The ruby amulet is burning invisibly and keening inaudibly with desire. I bite my lip. This feels like the wrong decision, yet I can't bring myself to doubt my guildmaster's wish. I slip it around my neck.

Immediately I feel renewed. It's like every part of my flesh changes into a tougher and more supple material. One that's more numb also, less capable of pain. My heart is beating faster and stronger. Even my vision and hearing seem sharper.

I walk back into the guildhall where the argument is raging stronger than ever. Insults are thrown:

“The guildmaster is a liar! He promised we'd pursue the dragon as soon as we had the chance!”

“This is not a chance!”

“It is! Xomhyrk is strong! Strong as a Runethane!”

“He's a liar and a fool!”

“How could you know that?”

“How could you know he isn't?”

“You're cowards if you don't go! You shame our guild!”

“You're destroying our guild!”

Who's in the right here? I understand the need for revenge, even if it isn't quite my motive, yet I also understand why Voltost and most of the rest of the guild doubt Xomhyrk. It's a fact he's never seen the black dragon. He doesn't know its power. His strategy, whatever it's going to be, could well get us all killed. And none of this takes into account what Uthrarzak's dwarves, much closer to the broken mountain than we are, will do when they find out we're marching to steal their glory and their riches.

This could well be a suicide quest. And though that's what I signed up for when I swore my oath in the arena, I can fully understand why so many are against it.

When I enter the forge, these thoughts dissipate like smoke in a blast from the bellows. I focus fully on my task: designing my armor. I stand over the papers left on my anvil and continue to sketch.

The shapes come together. The form becomes tighter-fitting than I originally envisioned, slim with corners that come to sharp points. I won't look like the typical bulky, heavily armored dwarf. I worry about this briefly, then brush the worries away. I've never been a typical dwarf. Why should I worry about looking like one?

None of this is to say that my armor will be weak. Just because my poems will be about ice, doesn't mean my titanium's going to turn as fragile as the stuff. It's a metaphor—the base is still titanium. It won't shatter.

Designs complete, I re-check, measure all the angles and lengths thrice, and calculate how much titanium I'm going to need. In short: a great deal. Down to the forging supplies I go.

On the tunnel-streets, all conversation is about Xomhyrk and the black dragon. I'm not stupid enough to pay attention to commoners' hearsay, and so I ignore it. I stride with singularity of purpose, steeled to spend half my savings on a suit which may not, in the end, work out as well as I hope.

Yet when faced with death, one has to take risks, no?

Now I'm back in the forge, sweating and breathing hard from the effort of carrying more than fifty pounds of titanium sheeting of the finest quality on my back. I lay it down at the side of the room.

A drink is what I need, and I nearly leave the forge to go scrounge something from the local liquor store—but I'm pulled back, magnetically, the moment I get to the door. I've forging to do, no time to waste, not even on drink and food. I lay one of the titanium sheets on the anvil—though my anvil is steel, it's treated so not to form any rust, so I don't have to faff around with protective coverings like I did when forging down in the fort. I grab my diamond-edge cutter and start work.

I trace my design for the breastplate into the metal. The shape, on the flat, is like that of a moth, with two wings joined along the middle. Once it's cut out I'll bend both halves together to get the wedge I want, the one which dragonfire will wash over and which human arrows and crude spears will glance away from, crooked and broken.

Slowly, carefully, not rushing a single inch, I cut. My diamond-edge saw parts the metal like paper. Now it's time to hammer and curve it.

I equip my runic ears. The titanium rings as I tap and hammer, unevenly at first, yet soon it's taking on the complex harmony that I want to hear. Remarkably few dents and bumps appear. My first go-over nearly completes the shape, in fact. Concerned that I'm not checking things well enough, I take extra care when going over it again, and find nothing but minor flaws.

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With nothing major to fix, I fix those minor ones. When I'm done, it's the smoothest piece of armor I've ever shaped, and I can't help but feel somewhat proud.

The next plates go well also. I create my backplate, then the pauldrons, the arm plates, the greaves and leg plates, the skirt, the codpiece, and am halfway through the larger plates for my gloves when I begin to wonder how much time has passed. I glance at the timers on the wall, but they don't tell me anything, since I didn't check when I started.

I shrug. Though I'm feeling a little fatigued, it's not enough to make me stop. I'm in the flow of forging now—why bring it to a close unless I absolutely need to? My belly rumbles, my throat feels dry, and I ignore the feelings. Metal is all that matters. Flesh deserves not a thought.

It's almost relaxing, even. The music has a lot to do with this. Commoners, and some runeknights even, like to hear the blare of trumpets, but for me the clang of the hammer is enough.

