So, the set-up for today’s scene is kinda-sorta tangentially inspired by the titular Warhammer from the tabletop game Warhammer – in brief, the Warhammer is called Ghal Maraz, a Dwarven war hammer (incidentally, the real ones are generally less imposing and impressive than Fantasy ones) given to to the main Human god Sigmar (namesake of the current version of Warhammer) and went on to become the emblem and primary weapon of the Emperors of the, um, Empire.

So, basically, here’s Kat swinging around a magic Dwarven Warhammer…

Reminder that Realmgard Dwarves are Germanic and “Eisernzorn” is Geman…ish for “Iron Wrath.”

Seems like a good name for a big, magic hammer…

© J.B. Norman — Published by Emona Literary Services™

“You know,” Amara mutters, watching Kat heft the enormous. “Katherine’s arms really are rather impressive, aren’t they?”

“I don’t think I’m allowed to have an opinion on this,” Nolan mutters.

Even lifting the hammer is one of the most intense workouts Kat has ever had. It takes muscle to shoot a bow, but this big, ponderous metal brick-on-a-stick is the complete opposite experience to her daggers.

And yet, once she’s got the hammer up, it seems to get a whole lot lighter, like the enchantments on the hammer are empowering her to swing it around as efficiently as possible.

The old Dwarf blacksmith nods thoughtfully.

“Yes,” he says, running his hand through his long, white beard. “The spirit of the great hammer Eisernzorn is roused.”

“Huh?” Dunstana asks, looking up – though only just – to.

“Hammer’s angry, Captain Kid,” Kat explains.

“My ancestors forged the great hammer Eisernzorn to protect our town in times of need and/or crisis,” the Dwarf blacksmith says. “And, well—”

He gestures broadly to the horde of rampaging marauders that have been plaguing the hinterlands of Porthaven for the best few months. A veritable army is drawing itself up on the outskirts of town: mostly Gardians, more than a few Trolls, the odd Dwarven renegade…

“Is that you, Uncle Torvald?” one of the Dwarves of the village cries at a familiar face in among their ranks.

…there’s at least one strangely lumpy man who appears to be three Goblins sharing a trenchcoat. And whether the ill-tempered goats that appear to be tagging along are pets, livestock, or part of the rampaging horde proper remains unclear.

“Well,” Nolan offers. “We’re here to help however we can.”

“Now, Captain. There is rather a lot of them. I’m assuming you have a plan for this,” Tancred says.

Nolan blinks.

Kat hefts the great hammer Eisernzorn.

“Oh man,” she says, feeling the power of the ancient enchantments flowing through her. “This is going to be awesome.”

She points.

“Ten marks says I hit somebody over that tree.”

“That would be so cool!” Dunstana exclaims.

She looks up at her sister.

“Hey, Kat. Can I have ten marks?”

She turns to Nolan.

“Hey, Norbert. Can I have ten marks?”

“My name is Nolan…”

“I still like Norbert better,” Matilda mutters.

“Right,” Kat says, stepping forward and resting the hammer across her shoulders as she contemplates the ranks of enemies. “Who wants to get war-hammed first?”

She nods thoughtfully.

“Him,” she decides, pointing to Uncle Torvald.

She hefts the hammer again. She runs into battle, her long legs covering the space between her and the ranks of marauders in half a heartbeat.

She swings.

Eisernzorn strikes true, catching Uncle Torvald in the midsection with a metallic sound somewhere between a thud, a whomp, and a doink.

“I’ll see you at the Harvest Festival!” Uncle Torvald’s nephew calls from the safety of the village.

“I’ll bring yaaaaaaaaaaaams,” Uncle Torvald calls back, his voice fading into the distance as he catapults over the horizon.

Dunstana blinks and wipes a sudden tear away from her eye.

“That was the best sound I have ever heard.”

---

Uncle Torvald be like:

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