The moment I return to the meal hall, I know that I must get to Jaemes. I have to talk to him, promise to get him out somehow. My new runes can be key—if they turn out to be useful enough, maybe I can persuade the Runethane to commute his sentence to exile. Guilt bubbles up: I should’ve been more careful with the investigations; we should have waited, forged lockpicks, thought of some way to disguise our comings and goings. Or maybe we should just have kept out of this entirely—I have no obligation to stay down here and neither does Jaemes. We could have headed out and up at the first sign of trouble.

No, we couldn’t have. I need redemption for my sins of ten years past, and Jaemes would never have agreed to abandon us dwarves, who he has such a soft spot for. His life’s work has been built on us, after all.

When we took it upon ourselves to catch the killer, we knew we were risking worse than imprisonment. This kind of thing was to be expected.

Where’s he being held? First order of business is to find out. I hurry around the meal hall, pushing my way through knots of shouting, arguing, panicking dwarves, looking for Nthazes. He’s more trusted and senior than me: he might know. I find him leaned against the wall near one of the corners, staring out blankly.

“Jaemes!” I shout to him. “Where’s he being kept? Do you know? Were you told?”

The hall is such a crowded chaos of confused shouting and clattering armor that at first he doesn’t hear me, or maybe his mind is just somewhere else.

“Nthazes, where’s Jaemes? Did you hear?”

He’s turning his partly-covered mace around and around in his hands like it’s the axel of a wheel. His breaths are short and rapid.

“Nthazes! Do you know where they’ve taken Jaemes?”

He snaps out of his stupor, looks at me, then shakes his head. “No idea.”

“We have to find him. Do you have dungeons down here?”

“No. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“Maybe he’s in his chambers—that’s a barren enough cell. We should check there first.”

“Zathar, we can’t free him, you know that.”

“We at least need to see him!”

“They won’t let us.”

“There was nothing in his sentence that said he couldn’t talk to anyone.”

“Even so—”

“We have to try! And we can’t give up hope—the Runethane was pleased with the runes I brought. Maybe I can persuade him.”

Nthazes shakes his head. “You know you won’t be able to. You know how stubborn he is.”

“But maybe if we stop—” I nearly say ‘the killer’.

Nthazes understands without me having to say the word. “Even so, he won’t free him. It can’t be done, Zathar.”

“We still need to talk to him!” I say, desperately. “Or I do at least. Maybe you shouldn’t draw attention to yourself. Let me be suspected. My friendship with him is better known.”

“You can’t go down alone. You’ll be seen and caught. Don’t do anything rash.”

“I won’t! I’m not a fool, Nthazes. I know the Runethane’s goodwill towards me isn’t infinite. But I can’t just let him rot alone. I need to at least see that he’s alive, and that they haven’t battered him to death out of malice.”

“They? You mean the four Cathez had bring him out?”

“Yes.”

“I know them: they’re not cruel. Cathez wouldn’t have chosen anyone like that.”

“I still need to check up on him.”

“Calm down, Zathar!” Nthazes grabs me by the shoulders and squeezes, hard. “Calm down! If we do something rash, we’ll end up in there with him—”

“But—”

“I want to help him too! Believe me, I feel responsible for this as well. But the fact is that we can’t do anything for him. All we can do is trust that he’s being fed—and he is, we’re not that cruel down here, no matter how things are up above. Cathez at least won’t let him starve.”

“That doesn’t mean we can just abandon him!”

“I’m not suggesting we abandon him. We’ll find a way to help him, but we need to calm down first, and think rationally about it. There’ll be opportunities. Maybe I can get assigned to guarding him, or one of Belthur’s group will, and we can get him a message that way.”

“Like a letter?”

“Yes, a letter. That’s more realistic than barging in, or trying to sneak our way in.”

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

I swallow hard, then nod. “All right. You’re right. I’m sorry. I panicked.”

Nthazes is right. This isn't the time for swift action, but for careful thought and planning. I need to calm my emotions and think logically. Rushing our investigation is what got Jaemes into this disaster in the first place.

“That’s okay. Everyone’s panicking." Nthazes shakes his head. "I still can’t quite believe we’re headed down the Shaft.”

"Neither."

"No one can, I don't think."

“How are we even going to get down? Isn’t it vertical?”

“Yes. But there’s a lift mechanism. That’s how we’ll be getting down. It’s massive: a few cycles will be all it takes to get every one of us down.”

"It must be ancient. Rusted."

"A little. There's runes on it to prevent corrosion, though they haven't worked perfectly."

“Using it sounds insane.”

“I agree.”

“And even if it doesn't break halfway, surely we can’t beat the darkness. The dwarves of old must have tried before and failed. That’s why the fort was set up.”

“I don’t know the full history, no one does, but you’re probably right.”

