“I see that you are back to work. Some believe memorizing scripts to be a waste of time, when dictionaries of runes are so readily available, however I am glad to see that you are not part of that foolish and feeble-minded majority.”
I look up from my papers. “I thank you for the praise, honored runeknight Halax.”
“Those who claim such effort is of no use, claim so merely because the effort defeats them. They are weak. It takes great strength of mind to recall runes perfectly.”
“It is not easy, certainly.”
“Our Runethane will be glad to hear that your health has recovered. He has been somewhat worried for you.”
“I am honored that he should be worried for a traitor such as myself.”
“He will return here soon with your runic ears. In return for their return, he wishes for you to tell him in full what happened during your trance.”
“I will be pleased and honored to do so.”
“I will relay those words to him. In the meantime, organize your memories and thoughts so that your explanation is smooth and clear for him to understand.”
“I will do so.”
“Then goodbye for now, Zathar Runeforger.”
“Goodbye, honored runeknight Halax.”
He leaves and shuts the door. I pick my inkstick back up and continue writing the rune, one of Lower Balthagal, that I was trying to memorize when he interrupted. It is a subtle and tricky one, with oddly angled branches.
The black ink runs the wrong way—my hand is trembling. I let out a shaky sigh and return the inkstick to its case.
Fear has sunk its icy claws into my guts once more.
Vanerak cannot be allowed to understand my runeforging!
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The lock clicks. I jump up from my desk. The door opens. In his mirror-mask I see my face lit greenish in the wormlight. He gestures for me to sit at the table and I quickly do so. He sits down opposite me.
“Greetings, Zathar Runeforger.”
“Greetings, my Runethane.”
“I have something for you.”
He places my new runic ears upon the table and I force myself to look at them. The poem is as I remember. It makes me feel empty to read it, as if when I come to the final line the flake of ash comes to rest within some void within my soul.
“I thank you greatly, my Runethane.”
“You are welcome. I think Halax has told you to prepare an explanation of what occurred during your runeforging trance.”
“He has.”
“I shall hear it then.”
I hesitate. Am I really going to make this gamble? I steel myself. I am. He cannot be allowed to understand my runeforging.
“At first it began like any other trance,” I begin. “I felt the heat around me—all around me at once, like when I originally changed the poem.”
Vanerak holds up a hand to interrupt. “Again, why do you think this is?”
“I... I'm not sure, my Runethane. I think it is because of my proximity to the magma. My power has something to do with the magma, of course. Maybe the heat from the sea is drawn into me quicker here.”
“I see. Continue with the explanation.”
“Just like before, I changed the runes. This time I felt a little more power flowing from me, though. I started to put it into the runes, and then everything went white.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Everything became white, blinding white... And then I was lying on the floor of the forge, my craft completed, and me with no memory of completing it.”
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Vanerak is silent for a few long moments. A few very long moments.
“It is the truth, my Runethane,” I lie, being very careful to keep my voice even. “I have no memory even of my trance. The words that I chose I didn't choose consciously, or else I did and forgot, though I do not know why I would make such a dark poem.”
“You chose it because there is power in darkness, and your heart knows this even if your mind does not.”
There is that edge of sharp steel in his voice again.
“That may be true, my Runethane. But the fact remains that I don't remember anything of my trance.”
“Nothing at all? No hint of where the further power came from?”
His words are like cold razors.
I continue to lie. “None at all,” I say. “I just felt it well up from within. I don't know where from. The magma maybe, or maybe my heart, which like you say knows the truth of things better than my mind does.”
“Indeed. And what does your heart say about lying to me?”
My head spins. I feel as if I've been struck.
“...I'm not sure what you mean, my Runethane.”
“Your mind may say that lying to me is something you ought to do, but what does your heart say? I see that it quavers—you are fearful of me.”
“I am not lying to you, my Runethane.”
“Is that truly so?”
He does not stand, does not even lean forward. His words are the only weapon he needs. More powerful than any rune: the words and commands of a Runethane. They nearly force me to my knees. Right here and now I nearly bow. I nearly throw myself to the stone floor and beg for forgiveness.
Yet I do not! He must not come to understand my power any further!
“It is truly so,” I say. “I would never lie to you, my Runethane. After the power in me increased, everything went blinding white, and from that point on I have no memory of even my trance.”
