I take a step back. Xomhyrk shakes his head.

“There's no use pretending, Zathar. I can tell they're original. Like I told you before, there's no use trying to hide it—not from me.”

“There's nothing special—“

“Cut the pretense!” he snaps.

I flinch.

“I said there's no use trying to hide. Don't get on my bad side, Zathar. Plenty of dwarves have done so, in the past, thinking that I only harm dragons—well, I never kill dwarves unless they try to kill me, but those that follow me on my quests and then disobey—I make an example of them. And by coming with me you agreed to follow my orders.”

“I did not agree to reveal all my secrets.”

“It's no secret. Not to any senior runeknight who chooses to take a closer look at that armor.”

I open my mouth to tell him he's wrong, and stop myself. He's right. If Braztak, a third degree, could guess, that means a great many others can as well. And the further I rise in the ranks the more notice will be taken of me.

My powers cannot remain hidden for long.

“So what do you want?” I say, after a few long seconds of hesitation. “Are you going to imprison me? Use me, like Vanerak wants to?”

“Runethane Vanerak?” He looks confused for a second. “Ah. He was Thanerzak's lieutenant, wasn't he? So he knows.”

“He does.”

“Who else?”

“My guildmaster, Wharoth. Braztak, the third degree in purple and green gold. Two friends in the deep. And Runeking Ulrike.”

“And probably a few more.”

“Yes. Yes, you're probably right about that, though no one's ever confronted me directly until now. But I ask again: what do you want?”

His eyes glint. “You want the honest truth?”

“Yes.”

“To know exactly what I want? Why I've brought you here?”

“Yes.”

He leans in closer. His dark eyes flash. “I'll tell you more. I'll tell you everything I've ever wanted.”

I take a step back. Then he smiles, and throws up his hands.

“All I want, all I've ever wanted, all I ever will want, is to kill dragons. That's all. To kill dragons.”

I still feel tense. “That's all?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“I heard a rumor that you want the mountain and its riches for yourself.”

“Do you usually listen to rumors?”

“I suppose not.”

“You suppose not. Don't.”

“Very well. I'll believe you.”

“You quite obviously don't.” He shrugs. “Well, you'll come to believe soon enough, I think. Once you see me risk my life, all I've built up, to slay the black dragon.”

“I hope I will see that. But commander—”

“Just call me Xomhyrk.”

“Xomhryk, then. You still haven't told me what you want with my runes.”

“I want to help you.”

“To help me?”

“Yes! Is that so hard to accept? I see myself in you, Zathar. Quite a lot of myself. I want you to succeed. I want you to kill this dragon with me. I'm not a selfish dwarf. I'm not interested in glory—frankly I don't care who kills it. Some are saying I'm worried that Uthrarzak's dwarves already have—if so, all the power to them. I'll congratulate them.”

“I don't think it would turn out well if they get their hands on the dragon's hoard.”

“Have you heard that he's evil? Not really—just strict. But we're getting off the tracks. I want you to become stronger. I don't want to see you burned to charcoal by dragonfire—like I've seen many promising young dwarves burned.”

I nod. I'm looking into his eyes, and I think he's telling the truth. Wharoth's told me many times that not every dwarf is out for himself. Nthazes wasn't, Braztak isn't—and I don't think Xomhyrk is either. It really seems that all he wants to do is slay the black dragon.

Just like me.

“Satisfied?” he asks.

“Yes," I say after a pause. "And I'll be glad of any help. But, and no offense, how? Have you known a dwarf with this power before?”

“Never.”

“So how, then?”

“I think I hinted at it the last time we met.”

“You said my script wasn't good enough.”

“You sound offended. I said it wasn't as good as the Runeforger's scripts, though it is more suited to your purposes.”

“I'm not offended—not much, at least. Like I said, I'm eager for advice. It's just that every time I've created my own runes so far, they've felt like improvements.”

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“I see.”

“These runes of ice are the first time I've created an entire new script. Maybe that's why they aren't so good.”

“Perhaps. I took a look at your weapon as well, though. Many of the runes were altered, but I wouldn't say improved.”

