I read through the poem I’ve grafted—pausing whenever the runes become to bright—and puzzle over the mystery. This phenomenon was never my intention. Nor, from the composition of my poem, do I see why it should be occurring.

A composition—a poem, long or short, or in some rare cases a prose saga—is the framework for the runes. It does not determine the properties of a piece; the runes themselves do that. This is why they are classed into groups based on meaning: runes of speed, runes of toughness, runes of weightlessness, runes of sharpness, runes of pain, and so on. The more excellent the composition they make up, the stronger their power, and though of course how they are positioned can affect their properties, the poem itself does not determine the overall effect—that is determined by the runes. Even if you used some poetic trickery to compose a poem about speed out of only runes of sharpness, for example, your weapon would not become faster to swing.

At least, that’s the common belief. I’ve heard that the most advanced smiths, first and second degrees, and of course the Runethanes and the Runekings, can transcend what the runes denote, and create powerful effects merely from connotations and subtext. Not that I claim to be this able: when a first degree runeknight wants to forge something with a special effect, he decides what effect he wants beforehand.

Clearly, however, there is something going on beyond the straight meanings of my runes.

I cover up the mace with some thick fireproof cloth. I want no strange questions until I've figured out exactly what's going on, and the breath-like pulsing of the light is sure to attract attention.

I try to recall all I've read about runes and runic function. The Association of Steel's library had plenty of thick, academic texts on the finer points of the subject, but when I attempt to recall what they said I find the decade old memories hazy.

After many, many minutes of deep thinking that leads nowhere, a realization comes to me in a flash. I read over the strange new runes in my poem, and my idea is confirmed.

Though I can see at a glance the meaning of each rune, their more complex aspects are a mystery to me. I cannot make out their more subtle connotations, their specific runic flow-patterns, their antonymic patterns, their complex stresses, and so on—nothing beyond their most basic aspects.

How about the runes on my breastplate? I take it off and inspect, run my finger along until I come to one of the most altered ones. It’s composed of two jagged lines, one with three jags and the other four, linked by two circles. The meaning is ‘break-against-hardness’, but what’s the connotation? Is it that the harder a piece of armor is, the easier weapons break on it? Or perhaps it’s more related to runes used when discussing natural phenomenon, and instead would be better used in a passage about diamonds scratching quartzite.

It’s probably the former, considering the context of the poem, yet that’s just my guess: I can’t tell.

But though I don’t have conscious knowledge of the runes I create, it has to reside in my head somewhere, else my poems wouldn’t read so well.

Unconscious knowledge behind unconscious ability.

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Nthazes told me before that to move up a degree in the fort, you must present a craft to a first degree or the Runethane, and they will decide whether or not you’re worthy to ascend. I have no intention of attempting to climb any higher—fifth is already an incredible achievement for someone only three decades old, and Galar is not wrong about how being a higher rank means more responsibility and heavier expectations. However, weapons of light are always inspected regardless of whether you intend to ascend or not. The main duty of the fort is to defend against the deep darkness, and allowing dwarves with inferior weapons on that job would put everyone’s lives at risk.

So my strange runes are going to be read closely whether I want them to be or not. I feel slightly dizzy at the thought of the attention they’re likely to draw. New runes of light—the Runethane will be interested for sure.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

But my mace isn’t ready for presentation just yet. The head is runed but the haft is still bare: it’s time to see how little I can make it weigh without sacrificing structural integrity.

At my next session in the forges I leave the box of almergris in my storage, and feel a palpable sense of relief as I walk away from it. Quizik, that easy and reliable reagent—though it was relatively unpopular in Thanerzak’s realm—is what I’ll be using for these poems, mixed with a touch of incandesite for a hit of extra power.

I start to twist my silver wire into runes, keeping my eyes on my fingers. Though I’m not focusing on getting each dictionary-perfect, at the same time I’m trying not to let my unconscious mind run completely wild. Maybe by doing this I can exercise a tiny measure of control over my abilities.

Maybe.

Instead of one long poem, I’m going to divide my efforts into three. The first will toughen the metal, the second and longest decrease its weight, and the third will give it friction to improve my grip on it.

I do the first and third first, using runes I’m well familiar with. I inspect the runes—a few strokes have twisted, a few squares have become rectangles and vice versa, but nothing major. Keeping my eyes on my hands seems to have controlled things somewhat: a very useful discovery.

Now for the middle poem. I’m not super familiar with the script I’m using: Naeltrite Five, one dug up several thousand years ago from a vertical cavern to the far west. It has more runes relating to density, buoyancy, and down-force than most scripts, and is the preferred choice for altering the weight of metals.

The poem comes out just alright. A few of the rhymes feel a little awkward, and I’m not sure I made the best choice of meter—I suspect an anapestic one would've been superior to this dactylic one. My unfamiliarity with the script means I can’t come up with anything better though, so I’ll graft as is.

I heat a thin iron and start. It’s a great relief to be able to actually see what I’m doing.

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Craft complete, I wrap it tightly in heavy cloth to hide its pulsing light, and take it up to the meal hall, where I prop it up against the wall next to Heartseeker. I ought to give it a name, but can’t think of a good one right now. It’ll come to me in time.

Now for a celebratory meal. I heap a plate with rare imported pork, crunchy green bracket-fungi, some long mushrooms with pyramidal caps—my favorite variety—and thinly cut gelthob steaks, well done. No water for me today either: I grab the biggest beer mug I can find and fill it to the brim. Foam runs down my beard as I take one swig after another.

It’s good stuff, the beer down here. No dust in it, and it’s rich in flavor. Neither does it taste like it’s made from mushrooms. This is brewed from proper cavern barley.

I shovel down my meal and fill up my plate with another. When I climb into my blankets my belly is full and I’m in a good mood for the first time since the expedition.

Commotion wakes me. The meal hall has filled up while I slept, and is now crowded by what seems like most of the fort. I sit up in shock. What’s going on? Another murder? I approach a knot of dwarves standing nearby.

“Has something happened?” I ask the most senior one.

“Apparently Cathez talked to the Runethane. He’s coming here to deliver the bad news.”

“Bad news? How bad?”

“Don’t know. That’s just what everyone’s saying.”

A few minutes later, Cathez enters the hall. The crowd shifts to give him space. I crane my head and can just see the top of his helmet and the bright mace resting on his shoulder.

“Is Lothan here?” he asks.

No one answers.

“I will wait for him.”

The hall falls silent. The only communication is through meaningful glances—not even a whisper is raised. The anticipation is so strong I feel that I could reach out and touch it. The last remaining buzz of alcohol in my veins chills. There’s fear here too, from the junior runeknights—I see anxious faces and jittering.

I’ve witnessed no accidents since Cathez promised to talk to the Runethane: most of the junior runeknights have paused their efforts to wait for the results. So for them, this is the moment of truth, the moment that could decide whether they live the rest of their lives in light or in blindness.

The meal hall door opens. Five runeknights walk in, maces a-glowing on their shoulders. Lothan is among them.

Commander Cathez turns to meet his angry gaze.

“I’ve already heard why you’ve called us here,” says Lothan. “And I’ve heard rumors that the result isn’t the one we hoped for.”

“Hear me out, Lothan. All of you.”

“Very well. We’re all listening.” He sits down on the stone floor and lays his crutch and weapon beside him. An insult: one does not sit when talking to one’s betters. He makes things worse: “Give us your excuses.”

Cathez narrows his eyes. “You forget yourself. I am your commander. Address me with more respect.”

“I apologize most profusely. Now, would you kindly tell us what the Runethane has said?”