Jaemes and I hurry over. Nthazes has gathered a selection of steel cylinders from under the bed, each about the width and half the length of my forearm. The top of each is open and the inside surfaces are rusted slightly.
“These were used to contain liquid.”
“What do they smell of?” Jaemes whispers.
“Blood. But rust smells like that anyway.”
“What runes are on them?”
“There aren’t any. These are just plain containers.”
“Still suspicious,” I say.
“Not really,” Jaemes counters. “They could just have been for quenching some small craft. Or to melt certain low melting-point metals in.”
“I suppose. We shouldn't dismiss the chance it was blood though.”
I put my head down to peer under the bed to see if there’s anything nearby them. Something glints brightly. I reach in with my hand to pull it toward me but it comes apart. It’s not one thing, but many. Shards of something—shards of glass, I see, as I pull them out.
A memory flashes in my mind’s eye. Of peering down on Fjalar and Galar as they argued over a craft—a glass rod they were trying to turn into a cylinder. And on these shards are broken runes.
“I know this!” I whisper. “I saw them working on this, or something similar! A cylinder of glass!”
“Was that one runed as well?” Nthazes asks. He picks out some larger fragments and tries to fit them together.
“I was too far away to see. What runes are there?”
“Can’t quite make it out... This is Holgoth Cavern script, I’m not that familiar with it... Not many are...”
He tries to put together several fragments, a hard task since each is no bigger than my fingernail, and his gauntlets make fine movements awkward. But Jaemes manages to find two pieces that match. On them is a single rune.
“What does that one mean?” I ask Nthazes.
He squints at it. His eyes widen. “It means ‘draw-in-and-expel’.”
“This proves it then! This is exactly the sort of thing we were expecting to find, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s nothing conclusive,” cautions Jaemes. “It doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with blood.”
“No,” Nthazes says, putting together a few more shards of glass. “There’s no mention of blood anywhere that I can see. Nor about flesh, or stabbing, or stealing vital energies.”
“Even so, this proves they’ve been experimenting with drawing liquid in and expelling it somewhere else. Having blood-smelling containers right next to it is especially suspicious.”
Nthazes gives them another sniff. “I’m sure it’s just rust. If Galar is the killer, he’ll have thoroughly cleaned anything with blood on it.”
“Still,” says Jaemes, “Them crafting this smashed glass right before the murders does make me think we’re on to something. Not that anyone down here will put much weight into that conclusion.”
“Fjalar or Galar is the killer,” I say. “I’m certain of it now. One, or both of them.”
“We need to search Fjalar’s quarters as well,” says Nthazes. “See if there’s anything similar.”
“Next time,” I say. “I’m worried about the noise we made breaking in. We better get back. Put the glass and containers in my bag.” I hold out the one I brought for this kind of thing. “We can make a better examination of the runes in the forges some time.”
“All right. Just make sure no one sees them. Especially not Galar.”
“Of course.”
He wraps the shards in one of the strips of blanket he’s been using to conceal his mace, to stop them making a noise, and I put them into my bag with the metal cylinders. Cautiously we leave—and not a moment too soon. Halfway back we meet Belthur and the other three.
“Another group said they heard something,” he hisses. “That was you? Was it?”
“Yes,” Nthazes whispers. “The door was locked. I had to smash the handle.”
“You’re lucky they couldn’t tell the direction—or rather, you’re lucky we misled them, sent them the wrong way. Be more careful next time.”
“We will.”
“I imagine the handle is still smashed?”
“Yes.”
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
“If a patrol sees, it’ll cause all sorts of trouble.”
“Can’t be helped,” I say. “We have to take risks. And it paid off—we have evidence now.”
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The equivalent of a few days later, the stone tablet the Runethane mentioned, the one with a list of all five hundred and forty seven runes of light engraved, is stood up in the meal hall. There are two main scripts, simply known as Light Two and Light Three. There is also Light One, a smaller sub-script, a kind of forerunner to Light Two with only fifty-eight runes.
I ask around, but no one knows much about their history, not even what part of the underworld they came from. The most likely theory, at least according to Jaemes, who has studied them some, is that they are from the most northern reaches of the world where dwarves dwell in caves of ice.
In some places the ice is so clear that the sun can be seen through it from nearly a mile below the surface. It’s possible, Jaemes says, that these sun-intrigued dwarves desired to capture the beauty of it and called on the Runeforger—or a runeforger: no one knows how many dwarves were blessed with the ability—to write down magic that would imbue their crafts with the same heavenly brightness.
His only evidence for this theory is some vague similarities between the Light Three and some obscure northern script though, and he admits he doesn’t really know for sure.
Memorizing them proves to be a medium challenge. Light Two is composed mainly of small circles with lines running through or adjacent to them, always touching. A few have ellipses that I’m told must be made exactly right or the rune will blast itself to pieces, yet I only count twenty like this. Light One is similar, just without the ellipses and overall less strokes. I imagine the tenth and ninth degrees will stick to it.