“The runic flow is smoother with them. And the metaphors better.”

“Yes, because they suit the purpose of your poem better. But in and of themselves, they're at best equal to the runes around them.”

“I don't quite get what you mean.”

“A rune is...” He frowns deeply and scratches at his dark gray beard. “A rune is symbol of power... Ah, how do I explain? You're not an initiate. You're a fourth degree... How do I explain this?” He runs a hand through his hair, scratches the back of his neck. “A rune is a manifestation of the crafter's will in distinct metal form, brought into being by the application of reagent—the soul to the body.”

“I know all this.”

“As symbols, though, they're made by mortal hand, and thus imperfect.”

“Imperfect?”

“Almost blasphemy, isn't it?”

“Blasphemy? What's that?”

“It means when you speak against a god. Hah, how often is that word used? Once a century, maybe, since us dwarves have no gods. But runes are close enough to gods for us.”

“And they're imperfect?”

“Yes. They're just symbols. Not like human magic, or draconic. That's pure. Elemental, of what makes up the world. Us dwarves are special—let's ignore elves and trolls for now—in that our magic is shaped by us, not merely harnessed. Power from the earth is given form so that we can be precise with it. That was the Runeforger's gift. He could twist power. You can twist power.”

“But I'm not as good at twisting as he is, and even he wasn't perfect. Is that what you're saying?”

“Yes! Precisely. I think what's gone wrong with your ice runes—wrong being very relative, since your armor is nearly third-degree quality—anyway, what's gone wrong is that you didn't understand the kind of power you wanted in them.”

“I wanted the power of cold.”

“But do you know cold?”

“I thought I did.”

“Have you ever been to the far, far north, or the further south?”

I shake my head.

“Then you've never walked into an ice mountain.”

“No. Just read about them.”

“That's not enough. The Runeforger traveled all over, you know. That's why different places have their own scripts. He learned as much as he could about what he was going to write, and then he made his runes. You should do the same.”

“I did. I spent time with ice before writing it. Though—“

“What kind of ice? Where?”

“An eatery,” I say, feeling somewhat embarrassed. “That's the only place I could think of in Allabrast.”

“You need to travel up the highest peaks and live in the snow for a few years if you're going to equal the Runeforger—the first runeforger—with his colder scripts.”

“There isn't much snow underground.”

“Well, no. And you were in a hurry to come on my expedition.”

“Yes.”

“Once we slay the dragon, let's travel up to the top of the mountain together. You and I, and our guilds too. We'll roast goats over the campfire, then you can go up to the coldest places and ponder your runes.”

“Alone?”

“Only you have this power. You must find your own way with it.”

I nod. “I see.”

And I'm not just saying that—I can see. I can see Braztak and Erak and Faltast and the tenth degrees and everyone else sitting around the campfire on the slopes of the mountain. We're scarred and scorched, but we have won a great victory. The greatest. A goat is turning on a spit, and we munch on roasted meat, and we drink pure melted snow. Xomhyrk and the Dragonslayers declare their eternal friendship with the Association. And then I, in peace, make for myself a forge atop the mountain and create runes of ice equal to any the first runeforger made.

I feel hot all of a sudden. I remember the heat of fifteen years ago, burning through the rocks around me, making them glow. Fire obliterates the campfire, my forge, my runes, the mountain.

“I can't see past the dragon, Xomhyrk. Only up to it.”

He smiles gently. “Yes. That's right. I got ahead of myself. That's all you should see—it's all I see as well. Still, it's a thought, isn't it?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I'm glad we've come to a common understanding. Let's head back now. I know you have a lot of repairs to make.”

We start off back down the corridor. Through my mind fly my runes of ice. I look for imperfections in them, problems, reasons for Xomhyrk thinking they aren't as strong as the first runeforger's creations.

I can't find any. Well, that's a problem I'll lay aside for another time. In the meantime I flex my fingers in preparation for forging. I try to recall where the damage to my armor is worst, and think about how would be best to repair it. Which runes need to be remade? Ah, back to runes again. Frustration rises in me. I feel my face grow hot. Where are the errors? What is so inferior about my runes? They are my pride. I must improve them! But how?