I listen around the hall. It’s complete pandemonium; arguments are raging everywhere. Many are hot in the face from shouting, or shaking their fists, or shaking weapons. Some look ready to start throwing chairs or smashing mugs. Through my runic ears the entire scene shakes as voices clash and make the air waver like jelly.

From the snatches of conversation I can make out, there are those who support the expedition, those who don’t but will follow the Runethane’s command regardless, and a few who are saying they’ll refuse to go down no matter the consequences.

The latter seem to be a minority.

“Will you go down?” I ask Nthazes. “If enough dwarves refuse...”

He shakes his head. “He’s my Runethane. No matter what else he might be."

"He's mad."

"Maybe. But order has to be kept. If we disobey him this time, it'll make it easy to disobey him again next time. Or with the next Runethane. We can't set a precedent.”

“If we go down, we’ll all die.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? For sure!”

He sighs. “You never know. There's a chance we survive. Maybe things will get so bad that the Runethane changes his mind and orders us to retreat.”

“At what cost?”

“A great one. There’s no use in speculation, though. Most will obey his orders, and so I will also. I can’t abandon my comrades. We can’t.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “It’s suicide.”

He shrugs. “Everyone here knows he will fall to the darkness one way or another. Either directly, or on some other task in service to the fort. In our hearts, we’re already resigned to that fate.”

"I can't understand that."

"You don't have to. You're from up above, where there's freedom. Down here is only duty."

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

I continue working on my runic dictionary, and the work slows. This is partly due to the fact that my nerves are shot from recent events, and partly because the forges are once more assailed with blinding flashes and the occasional scream. I’m not the only one terrified by the thought of going down the Shaft—those reforging their weapons are too, and this isn’t having a positive effect on their skill.

I force myself to ignore the flashes, screams and gnawing fear, and press ahead with the dictionary. Yet the going remains slow. My fingers move at glacial pace as I twist the wires, I check and re-check each rune a dozen times over, and each session seems to involve more pacing around the anvil than standing over it.

Each time I feel a drop of sweat bead on my forehead, my pen or chisel goes down and I reach for the cloth to wipe it away. I become thirstier and hungrier than ever, and many times find myself heading back up to the meal hall after less than an hour of focused work.

I’m still barely halfway through the dictionary: at this rate the fort will be wiped out by the killer before I finish.

Is the work slowing, or am I slowing it? If the latter, it's not a conscious effort, but perhaps it's an unconscious one. Yes: the Runethane said that once the dictionary was finished we’d be heading down. His logic must be as follows: if we can’t destroy the darkness fully, only weaken it, the eternal vigilance will have to continue, and my runes will be an asset to that—and if I die by the darkness without having written them down, that precious knowledge will be lost.

So by putting off the dictionary, I’m putting off the expedition. Deep down I know this state of affairs can’t last, but even so, my hands refuse to up their pace.

Until one session I’m paid a surprise visit from Commander Hraroth. He appears at the top of my forging pit with a mace as bright as the sun in hand, and a deep frown on his brow. I look up at him nervously.

“Yes?”

“The Runethane is eager to see his dictionary, Zathar.” His voice is as gruff as ever.

“It’s coming along. I don’t like to rush my crafts.”

“No one does. However, the Runethane has asked me to tell you that, since you are from up-above, you understand the value of timeliness better than any other dwarf down here.”

“I’m going as fast as I can.”

“Good. Like I said, he’s most eager to see it.”

After that, I succeed in forcing my hands to move faster, my mind to work quicker, and my feet to keep me rooted before the anvil. Steadily the runes ready to be imprinted into the tablets pile up, and the scratches explaining their definitions multiply tenfold.

A dozen or so sessions after his first visit, Hraroth returns. He narrows his eyes at the pile of runes and stack of stone tablets on the anvil.

“How fast is it coming along, Zathar?”

I give him the most apologetic look I can muster. “Three-quarters done now.”

“I don’t need to remind you that the Runethane is very eager to see his new runes.”

I shake my head vigorously. “Of course not. I just want to make sure there’s no mistakes. If you would be so kind, tell him that. He’s the Runethane: I can’t fathom the shame that would result if I presented him a dictionary full of errors.”

“No. That would not do at all.”

“So, and though it really isn’t my place to say this, I’d nevertheless beg him to have patience with me. A good craft cannot be hurried.”

Hraroth pauses—it’s a long pause, full of meaning. I swallow.

“Neither,” he finally says, “should a Runethane be kept waiting. As I’ve impressed upon you twice already, Zathar, he is very eager to see the dictionary.”

I bow. “I apologize for my impertinence. But I really am working as quickly as I can.”

“Work even faster. Muster every sinew of muscle and every last thread of your thoughts.”

I bow again. “I shall.”

“Good. I will relay this information to the Runethane. And I’ll say it again: he’s most eager for you to present it to him.”

He turns to leave.

“Wait!” I say. “Present it to him?”

He looks back. “Yes. You will present it to him personally.”