Light Three is a radical evolution of light two, with many-cornered polygons in place of circles. Some are even unfolded polyhedrons, and look very challenging to form indeed. Nthazes tells me I’d best avoid using it.
“There’s one thing I keep meaning to ask you, by the way,” I say to him at one meal.
“Ask away,” he says, hurriedly drinking down some water. “Though I might not be able to explain in too much depth—Kalthik just came back up, which means I’ve got to go back down.”
“As quick as you can then: why no armor enruned with light? Wouldn’t that protect you against the darkness? Render you nearly invulnerable, so long as it was bright enough?”
“Ah,” he says, placing down his mug. “That’s a question that gets asked quite a lot, and one you don’t really understand the answer to until you’ve faced the darkness yourself.”
“How do you mean?”
“Light doesn’t work against it like you think.” He notices a couple of lower degree runeknights listening in on us, and he raises his voice so they can hear better. “The deep darkness isn’t just ordinary darkness. It acts like a living being. It grows through the air like a fungus spreading its roots through soil, seeking out warmth and life. If you were to craft runic armor of light it would find the gaps where the light doesn’t shine quite so brightly, and seep into them.”
“Surely if you’ve moving around, fighting, those gaps would open and shut. Like how a flickering torch casts its light in lots of changing directions. Seems like it would be hard for the darkness to find a way in.”
“Yes, but that’s not all there is to it. The darkness needs to be beaten back. Struck again and again until it retreats. Simple movement isn’t enough. The light must be used like a sword—it must be sent at the darkness with intent.”
“It does sound alive then,” says one of our listeners.
“No one knows.” Nthazes shrugs. “It’s some kind of reversed life, perhaps. Doesn’t matter.”
“Armor of light might provide some protection though,” I insist. “Even if it’s not quite as effective as a weapon.”
“Perhaps,” Nthazes admits. “But almergris is rare. And besides, no one wants it too close to their skin.”
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Those ominous words ring in my ears as I return to the forging pits. There’s only one more task left to finish: replacing Heartseeker’s shaft. After that it will be time for the light-forging.
I hammer away at the bent aluminum just below the blade until, after many brutal strokes, it cracks and comes apart, though it doesn’t detach fully from the blade. Ten years ago I used incandesite to weld the steel and aluminum together, to make sure runic power could flow from one type of metal to the runes on another. Looking at it now, the weld was rather crude. I used too much incandesite, making the join uneven and not as strong as it might have been.
I take a gamble and separate them without the use of salterite. Blade and haft come apart after a few strikes of a sharp chisel. Some scraps of aluminum remain on the darkened steel, and carefully I sand them away.
There’s still a slight stain of discoloration, reddish. I definitely used too much incandesite back then. Very carefully I place a few coarse grains of salterite on the areas where the discoloration is strongest, dab water onto them.
A violent hiss fills the forging pit and red smoke billows into the air. I cough, hurriedly wipe the salterite-water solution away. Black steel shines, barely scratched. I breath a sigh of relief, but there’s still the other side to do. I flip the blade over and repeat the process. This time I’m a fraction of a second too late in brushing away the salterite, and a slight scar has appeared. I suppress a cry of frustration. It’s not that bad—Heartseeker will still be superior to before despite this error.
Now for the hollow titanium shaft. There isn’t really anything that needs to be done to it—it’s a finely made piece, the best quality I could get. It does need a polish, however, and sanding at the top and bottom. The base also needs to be welded shut with a circle of titanium.
I accomplish all this with minimal difficulty.
For the runes on the shaft I’ve decided to go with a similar poem to what was on the last one, with a few stanzas about rigidity as well. Unfortunately I don’t have enough honor for platinum, like what the last poem was made from, so gold will have to do.
I get to twisting the wire into shape. This is to be a poem of speed, accuracy, and how power exerted on a lever can move any foe into the grave. It should make up for the speed and accuracy I lost through the rusting of my arm-plates and replacing my gauntlets.
I twist the final rune into shape and examine them. Some are altered, but again, not so many as were on my breastplate, and there is nothing that looks completely new either. The theme of the poem—one long, continuous line that’ll curl its way from the top of the shaft to the bottom—remains as intended.
Under the first rune, I brush incandesite, graft it with a flash, continue. Once finished, I look over the shining gold and am pleased. The spiraling of the long poem is geometrically perfect. Now to attach the blade, welding with a moderate amount of incandesite.
Once I’m finished, Heartseeker glows blacker than ever. I pick it up, cut and thrust. It feels faster too, and just as accurate as ten years ago. I reckon there’s very few dwarves down here that could stand against me in an even duel.
But my next opponent will not be one I can face with Heartseeker. One sleep later, it’s announced that the almergris is ready for use. Runethane Yurok’s official decree reads thus:
All runeknights must equip themselves with a weapon of light.