The runic poem flies from my hands. Partly it’s still a conscious effort: I decide the rhythm, what poetical devices to include, how many lines there should be, which runes are keystones to be grafted with hytrigite and which will take on a supporting role, the central metaphors. Yet at the same time, it’s unconscious. I do not weigh one choice against the other, instead I simply create what feels best and don’t look back.
This means some abyssal runes will go unused—no matter. They can be reutilized in future crafts.
Without going back, with no regard for mistakes or second thoughts, I begin the grafting. Time passes in a blur. I must refine the hytrigite, that most noble and tricky of reagents—I heat the sphere to glowing then it yields to my perfect hammer strokes with no issue.
I graft the final, keystone runes and stumble back, collapse onto the stairs. My breath is coming fast and hard, my hands are trembling, my vision blurry. My ears are filled by a keening sound, and my mouth tastes of burnt titanium. I shut my eyes for a few moments—maybe I sleep, I’m not sure. I wake up, stagger to my feet and over to the anvil.
The poem, inscribed in glossy black and brilliant gold, is shimmering very slightly. Hints of red and violet flash as the glow of furnace plays over the runes. It astounds me—visually it is symmetrical; the abyssal runes form the shape of a diamond in its center. This is an effect notoriously hard to achieve while still keeping the poem’s meaning and runic functions excellent.
And the composition is excellent. I read it. Half narrative epic, half philosophical essay, it tells of how endurance against steel and fire can only be achieved through a combination of time and virtue, using the narrative of a dwarf fighting through a horde of troglodytes and trolls as a metaphor for how titanium is smelted, refined, beaten and annealed.
Several lines are unrhymed, unrhythmed: prose instead of poetry—yet they add to the piece’s beauty.
About half the runes are altered. Like before, I didn't even realize I was twisting the wire into new shapes. Firmly in my mind were images from the dictionaries. Only looking over them now do I see the differences.
Most changes are minor: for example, the rune for troll, bostrol, is missing its basal stroke, its head stroke instead becoming a double-line. However some are more extreme, with meanings I somehow know yet with structures I cannot explain.
The most extreme example of this is a rune that means ‘titanium-flat-turned-edge’. The Yttrite Four script I am using is primarily made of straight lines with a few hooked ones, and on very rare occasions a rune is enclosed by a circle, yet this new rune that’s appeared is fenced by two circles enclosing each other.
I stare at it, trying to puzzle out why I’ve formed it that way, and why exactly two concentric circles can add the meaning of 'turning-edge' to the central branching strokes that represent titanium.
I know that’s what they do, but I can't explain why, or how.
It’s frightening. Somehow I know I should be amazed, but instead, I’m frightened. This poem seems to embody the themes I wanted for it, and I can tell that it'll be tough and strong, and resistant to fire—since that’s what the original poem was composed for—yet how can I be sure it doesn’t have some other, unseen property?
What if, in future crafts, my runes give the opposite effect I want them to have? If this power remains uncontrollable it is certain to happen some day.
And there are no teachers or books that can teach me how to use this power.
Whatever my worries, I’m done now. I rig my repaired back and side plates and internal leather to fit the breastplate, then I attach it snugly. I equip my armor and feel very protected indeed. The runic power feels warm against my chest—not warm like a woolen blanket is warm, but there’s a power against my skin.
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I'm confident that it’ll stand up to a blow from a dithyok, maybe several. If I’m to be caught in another rockfall it’ll maintain its function well enough also, provided none of the boulders that smash it are too large. It should turn all but the most mighty hammer-strikes, axe-chops, sword-slashes and spear-thrusts to weak and glancing blows.
I think the killer would have some trouble stabbing through also. He'd have to go for my weaker plates.
What about against the darkness? Armor is little protection, according to Nthazes. This brings to mind the question of why the dwarves here do not enrune their plates with light. There must be a good reason for it, and I know just who I’m going to ask: Galar.
This new craft gives me the perfect opportunity to talk to him. My plan is to approach him naturally, not mentioning a single thing about the murders. I’ll talk to him like I would to a friend and hope he lets some clue slip.
If he lets nothing slip, no matter. The more I talk to him like a friend, the more eager he’ll be to talk to me again in future. My opportunities for getting information from him will increase.
----------------------------------------
I pack up my forging materials and return them to my storage. Around the forging pits I wander, glancing in politely to see who’s at work. Mostly it’s those who were on the expedition, still fixing up or remaking their armor.
A flash of white grabs my attention. It’s blinding—brighter even than the flashes that sometimes lit up the night in Thanerzak’s realm, from something apparently called lightning. It’s as bright as dragonfire and brings tears to my eyes.
Eyes shut tight, relying entirely on sound to find my way, I walk to the pit the flash came from. I can hear the shape of a trident lying on the anvil within. A dwarf stands over it, stroking his beard. It’s tied into three neat bunches.
I don’t want to interrupt him while he’s in the middle of such sensitive work, so I politely remove my runic ears, avert my eyes, and wait for him to emerge.
“Who’s that up there?” he says, after only a few minutes.
“Zathar,” I say, turning to look at him. He must have heard my breathing. “I’ve come to ask your advice.”
“About what?” His eyes are narrowed. He’s thrown pieces of cloth over his craft and his tools to hide them from my sight.
“Almergris. That’s all.”
“Why not ask your friend?”
I pretend to be hurt. “Aren’t you my friend? Did I not help save your brother’s life too? Nthazes is busy, if you must know. And you’re working with it right now, aren’t you? Might as well ask you.”
“I suppose.”
“Well, can I come down?”
“I don’t know. Every time you talk to me the conversation tends to go in, let’s say, unpleasant directions.”
“I’m only here to talk about forging. And I have something you might be interested to see in return for your help.”
“What kind of thing?”
“Runic knowledge.”
His eyes glint greedily, betraying the reluctant cast of the rest of his features. “All right. Very well then. Come on down.”
I descend. The forging pit is terribly cluttered. In one corner are the remains of several meals, and about a dozen waterskins lie next to the food scraps, some empty and some full. He’s been camping out down here.
“I was told not to bring food down here,” I say. “How do you get away with it?”
“Going to report me, are you?”
“Of course not.” I give him a conspiratorial smile. “I’d like to do the same. Keep one of the better pits to myself, you know? Some are better than others, after all. I notice the anvil in here looks relatively new.”
“That’s true: this is one of the better ones. As to how I get away with living down here, well, most stay away from forging pits making bright flashes. And it’s an unspoken rule that you’re not allowed to distract anyone in the middle of using almergris. A sensible rule too.”
“It really can blind you then?”
“Oh yes.” He walks over to something square and concealed with a cloth. Before I have a chance to shut my eyes, he whips the cloth away. I freeze in shock, feel my breath stop.
“Relax,” he laughs.
I let out a long breath. “Nearly gave me a heart attack, you bastard.”
“No need to be scared,” he chides. “Come look. Have you ever seen it up close before?”
Very cautiously I walk forward and look into the box. It occurs to me that if Galar is the killer, and wants me off his trail, all he has to do is touch a hot steel to this box and I’ll no longer be any threat to him.
No, I’m being silly: if he wants rid of me he could simply kill me and stuff me into a cupboard like the killer did to his fourth victim. Burning my eyes from my skull would bring too much attention.
“Look closer,” he says.