The next killing is in the forges. The victim’s desiccated body is found squeezed into a storage cupboard, half crushed and crumbled to dust. No one knows when he was killed, for how could they, with no sense of time down here? Likely it was at a time when the forges were relatively unoccupied. We do not know who went down there with him either.

All those not on duty gather in the meal hall.

“Take him to the Runethane,” orders Commander Cathez. “And you, Hurist, you go too.”

Hurist, who discovered the body after noticing that the door to the storage compartment was slightly cracked, nods silently.

“How come he didn't notice earlier?” someone whispers. “He said he’d just completed his craft when he saw the door was broken. Wouldn’t you notice something like that as soon as you went in?”

“I don’t know,” comes a reply.

Both voices are so quiet I can hardly tell if they’re real or my own thoughts.

“There was never any craft... He killed poor Fjorik and placed his materials on the anvil so he could avoid suspicion.”

“If he wanted to avoid suspicion, why run out the pit shouting?”

“Because that’s what the shadow dwarf wouldn’t do.”

“Hurist can’t be a shadow dwarf. He’s been with us since he was an initiate. We would have noticed.”

“He’s been into the Shaft many times. What if, one time, he didn't come back... But something else did...”

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

A search of the forging pits finds nothing. Runethane Yurok decrees that each time we forge we must inform a senior runeknight, posted at the entrance to the hall, of which pit we will be using. He also decrees that the punishment for spreading malicious rumors is to be indefinite imprisonment. This quietens things for a while, and I become too scared to ask Jaemes if he can come up with some alteration to Nthazes’ plan to make it less dangerous.

I have no doubt that the rumors will spring back to life, however. The Runethane’s threat is not a realistic one—he cannot imprison half the fort, or who would there be to protect against the deep darkness?

So for now I wait and forge. My gauntlets begin to come together. My ring crafting process becomes smoother and more accurate, and the pile of rejects stops growing so quickly. My fingers get into the habit of weaving the links together; in fact they become so adept that sometimes I feel as if I am not doing the work myself, but simply observing the hands of an expert worksdwarf as they perform the task they were created for.

I still make mistakes, though. About a dozen times I manage to hammer my fingers when flattening the rings, I gash my gloves with the clippers at least twice, and once I somehow squeeze my pinky finger in the pliers instead of the rivet and feel the bones nearly crack.

Nevertheless, by the time the fear of imprisonment has died down and the rumors are beginning to flare up once more, the chainmail is nearly complete. And it only took one hunt for me to be able to afford the rest of the titanium; it was a dangerous one: two dithyoks nearly took our kill from us.

I work on turning the ten rectangles of maille into fingers. Fitting them exactly proves to be a difficult process. Too tight and I can’t get my fingers in, too loose and they’ll be uncomfortable and prone to getting mangled in the stress of combat. It takes me many tries of linking, unlinking—a miserable process since I’ve riveted everything really quite securely—and linking again, often followed by more unlinking, before I finally have ten fingers I’m satisfied with.

Next, I link the fingers to the larger squares of chainmail that will go over the backs of my hands, which means further irritating readjustments until I get a fit I’m satisfied with. My fingers start to lose some of their unconscious smoothness as strain starts to win against muscle-memory, yet I feel duty bound to not take a break: if I don’t work as hard as possible, perhaps that means another dwarf has to die. The quicker I finish my gauntlets, the quicker I can help Nthazes with his plan—which I’ve decided to fully commit to.

So long as my gauntlets are fast enough, I will stop the blow.

In order to ensure their speed, I’ll have to pull off some of the best runic poems I’ve ever attempted. Fortunately, gold and incandesite will be perfect for these: reckless speed and crushing power is what I’m aiming for, and I don’t care about restraint. On each one of the twenty-eight titanium finger plates I write a poem praising the fastest things I can think of.

The frog’s tongue. The troglodyte’s poison dart. The strike of a snake. The searing gout of white flame from a salamander’s maw.

Metaphors based on living things are always a risky business. Just like living things themselves, they are unpredictable, and the incandesite I’m going to graft them with will make them even more so. I worry that maybe I’m making a mistake, because, after all, what use is speed without at least some measure of accuracy?

It’s too late to stop. By the time my worries grow into doubts, I’ve already twisted the gold wires into shape and am sprinkling them with incandesite. With a series of flashes of yellow fire, I graft them.

Runes completed on the fingers, I finalize the poems for the plates on the back of my hands. These poems are twins, each composed in the same fast one-two-one-two beat. I stay away from the animal metaphors, and instead praise the speed at which the stalactite comes crashing down upon the unaware victim on the left gauntlet, and praise the speed at which fire can consume dry wood on the right. This latter makes me feel slightly uncomfortable, yet I can come up with nothing that flows quite as well.

After all, I’m very familiar with the speed at which fire devastates. Of course that’s what I can write about best.

I am just about to begin welding the plates to the chainmail, a very delicate process involving white hot titanium, which I really ought to have done before grafting the runes just in case I misjudge the temperature and overheat the incandesite on the back side of the plates, when I am interrupted by none other than Jaemes.

“Zathar?” he calls down to me.

I drop a white hot rod of titanium on my shoe. Flame flashes and a not-insignificant amount of leather is instantly converted to smoke. Some of my skin underneath is converted to burn.

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“Ow!”

“I apologize for disturbing you,” he says as he descends the stairs. “We need to talk urgently.”

I grimace as I pat the flames on my shoe out. “What about?”

“Your friend, looking for advice,” he says, lowering his voice to a whisper, “Has just confided in me your plan.”

“It’s his plan,” I say, also hushing my voice.

“I would recommend against it. Also, I might have expected you to talk to me about it.”

“I was going to after I finished these.”

“Are you really going to go through with it?”