A sudden idea strikes me. I stop.

“Wait! I have a question.”

Xomhyrk turns. “What is it?

“Is it very cold at the top of Heldfast Hill? Have you ever been up?”

“It'll be colder in a month or so, but yes, I suppose it's pretty cold right now. Though I don't know how much ice there'll be.”

“Still, any cold could help, right?”

“You're thinking of improving your script right now?”

“Yes.”

He nods approvingly. “A good idea.”

“I'll head up then. Now. I don't want to slow us down.”

“No. Take your time—don't hurt your craft with some shoddy repair work. Quality is more important than speed.”

“Even so, the sooner I start the better.”

“There's a way up close to our hall. You can get one of the hill dwarves to lead you once we return.”

“All right then.”

We restart our walk along the corridors.

“This is the first time you've left Runeking Ulrike's realms, is it not?” he says.

“Well—I started out in Runeking Uthrarzak's, to tell the truth. But you're more or less right.”

“Let me tell you about some of the places I have been, and the runes I have seen. Perhaps it will inspire you.”

So, on our way back, which he takes at an easy pace, I hear more of the dwarves of the sandstone catacombs and their many rings and necklaces of speed and strength. I hear of their weapons: the only way to kill a rockworm is by hammer, so those are most revered. They use spears also, to hunt lesser game, and consider being slain by a spear to be the greatest insult there is.

He tells me of dwarves that live deep below the jungles of the far east. The roots of the fungus—though apparently trees are not fungi, but something else entirely—the roots reach deep through the stones. They feed on the detritus filling the deep caves there, which are infested with insects that make dithyoks seem weak. The runeknights there enrune their weapons with poison, and their armor blocks their scent so that they might avoid attention.

He tells me of dwarves to the west who live in flooded caves. Their helmets allow them to breath through water and their boots are made like the fins of fish.

There are dwarves who live just above the magma sea, who sacrifice their crafts to it once they've fulfilled a certain purpose.

There are dwarves who live in caves of salt and salterite, who've found a way to make that reagent graft runes—though they didn't let Xomhyrk in on the secret.

There is a realm where diamonds are as common as iron, but the dwarves there permit no outsiders, and no one is willing to risk death on their blades, the crudest of which can part all but the toughest armor like paper. They didn't need Xomhyrk's help to slay the dragon which harried them.

The underworld is greater than I ever imagined. This must be how Nthazes felt when I explained to him the ways of the dwarves of Thanerzak's realm. I thought myself worldly then—how wrong I was!

I am ignorant. Books, it seems, are no substitute for travel.

“You must have learned scripts which have never been seen in Allabrast,” I say.

“I wouldn't say that. Runeking Ulrike is well-traveled also, and your libraries are surprisingly deep. You should visit them. I'm surprised you haven't already.”

“They are not cheap to enter, and we have books in the guild. And you said they wouldn't let me into the bottom layers anyway.”

“Even the middle layers have runes you could never imagine.” Xomhyrk shakes his head. “Truly, the Runeforger was a genius.”

“Runeking Ulrike told me he was killed.”

“He may well have been. That doesn't surprise me. Jealousy is a powerful force. And it's never one for good. I'm glad it's something I've never felt particularly strongly.”

“I wish I could say the same.”

“Oh, I've met a lot worse than you.”

But now we're back at the meal hall, and our conversation ends. The room is a lot fuller than it was when we left, and I can hear shouting from several corners.

“Ah, looks like I'm needed,” Xomhyrk says. Gollor is hurriedly beckoning him over to where the shouting is loudest. An Allabrast dwarf has grabbed a hill dwarf by the collar. Seems I'm not the only one offended by the buying and selling of runes. “See you later, Zathar. I look forward to seeing some improvements to your armor.”

“I'll try my best not to disappoint.”

“I'm sure you won't. Enjoy the cold.”

With that, he hurries into the crowd, leaving me alone to my task.