Okrin Makaz
The Tool of the Master Crafter
I need a better hammer.
I can do better than the Queen's Oathplate and Shield of Unyielding Stone at this point, of course. I could probably match the Shining Standard for that matter, though turn it to different end, and Grong a Grom too if I really wanted to, but I find myself most of all annoyed by how often my hammers keep failing.
Breaking apart as they slam into Fimir steel, shattering like so much fragile glass.
And not killing, either.
So I'll make a better hammer. One worthy of a Runelord of the Karaz Ankor, one worthy of Snorri Klausson's apprentice, one worthy of Jorri Klausson's daughter. A thing fit to kill and create in equal measure. Not that I particularly enjoy that first part either--but done righteously it's merely a duty, one like so many others I've taken on over the centuries.
Not half as rewarding as teaching apprentices, though.
It would have been convenient if Uncle had compressed Makerstrike and shared it with us yet; but I don't
need that to make a weapon of worth. Certainly it's better for my creativity, that I can't simply go out and take one of his Runes for myself.
The combination I have planned is simple, and its simplicity is its strength. The Master Rune of Smiting, given suitably aged Stonehorn Horns. The Rune of Grungni, given Barazgal, not particularly special all told, simply favors called in from when I was a journeywoman and my plaits were still bristly little things. And the Rune of Thungni, given Adamant from my own Smelter.
Simple, straightforward to the extreme even. But for all Runesmiths ought to be capable of adapting to change, with minds both quick enough and broad enough to adapt to the world around us and willing to experiment, sometimes you just want a damn wall.
Or, in my case, a hammer. A very, very nice hammer. Energy, kinetic force, would surround it and each blow would destroy unworthy works, channeling the fury of Grungni and Thungni as lords of Runecraft, yoked around the force of the Master Rune of Smiting until every blow could either be so powerful that it could break a gate like so much glass or so precise as to carve the Runes in the minute detail so often required (or both as the case might be: more than a few Runes seem to draw in the force of the blow itself, for that matter). A tool, created so perfect as to kill as it was to create, a balanced thing much like a Runesmith, really. Whether called upon to arm kings and thanes, to craft legends for the Dawi to come after I enter the Underearth. Or called to combat, called to defy the darkest of magic and the worst of evils and the bleakest of curses, the hammer would make me more able, repudiation of the darkness that lurks in the musty, dank and hidden corners of the world we live in now to fear.
Physically, the hammer would be relatively simple in geometry, a relatively simple sledgehammer made ornate and sized such that I could bear both my shield and my hammer when it was done.
And with that all set, I put myself to the forge.
--
I carved Pure Gromril through the hot Adamant even as the many talismans of heat resistance burned gold and teal in the face of the furnace, defiant in the face of the overwhelming dragonfire
heat needed to work the purified Gromril at any practical level..
Making the hammerhead's rough shape was easy enough and so now, I was chiseling in the decorations: at the top, and at the two flat horizontal sides, all beryls the teal blue of Rune lighting set in the hard metal I had blackened (for the aesthetic, you understand). On the slopes, carved in intricate details, stories of the discoveries of many Runes: First and foremost, of course, Thungni returning from the Ankor Bryn, but too Grungni carving Azamar into the Throne of Power, Thungni forging Kradskonti as a gift for His Mother, Grungni creating Foefeller, the legends of my craft and, therefore, the most worthy legends of them all. Eventually the carving was to be filigreed with bronze wire, the better to shine in the light of the Runes and to offset the darkness of the Adamant itself.
After I had done the haft, at least.
A length of Troll Bone, ancient and durable, waited for me. Already roughly the right length, about half-again the length of my arm, but before I could use it I would need to see it stained, a dark cherry red of my own concoction that would help protect the bone from age or damage. So I grasped my iron tongs and slowly but carefully dipped it into the stain, a simple, straightforward process, even as the furnace still crackled keeping the Adamant head proper pliable.
And after thirty heartbeats it was ready.
I was ready.
