I step back from the maw of the runic furnace. I walk around it, examining each of the eight heat-conducting rods and their focusing diamonds. The troll claws are carved with poems of unemotional focus, yet within them glint memories of violence. This slight contradiction should work in my favor; it is tungsten I seek to melt, after all, and what is more—true tungsten. It does not respect weakness. I must show it respect through the force I apply, and I am about to show it a great deal of respect indeed.
A section of main circle of the furnace is offset. While out of place, no power will flow. When I click it into place—completing a stanza that is both the beginning and end of the poem, and which directly references the impossibility of a break in an eternal loop—the runic power will flow.
The cuts interlock jaggedly with teeth as minute as those of a saw-blade, and the steel here is an alloy with a slightly lower melting point than usual. It will expand as it heats, then form a slight weld to which I will have to apply a fair amount of force to break.
It is a clever piece of work, though whatever adjustable mechanism Galar used must have been much cleverer. My ideas still do not approach his genius, nor that of his brother.
Enough dawdling; enough reminiscing; enough self-praise. This craft has no meaning if it cannot melt the true tungsten.
I take a breath, and press in the offset section.
The runes glow with power invisible. Heat emanates from the circle of steel and a mask of sweat prickles on my face. The circle starts to redden, then turns to the color of flame, brightens. The platinum runes become etchings of light that hurt to look upon.
The glow of heat spreads up the rods and the diamonds become like spearheads of fire. Around the crucible a corona of blue and violet flares, a sphere of transparent color. The color roars as if with the voice of a dragon, and the crucible shivers within. I am forced to step back—the heat is terrible—it is like the heat of dragonflame.
Dragonflame!
I cry out and cover my eyes as the blue-violet becomes too intense to look upon. The air dries. My sweat starts to steam away. Some of the guards shout out in fear. Still the heat grows, but I cannot yet step in to break the runic loop. I seek to melt true tungsten—I feel that this heat is not yet enough.
“Disable it!” someone shouts.
There is a clatter of footsteps as the guards rush around the outside of the forge. I wait until they exit their corridor, a second longer, then I fix my runic ears around my head and snatch up a pair of tongs. I clasp them around the breaking-section of the circle, pull. The runic loop breaks. The heat begins to fade. I reach into the furnace's center and take up the crucible, pull it toward me.
The air around it is still roaring, as if on fire, so violent is the heat it has absorbed. It feels too heavy. I put it down upon the anvil. Steel bubbles. The guards approach.
“Back!” I warn them.
They make no move to arrest me, but step back in awe. I pull the runic ears from my head. For a few moments I am both sightless and soundless, then light returns to the world of metal and I rock back in awe myself.
Within the glowing crucible is a circle of shimmering white liquid, and in the shimmers I see strange shapes, hints of forms, of what this metal could be, what it desires to be.
This is the true metal. This is the substance that Runeking Ulrike said I could never imagine. Now I have done better than imagine it—now it is upon my anvil, ready to be forged into a weapon to slaughter my cruelest foes.
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Upon Runethane Vanerak's anvil is a crown. The true gold, not so hot yet flaring deep yellow all the same, brims with power, and the many layers of runes within and upon it declare their meanings in red light. The saga writ is one of domination; how it performs its function only Vanerak knows.
Yet, it is not enough. This is not strong enough—to place this upon his head would not be enough to make Runethane Vanerak into Runeking Vanerak. It is as powerful as Starcleaver would have been, once completed, so he has surpassed Thanerzak, yet Thanerzak was also but a Runethane.
Perhaps he just hasn't put enough time into it. Thanerzak worked a hundred years upon Starcleaver—and spent true metal on half a dozen premature designs during the hundred years before that. Runethane Broderick's maille took over a century to forge—many long-hours were spent on each millimeter-scale band of gold.
And these were but the crafts of fellow Runethanes! How long did Runeking Ulrike spend creating his Crown of Eyes? Vanerak knows he grew the crystals himself; they were not cut or found, and the growing of each from the tiniest, perfectly formed seed of some concentrated and enruned reagent would have taken many years, and the Runeking has hundreds of them upon his head and all about his realm, all flawless.
And what of Runeking Uthrarzak's crafts? While it is true that their ancient foe is known more for his treatises and great abilities of command rather than any single craft, his armor and shield and spear are feared greatly. It is said that the last time he and Ulrike faced each other in battle, Ulrike's own armor rusted from shame in the face of such power and beauty.
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Perhaps it is simply too early for Vanerak to ascend to their ranks. The mighty scars that had been struck into the black dragon—they were the fruit of Runeking Halajatbast's blade, proving that he was nearly the equal of a creature that laid waste to an entire realm with a single breath.
The power of Runekings is near unfathomable. Yet Vanerak has his own unfathomable power, a power none have had for a hundred times a thousand years: the power of runeforging—though of course only indirectly, for now.
A loud knock on the door to his forge shakes him from his thoughts. He gets the strange feeling that the knocking has been repeating many times over, a regular drumbeat that has lasted for a half hour—a forging trance can be a powerful thing indeed.
Vanerak sweeps a veil of salamander skin over his uncompleted crown. He walks over to the door and opens it.
“What is it, Nazak? You look alarmed.”
“I am, my Runethane.”
“Do we face more defeats?”
