I booted up my laptop first thing, the glow of the screen cutting through the early‐morning gloom in the cottage’s one bare bulb. My hands still stung from yesterday’s clinch drills, but survival had a funny way of demanding more—even when muscle and bone threatened mutiny. I cracked my knuckles, flexed my sore wrists, and navigated to my favorite online marketplace: the one that still carried oddball medieval replicas and survival tools.
War Hammer Search
I typed “compact war hammer high-carbon steel” into the search bar and watched results populate in milliseconds—everything from museum-quality pieces priced at four figures to budget guerrilla–tactics models tagged under two hundred. I clicked a few:
Viking Bearded War Hammer ($185): 18 inch head, 36 inch hickory handle, leather-wrapped grip. “Ready for both display and hard use,” the seller claimed.
Medieval War Hammer “Maul of the Blacksmith” ($220): forged 1095 steel head, T-shaped poll, lacquered oak haft. “Industrial edge, battle-ready.”
Survival Tactical War Hammer ($ ninety-nine): titanium head, shock-absorbing polymer shaft—lightweight, low-profile.
My mind ticked through the pros and cons: steel head versus titanium, weight versus price, authenticity versus practicality. I still had roughly $14,800 to play with stateside—enough for a solid piece of kit and still leave plenty for plywood and nails.
I settled on the Viking Bearded War Hammer. The seller’s photos showed a finely forged spike opposite the hammerhead—ideal for denting metal and cracking skulls alike. I added it to my cart, confirmed my credit-card details, and clicked “Purchase.” A small thrill shot through me: this was no mere novelty. It was another edge in my toolbox of survival.
Next: actual weapons training. I’d flailed enough at Muay Thai to know that empty-handed techniques only took you so far when fight-or-flight landed you face-first in broken glass or roamer guts. Historical European Martial Arts—HEMA—promised structured lessons in sword, poleaxe, even war-hammer techniques.
I searched “HEMA dojo near me” in the map app. A handful of pins appeared, but one caught my eye: New York Historical Fencing Guild, just two blocks south—I could walk the distance in minutes. I tapped through their site:
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NYHFG
? Location: 212 Edgewood St. (just past the collapsed overpass)
? Offerings: Longsword, poleaxe, rapier, dagger, axe and war hammer workshops
? Trial Class: $30 drop-in, gear loan included
? Schedule: Wednesdays and Saturdays, 7 p.m.
My pulse quickened. Seven in the evening meant I could finish Buying what Anna And I might need plus organizing everything on the Sled by dusk, then ride over for a trial. The description promised padded mats, steel-mesh masks, and instructors certified by the HEMA Alliance. Exactly what I needed to transform flailing desperation into calibrated strikes.
I bookmarked their class page and filled out the trial-class form: name, email, “Drop-in for Axe & War Hammer Fundamentals.” Within seconds, a confirmation popped up:
“Thank you, Joshua. We look forward to seeing you Wednesday at 7 p.m. Please arrive 15 min early to borrow gear.”
I exhaled, the weight of adrenaline settling into resolve. I had a purpose beyond simply surviving day-to-day: I was building a skill set that might one day save my life—or Anna’s.
I closed the browser and stretched out on the battered couch, mind racing through logistics:
Hammer Shipment: ETA 3–5 business days. I’d route it to my Cottage.
Saturday’s Spare Time: Train Muay Thai at 9 a.m., then ride over to NYHFG for a quick tour.
Gear List for HEMA: Padded jacket, steel-mesh mask, gloves, practice poleaxe—likely available for loan, but I’d eventually buy my own.
Budget Check: War hammer $185, class fee $30, leaving $14,585 for cartable essentials and Gate toll.
I tapped a note into my phone:
Checklist:
Confirm war hammer order, add shipping address
Buy padded jacket and gloves online (~$150)
Attend HEMA trial Wednesday, 7 p.m.
Reserve Saturdays for cross-training: Muay Thai + HEMA
Allocate funds: $185 + $30 + $150 = $365 total investment
The final number felt good—small enough to absorb, large enough to demonstrate commitment.
Shutting the laptop, I rubbed my temples; the faint hum of the fridge in the corner sounded impossibly domestic. Out there, in the world beyond the copper door, roving gangs and shambling corpses demanded constant vigilance. But here, in this moment, I’d carved out a step toward mastery—a path that led from raw aggression to trained precision.
I stood, packed away my pad and gloves from yesterday’s sparring, and prepared to saddle up again. Wednesday night, I would find out if my flailing fists could transform into disciplined blows with a hammer or sword. I headed for the door, imagination alive with the echo of clashing steel—and somewhere in the back of my mind, the promise of turning that online purchase into a weapon I could wield with purpose. The next chapter of preparation was underway.