“Yes. Though, I did want your advice on how to make it less risky.”

“I’ll give you the same advice I gave Nthazes: don’t do it.”

I shrug, then grin with fake bravado. “These gauntlets will be faster than anything I’ve made before. Not quite as tough as my last ones, maybe, but faster for sure. I'll grab his blade and the killer won’t stand a chance.”

“You seem to be assuming that he’s using some kind of knife.”

“What better weapon is there for stabbing someone unawares in the dark? Though I suppose it could be a sword.”

“It might be unlike any weapon you have ever seen before. For example, have you considered the possibility that it could be a ranged weapon?”

“You know us runeknights rarely use them. Why craft something that you’re just going to throw away?”

“This runeknight is not like the usual, I fear.”

I frown. “So you think he has some kind of crossbow?”

“I did not say that. Actually, I think it more than likely that his weapon is some kind of knife. My point is that he could be wielding something you do not expect, in a manner you do not expect. And, your fighting experience notwithstanding, for the dwarves down here, darkness is their natural arena. He will have the advantage, especially if he gets the jump on you.”

I open my mouth, but have no reply. He’s right. No matter how thoroughly I prepare, the one who strikes first always has the advantage, especially so in the blackness in a location far more familiar to him than it is to his prey.

“So will you stop this madness?” Jaemes pleads.

I sigh. “I’ve already made up my mind to go through with it. It seems cowardly not to.”

“What happened to our original plan about finding the weapon first?”

“Nthazes doesn’t think there’s any way of finding the weapon unless the killer’s grasping it at the time. And I have to agree. Are you suggesting we force each of our comrades to strip down to their skin? I don’t see how that’s possible.”

Jaemes shakes his head. “Careful observation and deduction should be our way forward.”

“We haven’t observed enough to be able to deduct anything.”

“Observe more then. It takes time.”

“We don’t have time.”

“We have plenty. Months go by between the murders. The murderer isn’t hurried—more proof that he’s one of the dwarves down here—so we shouldn’t rush things either.”

“Even so...”

“Why is your friend so keen to take this gamble anyway, if I might ask? It’s a decision unlike what I would expect from these dwarves.”

“He has his reasons.”

“Worried someone else will catch him first?”

I scowl. “That’s none of your business.”

“It’s all of our business, Zathar. I strongly believe that we three are the best chance of stopping the killer, and I don’t want you to throw your lives away.”

“Look: I’m going through with this. If you want to help me, think of some way to increase our chances of success.”

“I don’t think there are many ways. And I’ll also point out that the greatest danger involved is not that the killer will come for you, but that a different dwarf will discover you and become very suspicious. Things are reaching rather a boiling point here.”

“Which is why I think we should try and get this over with.”

“We’re just multiplying the risk.”

“Look,” I say crossly. “We’re going through with it. If you can’t help me, stop distracting me. If you can, do so.”

He throws up his hands. “Fine, then. I’ll think of a way to make your mad plan less mad. However, I guarantee nothing.”

“Thank you.”

He sits down on the steps and gets into his thinking posture, one knee up and his chin in one hand, gently massaging where his beard ought to be. I don’t know if all humans need to do this to think, or just him.

I pick up the heated titanium rod from the floor by the handle-end wrapped in thick salamander skin, and reheat until the other end is close to dripping. Then I use it to push the chainmail against the inside of the titanium plates. The welds this creates will be rather weak, but this is just the first stage. The second involves fitting tiny beads of solder—I’m using a silver-copper alloy—just below the rings of the maille against the titanium plate, along with a bit of resin to prevent oxidation. Next, I use the same white-hot rod to melt the solder and join chain to plate.

The reason I’ve gone to all the trouble of making a full-chain glove when there is going to be plate over it anyway, is to make sure the runic power from the plates flows properly through the whole gauntlet. The more points of contact between plate and maille, the better the effect the runes will have.

“I have one idea,” Jaemes says, just as I’m about to start soldering the finger-plates.

“What is it?” I ask, turning from my craft.

“As I understand it, you two plan to be in the dark.”

“Yes. Nthazes will have his mace, but he’s going to cover it securely.”

“Why?”

“Why? If someone was to see us down here alone, they would get suspicious.”

“Isn’t the point that they think you’re alone? There has to be some sign that you’re there.”

I scratch my beard. “True.”

“And if you’re going to have a sign that you’re there... Well, why does that sign have to tell the truth?”

I frown. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“Why do you have to be the bait, Zathar? Why not just put down your torch, wait for the person of suspicion to approach, and spring on them? Just prop the torch against the wall, stand in the shadows nearby—somewhere cluttered, so it’ll be hard to tell you apart from all the gubbins—and when the person of suspicion approaches, spring on him.”

I think for a little bit. “No, that won’t work. If he doesn’t take his weapon out, how will we know it’s him?”

“If he’s wandering around alone, it’s likely him. But if you’re not sure, greet him when he comes to investigate the torch. If he springs at you, you’ll know you have the enemy.”

I think further, looking for holes in his plan, and find none.

“I won’t have to suffer an ambush in the dark,” I say.

“You won’t.”

I nod. “I see. That might just work.”

“There’s still the risk that someone will find your behavior suspicious,” he warns. “I would still caution against your plan.”

"I appreciate your concern, but we've already made our decision. Every day we wait, another dwarf could die."

"Well, all right then. Will you need me there?"

"Do you want to be there?"

"I think it would be best if I continued my involvement from the background," he says nervously. "Especially considering the Runethane's threats toward me. Also, I'm not much of a fighter."

"I think that would be for the best too."

"I'll leave you to your crafting then."

I shake my head. "No, stay here. Safer if we leave together."

"I thought you didn't want to raise suspicion."

"I don't, but I don't want you getting killed either."