VI. Hammerfall
Ten years after Broddur's betrayal, at one of our rare annual meetings, Fruni son of Fingar, announced that he was appointed by the Lord of Tumunzahar to lead a warband North, following rumors of a beast that denied them passage into their ancient, sunken mines. Fruni, though still young in the reckoning of the Dwarves, was considered one of the most promising warriors – even better in wielding the axe than his uncle Fikli. All rejoiced at Fruni's news, for being appointed as a warband leader was a great honour, not just for him, but for our family.
Fruni kindled the flame in our hearts, but I stoked the fire. Feeling personally inspired by this great honour bestowed upon Fruni, I convinced my family then and there that this was the moment we had long been waiting for. A chance to reinstate us as one of the more prominent families in the realm. We should all join Fruni in his expedition North! I remember crying. There was hesitation at first, but as I recited a poem of bravery and fire, their eyes began to glint, their teeth bared in anticipation as every word beckoned them to bravery. Then came the cheers and the beers and the spears … alas, so too would come the tears.
So it happened that a company of a hundred Dwarves strong followed Fruni into the Northern ranges of the Blue Mountains in the year 2999 of the third age. Here, in unforgiving icy winds, we found the entrance to the ancient mine that our Lord wished to retake from whatever evil lurked within. Going into the mines proved easy enough, despite the fact that many tunnels had collapsed. However, we found that some entrance ways were not of dwarf-making, tunnels that seemed dug out by something of large size. Following these strange pathways led us deeper into the mine. Here we found veins of gold, a most rare ore to find in the Ered Luin. This was quite the discovery indeed! But as we moved deeper into the makeshift pathway, we eventually stumbled upon a large, fanged creature that set itself upon our company as soon as we set foot in its lair.
It took out many of us before we could very well defend ourselves. Fruni was at first caught off guard by its sudden assault, and it took him a while to regain his composure and his courage. This was no mere troll or goblin chieftain. This was a Cold-Drake of the Northern Waste, a fat wingless wyrm the like of which had long troubled the Longbeards in the Grey Mountains. And though it was lesser in size than records state, it was not less dangerous. How it had ventured this far West, no one knows for certain. Perhaps it had not come from the Northern Waste at all. Maybe it had fled here after the breaking of the Blue Mountains in the First Age. All we know is that it had made our sundered mines its home for countless of years. In that time it had hoarded much of the gold ore that our forebears had unearthed. And now it brought its wrath down upon the intruders for disturbing its slumber.
I remember yelling at Fruni, who recovered himself upon hearing my bellowing voice. He marshalled whatever Dwarves remained standing, myself included, and we assailed the beast with the fury of the Firebeards. The battle in the tunnels was harsh and lasted a full night. I remember mostly darkness, fear, and biting cold, but also courage and the fiery fury all dwarves share when gold is at stake. But Fruni surely proved his worth. In an act still remembered now in song, he smote the beast with a war mattock with such ferocity that the beast drew back in pain, showing his underbelly. Here Fruni plunged the sharp end of his mattock deep into the wyrm's softer hide. The blow proved the end of the vile snake who was thereafter named Birizablag, or Gold-eater in the common tongue. For upon its death, Fruni rent open the Cold-drake and found polished gold inside his belly.
When the battle was over, the damage that had been wrought could be properly measured and mourned. Most of our company had fallen, including several members of our household. It was a victory paid for dearly. Nevertheless, upon our return, Fruni was hailed a hero. The King bestowed upon him the name of Stouthammer, the name our ancestor had born, and he had his best smiths fashion a helmet out of the gold from the beast’s belly. All agreed that this was a fitting gift, all except his uncle Fikli, who was jealous and angry for being overlooked.
In remembrance of the many family members we lost to the wyrm and Fruni's victory over the beast, we henceforth called the event Hammerfall. And the minstrels would sing of Fruni's battle with the Cold-drake for several years. But Fruni, while grateful for the recognition, felt ashamed for the losses we had incurred under his command. As a penance, he laid down his axe for a while, trading it for a chisel and a hammer. This was frowned upon by many, but brushed off as a minor quirk to an otherwise great dwarrow.
Fruni’s shame pales in comparison to the guilt I have born with me since that day. For it cannot be denied that I was the reason why so many of our family felt the desire to join Fruni, and why so many of them perished before their time. I long held that inspiring others to great deeds in battle, like the bards of old, was my single purpose in life, but in that moment I came to taste the bitterness of that belief. I was overwhelmed with a great sadness that could not be abated by caring for stories of greater battles with even greater losses. I therefore gave up my position as archivist of the Katûb-zahar and I took to solitary travel to find solace in the writing of poems, believing it would mend my mind if Mahal willed it.