I pulled it out and saw the wood was good and wasting no time I started to carve into the pliant material, humming a jaunty little tune as I went, preparing the structure with chisel and clove. There would a be a grip of Ancient Troll's Hide, worked pliable and yet enduring, and to set it off from the wood bands of yellow shining gold with raised forms of the shape of the Rune of Grungni, the Rune of Thungni, the Master Rune of Grungni, the Master Rune of Thungni and so on around rubies a dark, vibrant and fiery red, five each above and below. The counterweight at the end of the haft would be the fang of ancient Spawn set in a twinkling socket of brightest, purest gold, a trophy of my own echoing battle to my Ancestors, my own emulation of Thungni and Grungni alike who had slain monsters when my father's father's father's father was not yet more than happy news to his Grandfather.
A simple construction, yes, but a worthy one.
--
It was done, physically. The Adamant head still burned bright, and the haft still sizzled and smoked as it conformed to the hole in the metal.
All I needed to do now was carve the Runes.
I took the Pure Gromril chisel, the heavy hammer, and started to strike and chant, chant and strike.
And Thungni found a cavern, and within it a great, glittering realm
The Master Rune of Smiting. A thing fit to slay the worst of monsters, a thing fit to kill the headiest of beasts, a thing for hunters, a thing for slayers. Force,
unrelenting force, fit to kill any and everything it strikes no matter how powerful. And yet, and yet in peace it would allow me to strike the mightiest of Runes on the greatest of gates, carve the tallest of temples to our Ancestors, make the best of shafts in the mines.
The Rune itself seemed to understand in any case, vibrating like some eager, goodhearted youth waiting to make their Ancestors proud, only just waiting the cue, my command. Slowly but surely it began to glow teal--I liked visiting my uncle to be sure, but better not to get
too used to working at Khazagar for any number of reasons--and so I lifted the Ancient Stonehorn Horns, ground to a power and held in a bowl, and lifted them up. Forty-seven heartbeats, forty-eight, forty-nine, seven beats for each of the Ancestors. The instant I counted that I began to pour the powder out into the waiting, glimmering thing, felt it take in the power slowly but surely, saw the glimmering climb and climb and climb and climb in potency--until all at once, it was over, the shimmering Master Rune complete.
And plucked from it gleaming seeds of power, that he might give to the dwarves.
And so onto the Rune of Thungni. It was quick work in comparison, to strike the simple Rune, but I couldn't help but compare the strokes and strikes in it as I worked: how one was similar to the Rune of Spelleating, another to Spellturning, a third to Siphoning. It was, perhaps, only appropriate that the Rune of Thungni should, indeed, be so connected to the many Runes of Mysticism that seemed to fill the libraries of lore and the repertoire of Runesmiths young and old alike to spite Wizards of ill intent and to control the magic, make it reliable. The structure began to gleam, patiently asking for a reagent like an honorable Elder and to that honorable Elder I gave the bubbling thing of Adamant, the metal so entrenched and so connected to Thungni. A part of me still thought there was something to using Troll Stomach for it, but this was not an experimental hammer really.
This gift we carry, as servants of our Lord.
Last but not least, the Rune of Grungni. Force, lightning, the storm, aye, and I desired as much; but all bound in that also craftsmanship, creation, the work of a builder, the work of a maker. The work of one who loves beautiful things. A work shared. And even if it should end up only the storm, I would survive with a hammer perfect for slaying to be sure.
But to load the dice, I poured out the molten Barazgal as the surly old Rune started to flicker and demand, and gave it sustenance, nourishment, for itself. A metal all bound up with Grungni as a miner, yes, but not the storm-caller, the thunder spitter, the destroyer. Something channeling Grungni as craftsman proper would be even better, of course, but I doubted those supposed shavings from the Throne of Power from street vendors would count, and if they did that would probably be worse.
And like that, it was done. No angelic choir, no great shifting in the world. Undoubtedly, if I had locked myself away for a decade instead of the handful of years I actually had kept myself bound up for I could have done better. Be harder to improve on the reagent front, at least, unless somebody somewhere, had a massive stockpile of primordial Dragon Ogres or Troll Progenitors to take a hammer to for bits and pieces.
But give me another round with those Fimir, and I'd show you it was more than enough. The air above wavered from heat, yes, but not only from heat: there was real power there, trapped and just waiting to be unleashed in the hammer.
In Okrin Makaz.
I smelled the scent of hot Stonebread and cool ale as my apprentices knocked on my door appreciably punctually, neither too early nor too late, and hummed.
Besides, I did have other things to do.
