owl swooped silently down on the small rabbit, guided toward its prey by senses as acute as any living creature's. This would be a routine kill, with the unfortunate beast never even aware of the coming predator. Yet the owl was strangely agitated, and its hunter's concentration wavered at the last moment. Seldom did the great bird miss, but this time it flew back to its home on the side of Kelvin's Cairn without a meal.

Far out on the tundra, a lone wolf sat as still as a statue, anxious but patient as the silver disk of the huge summer moon broke the flat rim of the horizon. It waited until the alluring orb came full in the sky, then it took up the ancient howling cry of its breed. It was answered, again and again, by distant wolves and other denizens of the night, all calling out to the power of the heavens.

The night of the summer solstice, when magic tingled in the air, exciting all but the rational beings who had rejected such base instinctual urges, had begun.