Hammer Lord sat alone at his desk, looking through the pages of an account of the Elder days. His desk was usually a mess, filled with scrolls, lists, reports, but today it was empty. Since his return from the Misty Mountains patrol, he had nothing to do. His troops were resting on leave and he had received no orders for a new deployment, nor was he expecting one. He spent most his days in his room, distracting himself with books from the libraries of Elrond, taking walks around the valley and occasionally busying himself at his workbench. In the old days, before he was the Hammer Lord, he was a prospector and an appraiser of precious metals and stones alike, but he had long abandoned that craft. When he was bodyguard to Lord Anglachelm, when he wasn’t guarding the Lord, he would spend most of his spare time in the forges, refining metals and ingots for the smiths. He had a great passion for collecting precious stones too and sometimes he would fashion them with gold and silver to create rings of great beauty. Now as he picked up his old tools, he felt as if his hands were rusted. During the past week, he felt his skill slowly coming back to his hands and so he managed to distract himself from his boredom.
Leaning back on his chair he looked around his chambers. It was elegantly decorated, woodwork on his desk, chairs and closets were deeply engraved with great skill and some were even inlaid with silver. Hammer Lord indeed had a taste for luxury and most certainly he could afford it. A subtle carpet lay on the parquet floor, in blue and red. The paintings on the walls depicted not the sea or rivers, but mountains and forests, castles and forts and one in particular, depicted a battle. A tower in a green field there was, and a glorious fight against the enemy. With swords, horses and all sorts of banners in the back, it instilled a sense of victory to whoever looked upon it. From the ceiling, a fancy chandelier hung close to this painting and in the evening it would cast dim light on it, revealing a darker image of the battle. It would reflect a sense of dread to the viewer.
The corner next to his desk was furnished with various weapons and armor. A shield of the Noldor hung on the wall, next to a suit of armor, both with engravings on steel. The armor was certainly not for use in battle, but the shield was. Next to those on a special stand, there was a sword which caught glimpses of light and reflected them as if it was freshly forged. This one was a gift from Lord Anglachelm and was brought hither from Gondolin. Veryacano actually owned a blade very much alike to this one, which he carried on him when he wasn’t carrying his greathammer. But this sword one was much more beautiful and it seemed unused. Although he had never been to Gondolin, Veryacano prized this gift above everything he owned. There were many other weapons there, elegantly hung on wooden stands on the wall, maces, swords, hammers and daggers.
His great hammer was there too, and it caught his eyes. Among the members of Bar-en Vanimar, it was known as the Hammer of the Order. Veryacano rose from his chair and walked towards it. Its thick handle was leaned against the wall. The handle was wrapped tightly with soft leather and it had a very large and heavy head of steel, ready to crush any foe with a single swing. It was a dreadful weapon but unfortunately it was damaged now. A visible crack ran across the head connection. When last he used it, Hammer Lord had smashed the stone and wooden supports in the goblin caves to collapse access tunnels. He noticed the damage to his hammer only after the battle. At first it seemed like the crack on the heavy head could be repaired easily. But as he looked at it once again, the cracked seemed deeper and he wondered if it could actually be done.
As steel was tempered and quenched in water, it would become hardened but at the same time it would become brittle, prone to breaking and cracking before bending. Noldorin smiths would often use the closely guarded secrets of their steel crafting to maintain a balance between hardness and brittleness to create a durable weapon.
Veryacano’s hammer too was forged in such a way but it was not made to smash stone. The weapon had simply cracked where the hammer head connected to the hilt and it would not suffer any more punishment in battle. It would have to be reforged or replaced. Though Veryacano was unwilling to replace his hammer for a new one, he thought perhaps it was time for a new one. So he sent for Estafin, who was known as a skilled weaponsmith.
Within the hour, there was a knock on his door.
‘‘Come in.’’ he said.
Daegond the Hound entered and saluted him. ‘‘Estarfin is here lord.’’
‘‘Tell him to come in.’’ Veryacano replied as he shifted on his seat. As Daegond stepped out, Estarfin entered the room and saluted smartly. Replying with a salute, Veryacano began:
‘‘I heard you have been busy in the forges Estarfin.’’
‘‘Yes my lord.’’ Estarfin replied shortly and took a moment to look at the decorations around the room with curiosity in his eyes.
‘‘Word of your passion in your work is widespread. I have a commission for you, if you accept.’’
Veryacano said, rising from his chair. He beckoned at Estarfin and walked over to the corner where the weapons were displayed with him. He took his great hammer in his hands and showed it to Estarfin.
‘‘I’d like you to repair the damage here. See?’’ he ran a finger upon the long crack at the hilt connection. ‘‘The actual head is fine. But the steel at the connection here is no good anymore. I’d like you to reforge it if you can so it does not break again.’’
Estarfin took the heavy hammer with both hands and closely inspected the weapon in silence. Noting his silence, Veryacano continued with a raised eyebrow: ‘‘If you can not, I’ll accept a new hammer too. Forged in the same fashion of course.’’
‘‘What do you say? Think you can do this?’’
Continued in: The Hammer of Wrath
