The tops of the ballista-towers, where it is coldest, are kept well clear of snow. The dwarves of Heldfast hill don't want any operators slipping over if they have to rush out and loose at the dragon. So it's shoveled off daily and thrown down the sides, where it becomes part of the snowdrifts piled against the stone. Into the biggest of these I wade, hoping to learn of true cold.

Icy white flakes crunch under my feet. As I stride in deeper, they crowd around my legs. I'm wearing only thin clothes, to better feel the snow's texture and temperature, and my skin is already going numb.

Cold robs vitality—I start to shiver once the snow reaches my waist. My feet are wet. My body heat is melting the ice around my legs. Maybe that's the wrong way to think about it—the ice is drawing out my heat. The water will soon freeze back once I'm gone, but my heat won't return to me. Ice as a thief? Maybe that's a theme I could use.

But I'm not really here to think of new themes for poems. I'm here to deepen my understanding of the individual runes themselves.

I wade deeper. The snow comes up to my lower ribs. Now it's coming up around my beard. My shivering is growing more violent, yet I'm barely aware of it; it's just something physical, divided completely from what's going on in my mind. I'm thinking of runes. Why are they shaped the way they are?

I've never been taught why. No dwarf is. It's not written down. They are the way they are because the Runeforger made them that way. As to why he made them that way, only a few mad scholars have ever attempted to find out.

How can a simple shape have power? What's the reason? Is there one? The fundamental difference between logic and magic is that the first has rules and reasons and the other doesn't. Or maybe magic does have rules, but only the Runeforger could figure them out.

The snow is rising above my jaw. Now it's over my mouth, now my moustaches, and now it's over my nose. It's hard to breath. The little air that does make it to my lips is so cold it hurts. My lungs become two bags of pain. I can no longer feel my skin.

Cold! What is cold in runes? How do the scripts shape it? Before the symbol, though, comes first the word: sazk. What does it mean? The sensation? The physical property itself? One word, multiple facets. Like a gem. So what is a rune? Is it a single part of that word, or is it a few parts of it, or the whole thing? It can't be the whole thing, I don't think. A single symbol could not hold so much meaning.

The runes of each script only hold part of the meaning of the words they describe. So when the Runeforger made his scripts, he meant for the runes to have a theme to them. Cold in a script from the deep caves was different to the cold in a script from the ice mountains. Bright in a script from a city by the magma sea was different to bright as written in the scripts of light.

One word, different meanings.

In my script, what should cold mean? The numbness I feel in my limbs? The pain in my lungs? The sense of my life being drained from me?

Strong hands take my shoulders and I'm dragged back out of the snow. I struggle, try to resist them and throw myself back into the snowdrift, but my strength is gone. Now I'm being pulled through a doorway, sat down on a chair. A thick blanket is thrown over me.

I begin to shiver violently.

“Zathar, was it?”

My teeth are chattering too hard for me to answer.

“I heard someone had gone crazy and dived into the snow. I guessed it might have been you. You seemed the type.”

“Jorolot?” I manage to say.

He hefts a heavy sack onto the table in front of me, then places two small boxes beside it. “It wouldn't do to lose a customer. It was palladium you wanted, right? Plus some jasperite?”

“Yeah.”

“I've thrown in some salterite as well. For free.”

“Thanks.”

I'm still shivering badly, despite the warmth from a fire going strong in the center of the circular room. But I'm alive enough to figure out where I am. We're in the ballista tower. A few runeknights are looking at me with suspicion.

“It's all right,” Jorolot says to them. “He's with me. One of the dragonslayers.”

They continue to stare.

“How much?” I ask.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Xomhyrk's already paid for it.”

“Already?”

“Yes. We talked just a few minutes ago. Said he'd pay for anything you need.”

“Damn but it's cold in here.” I'm still shivering.

“Shall I put some more wood on the fire?”

“No, no. I don't want to bother anyone.” Suddenly I laugh. “I never thought I'd say this, but do you have any warm beer? Hot beer?”

He gives me a strange look.

“Never mind.” I rub my hands together to bring some life back into them. They begin to prickle, a good sign.

“Would you like a look at the merchandise?”

“Yes please.”

He pulls the sack open for me. White-silver coils gleam within. It looks a little softer than how the palladium I bought in Allabrast looked.

“Is this an alloy?” I ask.

“No.” He sounds a little offended again. “It's pure as can be. Better than what you get in Allabrast, I'm sure. Who knows where they import their palladium from? But our guild has strict quality controls.”

I reach out with a still-shaking hand and pull out one of the coils. Maybe it's just because my hands are so cold, but the texture feels softer as well. Yes, I can believe this is pure. My dwarven instinct tells me so.

“Where are the forges?” I ask.

“Are you sure you're in a fit state to work?”

