The forges roared as if some sleeping volcano had awakened. Fire leapt and billowed, threatening to swallow entire hearths; the heat from the burning crystal-stone rolled outward in waves so fierce that any who drew near felt the world's blood warm beneath their feet.
Mithril, blue-gold, refined silver, earth-iron of the deepest vein—countless masterly metals were borne to a single furnace and melted together. The molten torrents flowed along channels and filled the casting-molds like rivers of liquid sun.
Hundreds of the finest smiths from the Seven Clans went to their forges bare-chested, their arms a blur of hammer and wrist. Even the rarest metals must be beaten and tempered through a million strikes. The travail was long and precise, a single seam of labor that might take a half year to see through. No impurity could be suffered if the work were to hold.
...
In a quiet chamber apart, Kaen, Gandalf, and Arwen bent over the final inscriptions. Before them stood eight fist-sized, deep-violet gems. With the quiet gravity of ritual, Kaen and Arwen poured into them their fate-wrought power, cleansing the stones until they shone without flaw.
Saruman then set a thick, old book upon a stone. The three of them, joined by will and mind, began to carve runes into the gems. The script was dense and intricate, like the joining of radicals and strokes in an elder tongue. Layer upon layer of sigils were set, each patterned so that when combined they called forth a new, complex effect.
Outside, the north-wind howled and the great snow drifted, but deep within the mountain the forges sang untroubled. Spring's first light would find the halls of Erebor alive with the most momentous day the Dwarves had seen in many ages.
...
Beneath the Golden Dome Hall, ten thousand Dwarves gathered. Even kings stood before the raised dais and looked upward to the three who hovered there. Saruman stood between them, and eight purple stones hung in the air. They gave no gaudy radiance; at first sight they were larger and darker than common gems, nothing outwardly glorious.
Eight master-craftsmen lifted trays. Each tray bore nine small metal cubes, identical and rune-carved, catching light in a soft silver sheen. Kaen and Arwen stretched forth their hands, and gold and silver intertwined as their powers met. An invisible current flowed into the eight purple gems.
In a single instant the stones flared with a fierce violet. Runic scripts spilled like constellations, different patterns whispering through the hall. Power rolled outward and every Dwarf felt it, pressing upon the heart like the comfort of a sure hoard.
At Saruman's word and with a flourish of his staff, the nine small cubes leapt from their trays. As though awakened with purpose, they flew and clasped themselves to the purple gems, forming eight metal cubes of a nature altogether new. The runes on their faces glowed.
Kaen caught one as it fell into his hand. He turned it and watched rune after rune alight, each invoking some arc of force. Fortification, severance, purification, suppression, foundation—different bindings for different needs. Each combination bore a formidable might.
He cast his wrist and the cube rose and flew, one by one, to the eight Dwarven kings, settling into their palms.
"These are Rune Cores," Kaen proclaimed. "They gather all manner of runic craft, the rarest of materials, and the joined power of three peoples. They are wrought to aid your folk. They shall be to the Dwarves what the Great Trees are to the Elves: a ward and a seed of flourishing."
"Only those of the blood of the kings of the Seven Clans may unlock their fullness. Use them wisely. Lead your houses to greatness with them."
Each monarch held the Core as if it were a new infant of stone. Because Kaen's light lay over those stones, the gaze of the kings turned clear; greed and rancor were hushed, leaving thought and counsel. Gazing up to the high place, the Dwarves knelt upon one knee. Thorin's voice rose and thundered: "Zabadûr!" All answered, and the name flew through hall and gallery.
Zabadûr, in the old tongue, meant the Great Benefactor who grants blessings to Dwarfkind. In that moment Kaen, Saruman, and Arwen received that title—names to be spoken with reverence even by kings.
...
The first to reap the Core's gift was Thorin's realm beneath the Lonely Mountain. He set a sealed chamber atop the great peak and carved within it a runic altar. The Rune Core was set at its heart. As the device turned, a web of runic power threaded from summit down to the mountain's deepest veins.
In the dark places a thousand monstrous cries rose, and Dwarf-warriors struck like a hammer blow, routing those that nested in shadow. Galleries that had been prone to collapse held fast. Where earth had given way time and again, no more did the stone betray the smiths. The mines stood.
...
Kaen also set forth policies to encourage marriage and childbirth among the Dwarves. They were plain things, incentives and honors for those who would raise kin, and when put in practice they bore fruit beyond expectation.
All the while Kaen taught. Nearly every day he read to the Eight Kings, sharing political craft that crossed race and time. His counsel was practical, his ideals of governance precise. They came to call him Teacher of Kings.
When winter drew to its close, the Dwarf-kings set their faces homeward. Kaen and Dáin rode together toward the Iron Hills. The Iron Hills lie to the northeast of the Lonely Mountain, upon the edge of the great Rhovanian wastes, some hundred and fifty leagues from Erebor across plain and ridge.
The range is named for its iron, but tin and copper and gems lie there as well. The land is harsh, broken, full of rock and ravine. Winters are long and cruel. It is a place made for the Dwarf to hold and to carve into stone. Under Dáin's rule the hills were populous, hardy, and a hotbed of the smith's art. The folk of the Iron Hills were fierce in manner; they had long fought off Eastern raids of men and orcish hordes.
Kaen spent an entire spring there with Arwen and Saruman, and together they taught the people to coax fertility from barren ground. They turned a lean stretch into a field that took grain and root. That new soil was named the Ground of Hope, for it symbolized steadiness and the laying down of foundations.
"To rule is to provide," Kaen told Dáin. "You have iron in abundance, yet a realm must also bear bread. The Rune Core contains the blessing of harvest. Learn to use it."
Dáin listened and learned. He was a warrior, but gentle as iron that knows when to yield. He honored Kaen and kept his counsel close.
...
When spring waned and summer opened its gates, Kaen, Arwen, Saruman, and the King's Guard took leave. The Dwarves of the Iron Hills and Dáin himself bade them farewell with heavy hearts. Kaen's tour of the realms had come to its end.
They had left behind devices and teachings that breathed new life into the lands. They had bound races together with works of craft and law. Now Kaen would return to his own kingdom to plant the Golden Tree and to begin an age anew—an age where shadow and light contend, but where civilization stands strong and fair.