A guard leaves. An hour later he returns with Vanerak. The light of the daycrystals bends on his mirror-mask. I look up into it, and fear is clear to see on my warped and darkened face. Quickly I stand up and bow low.
“Greetings, my Runethane.”
“Greetings, Zathar Runeforger,” he replies in his usual cold tone that belies nothing of what he is thinking or feeling.
“I have completed the craft I was set to make—a cable for air,” I hurry to say. “The poem is acceptable, but I must make apologies for the metalwork. I was given pre-cut, pre-prepared pieces, and ordered to forge with them without taking the time to honor them properly.”
“Yes. More runeknights are needed quickly for the expeditions. You will be given the time to make your own cable later, before you journey into the magma again.”
For a moment I am shocked silent. I expected rage—but it seems that Nazak was telling the truth.
“I thank you most greatly, my Runethane! You are forgiving.”
“I will now examine the runes.”
“Of course.”
I scramble to gather up the cable and hand it to him. He examines it segment by segment, starting with the breathing end. As always, I cannot tell if he is pleased or displeased. He stops on some segments and only briefly glances over others. He spends a long time on the flotation section—I hope this is a good sign.
“You have managed well, considering the poor metal,” he eventually says.
“I thank you most greatly, my Runethane!”
“Though I do think that this poem can be pushed still further.”
My heart sinks into my guts.
“This is not the time for that, however. Record the runes on paper with their meanings—I would get an exact understanding of them this time. And later, do the same for your armor. We are confident everything was deciphered correctly, but I wish to make sure of this.”
“Yes, my Runethane.”
“After this your cable will be taken to be tested with the others. We will see how it fares against the heat, and how well it takes in air also. You may have to alter it—most runeknights have to alter their first cables.”
“Yes, my Runethane.”
“That is all. Continue work on your weapon—though I am to believe you have started on your heat-mask first.”
“That is correct, my Runethane.”
My skin prickles with fear. Is he angry about this?
“Both are necessary crafts. Our vision under the magma should be improved also. Continue as you see fit.”
“Thank you, my Runethane!”
And with that, he leaves. A giddy rush of relief overwhelms me; my knees buckle and I crumple to a seated position. He was not angry. He did not chastise me in any way. I cannot help but smile. He was not angry with me!
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Ninth degree is not high enough—it is little better than tenth. Eighth is not high enough either—it is little better than ninth. Seventh is his goal. A seventh degree runeknight can take care of himself, and of others. He can fight beasts that would tear apart a tenth degree with ease. And he has a chance, a small chance, but a chance nonetheless, of doing real damage to a runeknight a few degrees above him. A seventh degree's weapon could not pierce fourth degree plate, but if struck into the gaps, it may penetrate. There is a chance.
Guthah brings the hammer down with accuracy. He used to think shaping steel was about force, but this was foolishness. Force alone can accomplish nothing. Accuracy is what is most needed. He witnessed this on the dragonhunt—Xomhyrk's accuracy was what brought the beast low, in the end, striking into half-healed wounds. He could see that much, at least, from the smoke-filled crack he was blown into.
The yellow-hot steel bends in accordance with his will. Blow after blow elongates it. He changes the angle of his strikes now, turning it into a wedge with an extrusion at the base which will become the cap where the long shaft, already forged, is to be joined.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The shape of the craft sickens him. It is similar in form to his instructor's spear, that black thing he wielded when he brought the dragon down upon his own city. It reminds him of his instructor's arrogance also—with that weapon he leaped from tenth to fifth degree—an impossible feat, for any ordinary dwarf.
But Zathar is not an ordinary dwarf. He is one of those marked for greatness. Like Vanerak, he is blessed with an extraordinary capability for callousness and deceit. He will make a promise only to break it in the next instant if it means his own survival. How else could Pellas' death be explained? And she is dead—lost in the magma seas, so goes the story, but Guthah has heard rumors that Zathar has been punished, confined to his quarters.
He attempted to outsmart a Runethane, knowing full well the consequences such an action would bring—upon Guthah and Pellas, that is, as well as the two dragonslayers. Not on himself. He is taking maximum advantage of his immunity.
The steel wedge becomes sharper, thinner. He lets it cool, then with a smaller hammer begins to sharpen the edge further. Back in Allabrast he would have ground the edge sharp, but now he knows that is no way to treat metal. He must respect the steel—and it will respond to him in kind, and give him the power he needs to pierce.
