Amalthiel fully appreciated that he was gathering quite a bizarre group
within the army. He already had Elves, Dwarves, Goblins, Trolls and
Lizard people in his special troupe but for some reason it struck him as
the final stroke of irony when the tiny Orc girl Ascara began watching
his hammer descending on an anvil with as much fascination as any of the
other children. His scarred faced twisted in a caricature of a smile, as
the girl approached closer to see his feeble attempts.
He was not close enough yet to the final glory of fashioning a lesser
Ring of Power but the kids could still learn a lot of the stages
involved in the process. The shrewdest among them would probably figure
out how to be useful to him, bringing him the tools, the metals or even
refilling his drinking goblet. Not that he would turn the others away
either. All the children gathered here because they did not belong
anywhere else, anymore than he did and despite their various races, they
never fought each other.
Missing the direction of the blow because of his thoughts, Amalthiel
cursed and adjusted the hammer. The word required lots of precision.
Even trying to imitate the styles of the known masters did not do him
any good when some of their spells were forgotten. Davar the Dwarf knew
how to create cohesion of the runes, making them work together towards
the same goal and the scrolls stolen from the Dwarves of Moriya never
even mentioned his name, let alone any lore associated with his work.
Similarly, Paetra of the Stone Citadel, knew how to fortify the metal,
making it resilient against most powerful swords. Amalthiel attempted to
steal that secret himself and his face paid the price for what his
brethren the Elves considered sacrilegious. The one who got to wound him
ended up donating his skull for Amalthiel's drinking pleasure, but the
secrets of Paetra still remained hidden.
And then there was the spell of invisibility itself, understandable in principle but too complex to fully engrave on the ring in imitation of the One Ring. Some said the particular configuration dated back all the way to Feanor but Amalthiel sensed that most feats of craftsmanship were attributed to the ancient Elf by default, when the true maker's name was lost to the Ages.
Considering if he should forge a connection to one of the other planes
of existence and what the outcome of it shall be, Amalthiel continued
his work, pretending that the children of the races did not exist even
as they kept coming closer out of sheer curiosity.
That, he believed, separated a future craftsman from the idiot pretending to be one. The
faces all belonged to different races but that expression of
unquenchable curiosity always shone in their eyes in the exact same way.
Well, he may have failed again at delivering a lesser ring, but the Witch King should still be pleased with his attempts at educating the children. That would make them far more useful in the future than the brutish Green Orcs.
Adding another Runic inscription to the ring he tentatively call Vilya, Sindarin Elvish translation of the word "Will," Amalthiel finally registered than the children were all yelling.
"What is this commotion," the dark elf growled, beginning to question his earlier conclusions about the usefulness of children.
"Master Smith, there is a dragon in the camp, a real life dragon," the dwarf boy Pushar exclaimed with marked enthusiasm.