The heat inside Foundry Two struck like a physical wall, thick with the rotten-egg tang of glowing charcoal and boiling animal fat.
Outside, the mountain gale tore at the cedar shingle roof edges. It drove dry powdered snow through every chink in the high timber walls.
Inside, the massive twin bellows of the waterwheel fire groaned with a rhythmic, pulsing wheeze, sending fountains of orange sparks cascading toward the blackened rafters.
Master Borin Bronze-Lung stood over the heavy waterwheel boring lathe, his bare leather-clad arms slick with sweat and powdered iron filings.
His thick, copper-braided beard was tucked securely into the bib of his apron to keep it clear of the spinning mandrels.
In his calloused hands, he held a long carbon-steel reamer, guiding its cutting flutes into the mouth of a glowing steel billet.
“Hold the water gate at half-slack!” Borin roared above the screech of metal. “Keep the torque constant, lads!
If the lathe bites unevenly, the bore will wander!”
