Writ on each arm is a separate poem that leads down to the wrist, over the gauntlet, then right down to the fingertips in runes of decreasing size. The first one, for my left arm and hand, continues the story of the being of foreign heat that rends the magma sea. It describes the being reaching out to tear at currents that seek to wrap around it. Its hand reaches into them and they are blown asunder by overwhelming heat.
The language used is visceral. The magma currents are described as blood and sinew. When they are torn apart, the words are those for pain and fear. The magma sea, after experiencing its attacks defeated in such fashion, is repelled.
I wince. My armor may be brilliant—if I saw another dwarf wearing it, I would assume them to be at least high third degree, ready for second—yet its poems are too arrogant. The poems on my original armor were written with a theme of harmony in mind. If I was part of the magma, it could not harm me, so my thinking went.
When I wrote these poems I was not concentrating on nobility. I was focused on power, and then I was focused on nothing but survival, and some part of my mind, the vicious undercurrent in me that enjoys blood and killing, that says I must gain in strength at all costs, was in control of these runes.
The right poem is a little different. It uses the metaphor of salamanders that my original gauntlets had—yet here they are not physical beings but composed of hatred for the sea they have been plunged into. They tear at the currents alongside the being of foreign heat, and their claws and strange flames prove fearsomely effective.
A partner to the being the rest of the armor describes—I wrote this poem with wielding a weapon in mind. The salamanders are accurate with their bites and slashes. I think their power will be added to the weapon I am to create.
These poems are strong—but again, too arrogant! Will they not bring the wrath of the sea down upon me when I dive? And I'm to go deep into it. The city is sunken and its pieces scattered. A boat of tungsten, like the one I saw long ago, would be of no use for Vanerak's task.
Hoping earnestly that the poem upon my helmet is not so aggressive as those on my arms, I read:
The dwarf smashes through the black skin of the magma. It recoils from him, and he falls rather than dives. Heat reaches for him, attempting to stop his rapid descent toward the magma's heart. His own heat dissolves that heat. It cannot even touch his skin. The magma attempts to attack multiple times, from multiple angles, and each time fails, and its failure is described in excruciating detail with runes for flesh and blood and bile.
Down, down, down the dwarf falls, its power blazing brighter with every yard traveled. A ruby embedded in his skin glints brightly, and I read not only the rune for dway in the final stanza, but that for tway also, the rune of self-reference, 'myself'.
It is a masterful addition, well-calculated. It increases the power of the runic flow twofold while destabilizing it not quite enough to cause total chaotic collapse. To calculate so expertly would ordinarily take me a week—but when the depths of my mind takes over, so many hours of planning aren't required.
I look through the eyeholes. They are small and hooded. I should have made the metal transparent, I suppose, if I'm to dive wholly into the sea. Yet I could come up with no way to make my tungsten like Vanerak and Nazak made theirs, not while keeping to a theme of the destruction of heat. For my titanium skull-helm, the theme for its poem was that of gazing across the frozen surface to fix my eyes on my regret. A kind of vision was the theme, while this helm is simply designed for protection.
How do Vanerak's runeknights breathe beneath the magma, I wonder. How do they see? Even if their helmets are partly transparent, magma is not water. It is stone. Have they created some kind of runic ears to sense ripples of sound through it? Yet I can't imagine anything so thin and delicate as a runic ear surviving under the magma sea for long.
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While I wait for Nazak to return, I obey the Runethane's command to think on more ways to improve the runes I've already written. This proves an impossible task—the runes I wrote on this brilliant, arrogant armor seem beyond improvement.
I copy them down onto paper anyway and note down the meanings, both denotations and connotations. Vanerak never had me do this for these runes—somehow he's figured out the meanings himself. I suppose they're similar enough to the ones on my last armor that it wouldn't have been so difficult for a dwarf of his immense skill.
On paper or metal, it makes no difference. I still cannot see any way to make them stronger. I think hard: do I need to get closer to the sphere, perhaps? I don't know what effect that would have. Thinking back, when I made the runes for my shield in the trial, I was actually inside the sphere, but recently I've merely been close to it. How much does that matter? I don't know—but Vanerak will demand I tell him at some point.
I resume studying the books. The runes come back to me—though I can't feel much enthusiasm for them. I can still decipher no pattern, no clue to the inner nature of how and why the symbols are as they are, and also I am likely never going to use these runes. Not anytime soon, at least.
Vanerak wants new runes. He would not take kindly to me trying out the old ones, and there are no runes for demons in these books that I have yet seen. Perhaps in the stoneleaf book—which is still completely indecipherable.
The click of the lock as I am deep in study announces the return of Nazak. Quickly I stand then bow.
“Greetings, honored runeknight Nazak,” I say.
“It's time, traitor. Our Runethane has given us permission to take you into the magma seas. We will find a demon if we go far enough. That is certain.”
“Thank you. And I thank our Runethane most graciously also.”
“Now equip yourself. Everything below has been prepared.”
I turn to my armor stand. “Wait!” he snaps. “One thing!”
“What is it, honored runeknight?” I say, hurriedly turning back.
“I should say this now, as soon as possible: obey all orders without hesitation.”
“I of course will.”
“I mean it!” There is fear in his eyes. “If you do not, you could die in an instant. It takes less than a second for a demon to force its way into you, and once it is in, you are gone.”
I nod. “I won't let my guard down.”
“This isn't about your guard. Do as I say, right when I say it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, honored runeknight.”
“Good.”
I equip my armor piece by piece. First I place my pauldrons onto my shoulders, then I clasp my breastplate and backplate around myself. There is a click as the metal plates lock together, and I feel a rush of power.
Loop by loop I fit in the arm-pieces and plates, then the hand and finger pieces. Once I'm done, I flex my hands and my fingers move fast. My muscles feel supple, as if them and my joints too have been oiled with the same hot salamander blood that's dyed this armor red.
Next I fit on the loops that go around my belly, then on goes my codpiece, then ring by ring I armor my legs and feet. The heat that comes against my skin as I fit each piece ought to be unbearable, ought to be burning me, but it is instead invigorating.
Power runs down my feet and into my soles as I twist and lock in the final toecap. I take a step. The movement is not particularly fast, like the movements of my hands are, but I feels solid, stable, and strong. When I walk forward I feel a thrill—nothing will dare get in my way.
And now it's time to put on my helmet. I take it up in both hands and look into the face: the small eyes and small formation of breathing holes that make up the mouth. I read over the poem again, about the dwarf's complete dominance over the magma sea and how it can do nothing to prevent his descent—and in the final stanza it's revealed to be my descent. My thrill dies a little.
“If I may ask one more question, honored runeknight Nazak?” I say nervously.
“Ask on the way down. You are keeping me waiting, traitor.”
“I apologize.”
I plant the helmet upon my head. Its runic strength pours down my armor like a bucketful of salamander's blood. My skin prickles with it, with heat—it's a similar sensation to being immersed in the magma in my trances—though this heat is different. The magma is the blood of the world, yet this heat—I finally recognize it.
It is the heat of vital life, of the blood of dwarves and other creatures of flesh, increased to boiling. It is life that plunges into the magma sea in my poems. Their meaning, their deepest theme is revealed to me: the triumph of dwarf over the natural world.
“Is something wrong?” Nazak asks suddenly.
“No,” I say. “No, honored runeknight Nazak. I am fine.”
“You stopped dead. If you do that in the magma sea, you will be dead.”
“I was simply reflecting on the power of this armor.”
“Don't get ahead of yourself, traitor. It's still not as good as mine.”
“Of course not. I did not mean to suggest any such thing.”
“Good. Now move.”