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Over the six hundred or so long-hours that the plundering of the magma sea has been continuing for, Runethane Vanerak's dwarves have retrieved many tens of thousands of shards. Of these, a few are the size of doors, inscribed in detail with twisted runes or grand pictorials. A hundred or so are the size of breastplates, and have full poems—or what are probably poems, at least—upon them, or else large parts of pictorials.
These best finds are kept in Runethane Vanerak's palace, in a gallery, for the Runethane himself and his elites to pore over.
The vast majority of the shards recovered so far, however, have been fragments. These have only a few runes on them each, too few for any pattern to be deciphered from them, or lines from a picture that give no hint toward what the full representation is. Some are so small that they have only half a rune upon them, or a quarter.
At first they were laid out inside the large, flat-floored cave the three masons have just entered. Soon they became so numerous that they coated the entire floor, and so the decision was made to stack them into piles according to type. The rough piles became sorted into tall iron cases, labeled according to category. Papers scribbled tightly with runes have been glued securely to every case in this maze of them that the three masons now enter.
They are not meant to be here—entry to the hall of shards is for runeknights only. But Runethane Vanerak believes that there is little knowledge to be gained here, and he has diverted his dwarfpower elsewhere, to the magma sea, or to the caverns above, still infested with venomous bats and all manner of salamanders. It is poorly guarded. A thrown rock—such an obvious trick!—was all it took to divert the tenth degree guards' attention long enough for the masons to slip past.
They vanish into the maze of cases. The Master Mason has given them strict instructions on what to take: any shard that shows a dwarf. It is the actions of the dwarves on the shards that are the key to the mystery. The runeknights are blinded by the runes and do not see the truth in front of them.
One of their number, a failed initiate, can read basic runes. He points out a promising case and the other two get to work. Diamond-tipped chisels can break locks as well as rocks; the iron comes apart. A rune sparks and cracks.
The senior of the three pulls out one of the interior racks, very slowly. They do not want to make any more noise than necessary in this quiet cavern. From the rack he draws out a circular shard about as the size of his palm. Upon it is half a dwarf's face, bearded mouth opened wide with tongue and teeth visible in detail.
“Excellent find,” whispers the middle-ranked mason. “The Master will be well-pleased.”
“Silence!”
The senior mason draws out several more shards. The middle one takes them carefully from him and places them into a fur-lined bag. Felt goes between the shards to prevent them clanking against each other.
The senior mason closes the case quietly. They move on to another promising one. They break open, steal, close. They repeat this two more times until their bag is full to bursting.
It is now time to leave. They sneak through the cases to one of the exits, guarded by two lower-ranking runeknights. The senior mason nods to the junior, who squeezes himself between two cases to make it to the next corridor. He leans against a lighter, newer case, while the senior mason draws out and clasps a perfectly round ball of stone.
“Now,” he whispers.
The junior mason heaves, throwing all his weight against the case. It topples over with a crash that shatters the silence. The two runeknights shout in panic. One rushes to the trembling toppled case while the other stays put.
The senior mason's ball of rock hits the one still at the exit squarely in the forehead, denting his helmet with a dull clang. The runeknight topples over, stunned or dead. The three masons dash over his prostrate body and vanish into the tunnels. They know them well, can know the rocky path than just their eyes. So long working with rock has given them an uncannily accurate cave-sense.
“Arrogant fools,” croaks the white-bearded Master Mason, after the senior mason has finished recounting this tale. “Stone cannot beat metal, they say. You see how they are wrong.”
“Indeed. We saw this when many of them perished from ravaging the ceiling also.”
“That crime was paid for in full, yes.”
The Master Mason does not take his eyes off the first shard while they talk. He is fixed to it.
“Well?” says the junior mason eagerly. “Is the secret knowledge revealed?”
“Rock does not reveal its secrets so fast. But I believe that my speculations are all but confirmed.”
“Tell us more, Master. Please.”
“I will tell you more when I have understood more.” He breaks his gaze from the shard to look up at them. “Leave, now. Get back to your jobs.”
“The Runethane pushes us,” says the middle-ranking mason. “He wishes us to damage the stone like common miners.”
“Take care that you do not, then.” The Master Mason scowls. He age-reddened eyes narrow. “Have patience. Miners and masters of miners, they will all be shown sense in some hour.”