“I've never felt better. Please, show me to them.”

“All right.”

----------------------------------------

Jorolot leads me back down into the hill. I collect my armor and weapon from the dormitory. The titanium seems eager to be repaired. The runes that aren't damaged are gleaming brightly, excited, perhaps, to meet new brothers and sisters.

We go past the hall, which is nearly empty now, and along some of the corridors I walked with Xomhyrk. We make a turn down, and I feel heat on my face. The clangs of hammer on metal are ringing through the corridor. I can smell smokiness—so many dwarves are forging, perhaps, that the ventilation can't keep up.

“Here we are,” Jorolot says.

The doors are already open. Inside is a forging hall about as huge as that in the fort against the deep darkness, except here there are no individual forging pits. Everyone is working out in the open, and the anvils are packed uncomfortably close together.

“There's been some grumbling from you lot,” says Jorolot. “About privacy. But here in Heldfast, we don't have any private forges. Forging is something that should be done together.”

“I see.”

“We don't think it's smart to keep things secret. Knowledge should be shared. I hope you don't have a problem with that.”

“I'm not going to argue with you. Can't lose my focus. Where's my guild?”

“I'm not sure. You'll have to look for them.”

“Very well. Thanks for the palladium, and the reagent too.”

“You've no need to thank me. Thank Xomhyrk for paying for it.”

“I will.”

With that, I bow and leave him, and walk through the rows of anvils and sweating, cursing dwarves. A pair bump into each other, and glare so fiercely I think for a moment that they'll strike at each other with their hammers, but they just growl and turn back to their repairs.

The Association of Steel is nearby the Dragonslayers. We're next to the wall, and I see that Braztak has reserved a space for me in the corner.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

“No trouble. I know you especially don't need people watching.”

“You're right about that.”

“Figure anything out up in the snow?”

“You knew I was there too?”

“A rumor spread you'd lost your mind.”

“Hah. Maybe I did for a moment. But I've gained greater.”

“That's good to hear.” He wipes sweat from his brow. “Best get started. We don't want to waste time.”

“No. Of course not.”

He gets back to tapping the dents out of his green and purple gold. I put on a pair of heavy gloves then take out my own armor. I run my hands over each piece, feeling where the dents and a few tears are. Worryingly the metal feels only barely cold, especially my breastplate, which is by far the worst damaged, with many dull and dead runes. The lightning was brutal to it.

Fortunately the runes grafted with hytrigite are still in good shape. They seem to be what's holding the power together.

Dents and tears first, though. I need an even surface to write on, and I need to warm my hands and wrists up too. I take a small hammer from a nearby shelf, put it back when I realize it's rusted, eventually find one coated in chrome.

Tap by tap, hard and then gradually growing softer, I beat the titanium sheets back into shape. It's dull work, but satisfying in its own way. The only thing that frustrates me is that because of the great noise of the forging hall, I can't really use my runic ears. I have to judge my progress by hand and eye alone, and it's fairly dark in here and the metal is starting to get colder as well.

The work is long, but eventually I'm satisfied that the plates are as smooth as I'll get them in these conditions. Next is to fix the tears. I use a glowing brand of tungsten for this. I go very slowly, and very evenly, but still leave a few slight scars.

“Damn!” I hiss.

“What is it?” says Braztak. He's still polishing.

“I can never get welding right.”

“You should try to go slower.”

“I go as slowly as I can.”

“Even slower. And I think your brand was too hot. It needs to be hot, yes, but there's a balance to be kept. Weld at a lower heat, and on both sides too.”

“Both sides? Even with just a thin sheet?”

“Yes. Then you don't have to heat the brand up so much.”

“Won't the middle still be broken?”

“Not if you get the balance right.”

There's one cut remaining, at the back of my helmet just above the neck plates. I have no idea how I got it—maybe an arrow smacked me there and I didn't notice. I heat the brand up to only yellow heat, and carefully run it along the divide, slowly, back and forth. Then I do the inside. I hold it up to the light.

There's a scar still, but it's barely visible.

“Thanks,” I say to Braztak, but he's too absorbed in his own repairs to notice.

He's working on his axe now, re-sharpening it. I still haven't seen it in action, but it's gone quite blunt. It must have taken a fair few heads in the battle.

Next to polish my armor. This gets more difficult the more I progress, as the cold radiating from it harshens. Until now I've been sweating from the heat and effort, but now my skin is prickling into bumps.

After a few hours, the metal becomes too cold to polish. I look over it. It's shining and I can see only a few scratches. But this is still not good enough. I come up with an idea: I wrap the polishing cloth around a long handled hammer, and return to work.

Finally, done. Now to fix the runes. I get out the salterite, and immediately feel trepidation.

I cannot ruin this armor. But the dead runes must be removed no matter the risk.