Continued from http://laurelinarchives.org/node/12450
I paced across the tiles of the gallery deep in thought. Those others gathered within the library were no longer paying me any heed, their heads buried back in their books. Walking to the rail, I laid my hands upon it and pondered the task before me. A request for my services from the Hammer Lord Veryacano was pressure enough, but to be asked to either repair his great hammer or craft him a new one? I thought back to the expectant look upon Veryacano's face as he had handed me his hammer, and the sinking feeling that I felt when I saw the deep crack in the metal. Of course I could repair the crack, and I could make it appear as new. But I did not have the heart to; I could not hand Veryacano back a damaged weapon. It had seen enough of war, and had no place anymore in the hands of a warrior. I had filled the crack, and sealed the neck of the weapon with a gold frill, but I would do no more to it. The Hammer Lord required a new weapon, and the thought filled me with trepidation. I shook my head slightly at the magnitude of the task, and then pushed myself back from the railing, turning and striding towards the jumble of books upon the desk I was using. Sitting heavily in the seat, I pulled a thick black volume from the pile, opening it at the page I had folded over previously. Scanning the lines, I quickly found the passage that I had been looking for.
Then said Rog in a great voice: "Who now shall fear the Balrogs for all their terror? See before us the accursed ones who for ages have tormented the children of the Noldoli, and who now set a fire at our backs with their shooting. Come ye of the Hammer of Wrath and we will smite them for their evil." Thereupon he lifted his mace, and its handle was long; and he made a way before him by the wrath of his onset even unto the fallen gate: but all the people of the Stricken Anvil ran behind like a wedge, and sparks came from their eyes for the fury of their rage.
Sighing, I set the book down again. I had searched through every book that arrogant lore master had recommended. What was his name, Conda? Condir? This was the only description of the weapon of Rog to be found in the library, and it gave away nothing. Snapping the book shut in frustration, I tried to concentrate on images of all of the great war hammers that I had seen throughout my long years. Some slender and curved, some heavy and brutal. None seemed perfect, and I ran a hand through my hair in frustration. Glancing down at the table, I picked up a dusty red volume, once again opening it and staring at the coat of arms of the House of Hammer of Wrath, the stylised blacksmiths hammer on a red backdrop. Of course! I traced the lines of the hammer with my finger, picturing it in full size. Standing abruptly, I drew one more annoyed look from those studying in silence before I left the library.
***
The work was proving demanding. This was no elegant fancy such as a sword or spear. The head of the new hammer lay on a bed of silk in front of me. It was square-faced and brutal, and no decoration had yet been applied to it. The appearance with this weapon was secondary if it was to be wielded in terrible battles. The days of work that had gone into the forging and shaping of the hammer head had been worthwhile, and I looked down at my creation with pride. There was still a long way to go before it was completed of course, but I was satisfied so far.
***
The head of the hammer glowed red from the heat of the fire, and judging that the time was right, I quickly pulled it from the forge and rested it upon the anvil. Taking the steel and gold handle, I pushed it into the hole in the hammer head, straining until I heard a faint click. Knowing that the metal was cooling rapidly and that I would not have another chance, I grabbed and held the still-red hammer head. Even through the thick leather gauntlets I wore, I could feel the skin of my hand blistering almost instantly. Fighting the urge to release the hot metal, I slowly twisted the handle until there was another faint click. Releasing the hammer head, I tore off my gauntlets and plunged my burnt hand into the barrel of cold water. I waited, the heat in my hand slowly turning into a dull ache, and then a slight tingling as my hand and forearm became numb. I kept my eye on the hammer the whole time, the heated metal slowly contracting around the handle, the complex locks inside the head cooling and bonding the head and handle together. Frowning slightly as I drew my hand from the water I turned my mind to the look of the weapon.
***
I finished turning the last strand of gold between the hammer and the handle, the joint seamless. It was finished, finally. A pair of great red gems shone from either side of the hammer, although it still pained me slightly to see them there. But the jewels were the finest I had, the only heirloom that I had found when I returned to the house burnt-out house next to Lake Helevorn. The red jewels flashed with fire, and were entwined by tendrils of gold. Frowning slightly, I took down my engraving tools. Veryacano had asked that I hand the weapon to another for the final engraving, but I would not allow the weapon to leave my hands without at least naming it. Leaning over the weapon, I inscribed faint Tengwar into the head of the hammer: Nambantur. Wrapping Nambantur in red silk, I placed it upon the wooden table in the forge, next to the repaired hammer wrapped in black. I left the forge, looking for Daegond. He could carry the hammers to Veryacano, I would rest and try to heal my injured hand.
