I slump over the anvil, defeated. This challenge has proven too much for me. I put in all the care I could muster, and still failed. I could remake the sheet, make it slightly more even, cut extra carefully—even though I cut as slowly and carefully as I could—yet there would still be irregularities. I have reached the current limits of my metalworking ability. I am sure of this.

Flattening and curling has not worked. I must think of a new technique, but what? I could give up on the barbs and odd angles, and make something more conventional—forge a straight tube of tungsten, cut a hollow at the top fifth, then fit a curved tube in to form the two prongs. That would be strong. That would be serviceable, and more importantly, it would be within the scope of my abilities.

But the runes I need to create would not fit to it. It would not be the demon-destroying weapon that the dwarves here need—that Hayhek needs—that Vanerak demands.

I cannot risk disappointing my Runethane. My stomach clenches at the very thought. Yet I am trapped. Either I disappoint Vanerak by making a failure, or I disappoint him by making something too mundane to be effective.

Or, could there perhaps be a third way?

“Honored runeknight Nazak,” I say, voice hoarse. “Where is honored runeknight Halax? There is something I must discuss with him.”

“He is forging. He has asked not to be disturbed.”

“Then maybe you can answer my question.”

“I will if I can—if it is not a foolish or insulting one.”

“If a weapon is misaligned, its metalwork poor and warped, but the poem and runes are also warped—in just the right way—could it still be strong?”

“No. The runic flow would disintegrate. Such a craft would only be weak.”

“I see. Yet could certain runic scripts make such a craft a success?”

“None that I know of.”

“Very well. I see.”

“Your runes will be usable, I hope.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

“The Runethane needs them to be. We need them to be.”

“They will work. I will make them work.”

My runes are to be of discord. The heat of life will seek to break apart the lines of natural heat the demons are composed of and disrupt their very essence. Thus, the physical form of the weapon should be discordant also. That's why I chose this design. So, why should it not be even more jagged and warped than I planned for? Edges that do not align can be forced to align through violence. My runes will make everything work—I will let whatever takes control when my consciousness half-fades create a poem of perfected imperfection.

I hold my hammer and pliers. The tungsten squeals and white sparks burst like blood-spray as I force the barb's base edges to align with the haft. This dents both haft and barb, but this will not matter, I tell myself. The runes will pull through. My runes of discord will take to this brutalized metal as if it is their home.

I continue the craft. I twist the tungsten further and the last part of the haft comes into shape. Now I have come to the two prongs. I groan through gritted teeth as I pull the metal where it needs to be. The left is misaligned—I bend the tungsten. It cracks slightly—I heat it to fix. My runes will enjoy this imperfection. I will alter my poem so a main rune of discord sits there.

Now I must twist a dozen barbs. None are aligned well; the mistakes are adding up. Nevertheless I force the tungsten to go where I will it. Several more cracks appear. I do not weld these ones shut yet—I will weld them when it comes time to weld all the other lines together. Why not? This sheet is full of slices. Why did I ever worry about a few more?

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I laugh. Have I gone mad? I am breaking every rule of forging there is. So what? Am I not the Second Runeforger? I have the power to create my own rules, to make power of my own that no dwarf has ever yet used.

But behind my laughter there is fear. Vanerak will be displeased. He will be angered that I have thrown away my patience. He will believe I am trying to sabotage his war-effort.

Yet this is the only way!

I finish the twisting, curling, and folding all while in this half-crazed state. To Nazak and the guards, it must appear as if I have finally broken, and broken my craft at the same time. It lies upon the anvil more warped than I ever envisioned. It looks like a failure—but this is only because the runes are not yet grafted. Neither are the joins welded yet. I will do this now, then quench—and then will come the runes.

It looks like a failure only because it is half-finished! No other reason! Lurching, stumbling, I make my way to the stores and grab a mortar and pestle, a nugget of incandesite, and a half-bar of sticky quizik. I weigh them carefully, to make sure the ratio is correct, slice off a weight of quizik I do not need, and get to grinding the two reagents together at the anvil.

“You are exhausted,” warns Nazak. “You should rest.”

“I will rest here, then.”

“You should rest in your quarters.”

“I cannot,” I say.

“Why not? And I am ordering you!”

“If I stop now, my weapon will be ruined. Everything will be ruined.”

“It already is! You should rest, and rethink this. You should begin again. What has happened to your patience?”

I know that it is folly to fight with him. But if I stop and rethink, I will give in. More dwarves will be sent to their deaths in folly as I try—and maybe fail—to redo this craft. If there is even the slightest chance that I can make this attempt work, I have to take it.

“My patience?” I say. “What of our Runethane's? You are being sent to die in the magma seas, without the runes he promises to you that I will make. I intend to keep that promise as soon as possible. I can't rethink this. I can't stop. There is a chance this will work—believe in that chance! Believe in my runes. I will help you kill the demons. I will help save your lives!”

Nazak rises, fury in his eyes. I flinch away, terrified I have committed a grievous error by talking back to him, and by indirectly criticizing our Runethane also. I open my mouth to apologize. Yet his eyes flick, for a moment, away from me, in the direction of the magma seas.

“Very well,” he spits. “Take no rest. We will see if you can keep your promise.”

“Thank you, honored runeknight!”

I get back to work. The bright incandesite falls to pieces at the slow grinding of my pestle, and mixes with the sticky grains of grayish blue quizik. Over the next hour the two become one, a waxy red sludge that glows vaguely with light and strongly with power.

It is time to apply it. I use a stiff-haired brush to paint thin, even streaks along the lines of my warped and barbed trident. I do the top and sides first, then I stand the weapon up, lean it against the wall, and do the remaining lines. I am very near one of the guards' windows. He stares at me.

“I will keep my promise,” I say. “This will work! I promise it!”

Maybe by promising I am dooming myself. I broke my promise to Guthah and Pellas. My promises mean nothing, never have. But what else can I say?

Once the reagent has been applied, I turn the furnace up to its maximum heat. Then I prepare a bath of salamander's blood. Hot incandesite and blood—ingredients for a violent explosion, were it not for the stabilizing quizik. That second humble reagent might be about to save my life.

The stench of blood dizzies me. I nearly stumble into the trident, impale myself on it. Step by slow step I take it to the furnace. The roaring heat dizzies me further. I see the mouth of the black dragon for an instant, then I thrust in my craft.

For a few moments there is no effect. Then the tungsten gradually reddens, then yellows. When it turns white, the reagent catches light. The joining lines of the craft become like veins whose blood has been suddenly transmuted to fire. The craft twists, and screams—with a scream that is not quite metallic. I lunge with my tongs, tear it out and plunge it into the salamander blood bath.

Steam bursts from the long crucible. I cover my face with my hands and yell out in pain as it burns me. The guards nearby scream and throw themselves away from their windows. Blood-condensation soaks the walls then turns to droplets which run down.

“Did you even calculate the ratios?” Nazak shouts. “You've destroyed it!”

“No!” I yell back. “I have not!”

I reach into the crucible and draw forth the hot trident. It is twisted like a corkscrew, its prongs are bent, some of its barbs are hooked so far they turn in on themselves—but the welds have held. The tungsten has survived the dreadful ordeal I forced it through.

It is an ugly, scarred piece of metal. It is quivering as if the various sections are pushing against each other, trying to shiver each other apart. But it is a weapon. It is a craft that can be enruned, if the crafter knows the right runes, and now it is time to make those runes.