“I see,” he says, after a few more long moments' thought. “Loss of memory is not an uncommon phenomenon after an event of great pain. I will believe you.”
“I thank you most greatly, my Runethane, for believing a traitor such as myself.”
“Do know, however, that if I later find out that you have spoken falsehood, the punishment will be severe. I will not harm you physically—but there are greater tortures than physical ones.”
“I assure you that I will never give you any reason to punish me, my Runethane.”
He nods once. My reflection in his mirror-mask distorts with the movement. Terror is clear to see on my face, in the pallor of my skin and rigidness of my features, in the wideness of my eyes. A new fear takes hold also—what kind of power lies in his mirror-mask? Does it show him the true thoughts of those he looks upon through it, perhaps? In that case, is he going to leave now just to return an hour later with the heads of Guthah and Pellas?
He stands up. “Goodbye for now, Zathar Runeforger. Though it is disappointing that you remember so little of your use of your power, you will have plenty of opportunities to apply it to more of your forgings, and hopefully, bit by bit, you will come to understand more of its nature.”
“I hope so too, my Runethane.”
“You will start work on your armor as soon as your strength is fully returned. I hear that you promised one of the excavators that you would create a script that can be utilized easily to deflect heat. I support this effort. It will be a great boon to our work, should you be able to accomplish it.”
“I shall accomplish it, my Runethane. You have my word.”
“The word of a traitor is not worth so much. Yet perhaps the word of a runeforger is.”
“It is, I assure you.”
“Then I am expecting a great deal from your coming efforts.”
He leaves, shutting the door behind him. There is a series of clicks as the lock is turned.
I crawl back into my bed, shaking and sweating. My skin feels as if it's boiling once more, and my heartbeats have become fast and shallow.
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Balhu, runeknight of the fifth degree, wades through the magma. It is thick and glutinous so that each step is a hard effort, a small battle of dwarf against nature, despite the poems praising strength grafted to his tungsten thigh-plates. A bright trail in the black coating of the magma extends behind him. From it the uncovered heat is scorching even through his tungsten backplate which is marked with a series of bright and cold sapphires. The runic energy being furrowed into them through the poem is only barely enough to keep his flesh from cooking.
The magma reaches his waist. The pressure around his lower half is crushing now, and he knows he cannot go any further. It is from here that he will have to cast his net.
He takes it from the salamander-hide case on his back. It is one of the crafts he is most proud of: its threads are inscribed minutely so that they will seek out and wrap around any shape they brush against. Its weights are tungsten bearings enruned to have double their weight and half their friction so as to slip down into the magma quickly and with almost no resistance.
“Aren't you going a bit deep?” someone calls out.
Balhu turns and shouts back. “Well, we haven't found anything in the shallows this short-hour, have we?”
“Just be careful! I thought I saw a shimmer around there earlier!”
“I'll be fine!”
Balhu shakes his head. That damn Hayhek—he's never met a greater worrier. Always seeing odd shimmers. They're never anything.
Damn graybeard. He doesn't have enough heroic spirit, that's his problem. What glory is there in shifting about in the shallows, bringing up the tiniest shards and only fragments of runes? The Runethane wants more, and what he wants will be found only in the deeps. Balhu will dig it out for him.
A few more good catches and he'll have enough gold to purchase the reagent he needs to enrune his new suit. Then he'll be able to join the divers and pull up some real treasures. Real runes and real history.
He twists his body back, breaths in, and throws, putting every ounce of his strength and weight into the action. His net, attached to the end of a long tungsten cable enruned with a ode to toughness even in the direst and hottest of circumstances, flies out gracefully and sinks deep into the magma. Balhu waits a minute or so, then begins to reel it back in.
He is so absorbed in his task that he doesn't notice the shimmer of heat that leaps from the magma and flows instantly through his visor. He shudders as scorching heat fills his blood. He stops moving for a moment.
The demon blinks a few times, then continues to reel in the net.
“Are you sure you're all right?” Hayhek shouts. “I'm sure I saw something shimmering!”
The demon turns Balhu's head to look. Through the dwarf's eyes, everything is different. Duller. The demon can see only simple colors, not the thousand shades of heat it is used to admiring.
“I'm fine!” it shouts through Balhu's mouth. “The magma sea is always shimmering, you damn graybeard!”