“No—I have ordered a stop to all expeditions, for the time being. The demons come at us in too great numbers.”
“I see. Then what is it?”
“It is Zathar. He has the true metal, and he works with it.”
“This is good.”
“My Runethane, he refuses to obey my orders. I told him we need armor, and he begins to work on a weapon.”
“Offense is as important as defense. He has developed his abilities—and with that, our own strength will grow. This is my plan. I had thought you understood it.”
“You told us before, my Runethane, that we may not need him for much longer. That you were on the verge of a great revelation.” Nazak glances past his Runethane to spy the veiled craft on the anvil, its shape not very well obscured. “Have you come to this revelation yet?”
“I have not.”
“Zathar's progress worries me. A weapon of true tungsten, even worked with his average ability, could prove deadly.”
“You worry needlessly. He will not risk rebellion. I maimed his very spirit. At first I doubted this, but now he obeys without question. He is broken.”
“With respect, my Runethane, you do not see him as often as I do. There remains a fire in him, one that grows stronger by the hour, though usually he hides it well. He ordered his guards to step away from his forging. He is a prisoner, yet orders guards!”
“You should not have allowed them to interfere.” Cold metal comes into Runethane Vanerak's voice. “His work is never to be interfered with. In his runes is power for all of us.”
“He will turn on us,” Nazak insists. “I am sure of this.”
“And I am sure he will not. I maimed his spirit—he may have fire in him, but it is turned solely to our purposes, to make runes for us.”
“You know better than anyone that fire is not simple to control. Our Runethane Thanerzak sought to control dragonflame—and he and his realm died for it. I do not want to die in whatever flames end up being born from Zathar's runeforging.”
“It is not your place to criticize my oldest friend.”
“I apologize, my Runethane, most profusely. Nevertheless, I feel that I must make my misgivings clear. Zathar has rebellion in him.”
Time, Vanerak thinks. There is never enough of it. A runeknight can stand over his anvil and pretend that time does not exist, forget entirely of the concept, yet outside of the forge it still moves, inevitably, like a boulder rolling down the slope of a mountain with unstoppable crushing force.
Probably Nazak is right about Zathar—the young dwarf might indeed, despite all he has endured, remain stubborn and arrogant enough, perhaps, to think that the secret of true metal will give him a chance at revenge. To let him forge as he pleases may end up being just as disastrous as Thanerzak's mistake.
Time flows outside of this small realm also. Vanerak keeps some communication with Allabrast, and other realms too, and certain patterns are becoming apparent. As Runeking Ulrike forges, dreaming deeply of Godhood, Uthrarzak is preparing for war. There is no dwarf under the stone more patient than their old foe; he shows no interest in ascension. He desires to put an end to his mortal problems before he turns his forging to immortality.
And then there are their closer foes. The news of the demons multiplying also disturbs Vanerak. Pulling on the tail of dragons is never a good idea, and the demons' collective tail has been worse than pulled. So far, his runeknights' attacks have been keeping the demons on the defensive, but there have been too many losses, and the pace of assaults cannot be kept up. A counter-blow could be building.
Vanerak's cold mind turns. It is time, perhaps, to cool the fires of the furnace, cease the tail-pulling, and strike all-in with a killing blow.
No. There is no perhaps about it. The time has come—Vanerak understands this now. The forging trance falls from him like dust clearing. He sees that his craft has failed. He will attempt again when he has the knowledge he seeks, the deep knowledge that lies in the heart of the sunken city that surely has some link to the very first runes. There is no point in continuing to forge until this knowledge is his.
“How close is the reforging to its end?” he asks.
Nazak senses the change that has come over his Runethane, sees the sudden focus in his eyes, and is momentarily startled, but steadies himself. “Our resources are nearly spent,” he answers after a second's thought. “Tungsten has become all but unaffordable.”
“Then each runeknight is to complete the craft he or she is working on and start no other. It is time to strike a final blow. I will lead the assault myself.”
Nazak bows deep. “Yes, my Runethane. I am beyond pleased to hear this decision.” He finishes his bow. “But what of Zathar? I recommend—if I may be allowed to speak freely—”
“You may.”
“Then I recommend that he be imprisoned or confined to his quarters. If we do not need his runes right now, there is no value in having him continue to forge.”
Vanerak considers slowly. “Yet, if we confine him to his chambers, we cannot guarantee that his guards, who must be lower in degrees, will not let him free—rebellion still simmers.”
“Then chain him to a wall, with chain unbreakable by all but the strongest weapons.”
“I would need to forge those chains. And stone walls can be easily broken even if the chains they are linked to cannot. No, we cannot confine him physically. We will instead confine him within his own mind.”
“My Runethane, I am afraid I do not quite follow.”
“Let him think all is well. He will continue to forge his weapon. He will be oblivious in his forging trance. And if he has delusions of wreaking revenge with it, so be it—let him dream, and while he dreams be docile.”
“Yes, my Runethane,” Nazak says, disappointment heavy in his voice. “I see your logic.”
“But I do heed your warnings, Nazak. I also do not wish to make the same mistake as my dear friend. Upon our victorious return, I will decide Zathar's fate in the light of the knowledge we uncover.”
“Yes, my Runethane. Maybe I am too forward in giving this opinion, but—I hope you decide it to be a swift and bloody one.”