I complete the gloves down to the smallest plates. I marvel at them, at their perfect forms, their smoothness and their symmetry. Already I can almost see the runes, the white metal triangles and down-pointed barbs. The bare titanium speaks of hundreds of possibilities.

With some reluctance I cease my marveling and turn to grab the next sheet. Abruptly I break into a coughing fit. I recover, make to grab the sheet again, begin to cough again. My mouth is dry as sand. Water! The urge for it battles with my urge to forge.

If I thirst to death, I'll never craft again. I hurry out the forge and down the tunnel. My head aches. My arms and fingers are weak. My vision is blurring by the time I reach the gates to the guild courtyard, and I'm stumbling by the time I'm halfway across it. Someone steadies me by the upper arm.

“Been out drinking, instructor?” asks Guthah. He laughs nervously.

“Forging,” I rasp. I notice that his beard is dripping with sweat. “You been training?”

“Yes.”

“That's all very well, but take the time to improve your armor too.”

He opens the guildhall door for me. “I'm doing both.”

I collapse onto the nearest chair. In between coughs I manage to say: “Get me a beer, would you?”

“Sure thing.”

He runs off to fill a mug from one of the barrels at the side of the hall. It's gone lukewarm, but I'm far too thirsty to care. I have him get me another, and another.

“You really look terrible, instructor.”

“Don't mind me.” I start coughing again. Guthah looks concerned but I shake my head. “I'm tougher than I look,” I rasp. “You saw that for yourself, didn't you? With the troll.”

“Yeah.”

“You have any idea where Braztak is?” The guildhall is nearly empty, and the only remains of the argument are a couple broken chairlegs swept into a corner. “Voltost didn't try to give him a beating, did he?”

“No. Both are too sensible. A couple of eighth degrees declared duels, but they put a stop to it. Things died down after that.”

“It got that serious?”

“Yeah. You sound exhausted too, instructor.”

“I'm fine.” It's not a lie; the beer is slowly bringing my throat back to life. My coughing has nearly died away. “But anyway, where's Braztak?”

“Probably in his chambers sleeping. Same as everyone.”

“Not you though.”

“No.”

“I don't suppose you could get him for me?”

Guthah looks nervous at this request. “I doubt he wants to be disturbed.”

“You're probably right. I'll leave him for a bit.”

“Maybe you ought to retire as well.”

“Nonsense. I just need a few more beers. Ah, I'm beginning to sound like Jerat, aren't I? What side did he end up taking?”

“Braztak's.”

“I suppose that means he'll be joining us.”

“Us?”

“You aren't coming?”

“I... I mean... I'm only a tenth degree, instructor.”

“So?”

“I won't be able to do much against a dragon.”

I laugh. “Neither will anyone apart from Xomhyrk and maybe a handful of others. And me, of course. I'll get a few blows in. I have an oath to uphold. But there's plenty else a tenth degree can do.”

He nods. “Like fighting off humans.”

“I was more thinking of cooking and digging latrines.”

“Digging?” He scowls.

“Think you're above that?”

“Aren't I a runeknight now?”

I shrug. “Sometimes these things are necessary.”

“I guess. But to answer your question, I haven't made my mind up yet. On the one hand, refusing to go seems cowardly. On the other, I've heard how terrible the black dragon is.”

“Hearsay doesn't do it justice. Its heat...” My skin burns just thinking about it. I feel fevered, and have to wipe the sweat from my brow.

“Then I should stay here.”

“Maybe. I can't make your decision for you.”

“You can give me some advice.”

I look him in the eyes. He rocks back a little, as if my intensity is scaring him. “Come with me if you judge it worth the risk. Stay if you're afraid of death.”

“Then I'll go.”

I blink a couple times in shock. “Don't decide so quickly,” I say. “Mull it over.”

“No, I don't need any more time. I've decided. I'm going.”

His face is grim. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. He certainly proved his decisiveness in the examination.

“Very well.”

“I won't get in your way.”

“You won't.”

“Some of the other tenth degrees have made their minds up already. Pellas was the first to.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She told us that her father failed because he didn't take enough risks. She doesn't want to repeat his mistake.”

“I see.”

Suddenly I feel nervous. I recall Wharoth's words from barely a long-hour ago, that on this expedition I'd suffer loss. I remember a certain young dwarf, an initiate, who put his faith in me and lost his head on a bridge many years ago. Am I going to lead Guthah and Pellas to a similar fate? But I won't reject their courage. If they want to come, they can come.

Guthah must see the worry on my face. “Do you not want us?”

I shake my head. “I do. But this quest will be more dangerous than any of you can imagine. Stick by me. All of you. Once we're up on the surface, I'll lead you myself. If you'll follow me.”

“We will,” Guthah says.