I, and the other dwarves with no light-enruned weapons, prepare ourselves by attending some of the senior runeknights’ forging demonstrations. They aren’t as much help as I’d hoped. For safety they’re listen-only, and since the forging pits aren’t large enough for dozens of dwarves to be able to crowd in all at once, we have to stand around the top in a circle. The nervous breathing—not to mention the gasps and muttered fearful curses whenever there’s a flash bright enough to shine through our blindfolds—makes it very hard to pick up on the wavering shape of the metal and runes being crafted.

The senior runeknights also have a habit of narrating exactly what they’re doing, which makes actually hearing what they’re doing that much harder. This is for the benefit of those whose runic ears are too poor quality to be able to make out even relatively coarse details, however for me it’s a distraction. I’d much prefer if they spoke only before and after each step.

Frustrated, I ask Nthazes to give me a personal demonstration.

“Maybe I can,” he says. “Not right now though. Duty and all that. Why don’t you start with the design for the weapon itself?”

“I’m planning to. Was hoping you could give me some insight on that as well.”

“I suppose you’ve never made a mace before?”

“Never.”

“Make the handle hexagonal, is my recommendation. Then it’s easy to get a secure fit on the head. Or pentagonal, or septagonal—depends on how many flanges you’re going to have.”

“Any number you recommend?”

“Six is usual. You could go more, but of course that means you’ll have to use more almergris for the extra stanzas—two stanzas to each flange is how I’ve always done it.”

“Maybe I’ll just do one flange then,” I joke.

“That would just be a blunt axe,” he laughs. “Seriously, though—the more the better. Runethane Yurok’s has twenty-seven. I’ve counted. Mine has ten.”

“I’ll go with six for now,” I tell him.

“Good. Not too few and not too many.” He looks toward the door and gulps down the rest of his beer. “I really ought to go—ah, one more tip, make the flanges wide and thin. Remember these weapons aren’t for cracking through chitin. The more surface area for the runes, the better.”

“Makes sense.” I nod. “What about putting runes of weightlessness on the handle? For a faster swing.”

“Not sure. Might be worth a try... Anyway, I really have to go.”

He dashes off down to the Shaft, the head of his great mace balanced on his shoulder. Just before he exits the meal hall, he pulls off the fabric covering it and the flash makes me blink. A ten-flanged afterimage floats in my vision.

I head to the honor-tablets--in a small group, of course. Everyone with no weapon of light has been gifted a significant amount to requisition materials with, and I tell the solemn chamberlain what I’ll be using mine on. He notes down the materials on a wax tablet, checks the list of what we have in stock, and approves my request with a nod. I swear to him that I’ll take only what I requested, then he strikes my new honor-count into the honor-tablet with a diamond-tipped chisel.

I’ve always thought it a rather inefficient system, and considering the mess the storerooms have always been in, I do wonder how accurate the records are.

Eventually I manage to find what I need: a solid bar of titanium forty millimeters wide and four feet long; silver and quizik for the runes that’ll go on it; six titanium ingots twenty by one hundred by ten millimeters; a sheet of titanium eight millimeters thick and half a foot by half a foot in area—and finally, the almergris.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

It’s guarded by four senior runeknights at the back of storage room three—where the first murder took place. They stand at the corners of a stack of large metal trays that were forged for this purpose while we were on the expedition. Each tray is covered by a thick, heavy lid, and the edges of both lid and tray are lined with leather to prevent sparking.

I nod to the closest runeknight. He takes a small box from some nearby shelves, kneels down by the closest tray, lifts off the heavy lid. I wince, expecting light to flood out for some reason, but no, it looks just like the stuff Galar showed me, if a little more vivid in color. Another runeknight passes him a long-handled ladle; he scoops some of the sandy substance out and into the box.

He shuts the box tight, inspects to make sure there's no loose grains of almergris stuck to it, and hands it to me. Then, very carefully, almost daintily, he replaces the lid on the tray. I thank him and, clutching the box to my chest tightly so I don’t drop it, I pick up the bag containing the rest of my materials and head up to the forging halls.

They’re not so busy. Makes sense: who would want to be anywhere dozens of amateurs are crafting with a reagent as dangerous and unpredictable as almergris?

Galar is still at work though—I see repeated flashes from his pit.

I manage to find another good one, with a newish anvil and a fairly compact furnace that should distribute heat evenly. I place the box of almergris on the shelf furthest from it, and lay the first part of my craft on the anvil: the thick titanium rod that’s to become my mace’s haft.

For the while I’ll ignore my worry about the almergris and concentrate on my metalwork.

First, to shape cylinder into hexagon. I turn the rod around and around in my hands as I ponder the problem. Making the flat sides even along the whole length may prove very challenging, especially since the forge isn’t big enough to heat all the rod at once. I’ll have to do it very roughly at first, then attempt somehow to fix all the unevenesses.

Then it hits me that I don’t actually have to turn the whole rod hexagonal, just the top where the flanged head will be welded. I’ll still eventually have to heat-treat the whole thing, but for now, I turn the furnace up to medium and insert the top one-sixth of the rod.

I stand there, sweating, spinning the rod around slowly like I’m roasting a pig on a spit until the top is orange-yellow. Onto the anvil I place it and, holding the rod steady with one thickly-gloved hand, I pick up my hammer.

Down I swing, hard. The metal is thick—I need as much power as I can muster. The titanium flattens out, though not by nearly enough. I swing again, at the same spot. Looks about right, so I move an inch down. The anvil shivers with each clang. My arm shivers also; I hold the metal firm even as my arm slowly starts to ache. Along the glowing orange I hammer until a flat plane is formed.

I turn it over, placing the flat side against the anvil. The glow of the metal reflects off the iron-oxide-contamination prevention sheet. My hands are slimy and sweaty inside my gloves; I don’t let this bother me as I bring the hammer down again, again, keep on bringing it down. This side is already slightly flat from being pressed down by my top-strokes, which makes the job a little easier, but gradually the metal becomes stiffer, more sluggish to respond to my exertions as it cools from orange to red; I reheat it; start hammering again until I now have two flat planes directly opposite each other.

I turn the pole at an angle and start on one side. Every few strokes I stop and examine the craft to make sure the angle isn’t misaligned, and correct my hammering accordingly. The metal becomes cool again; I reheat and continue. Time stops existing for me—all that exists in my world is hammer, heat, and metal.

Thin flakes fall off the piece and disintegrate as I work—it’s no matter, happens with all forging. A brief memory of a lecture I attended long ago when I was an initiate floats up—that runeknight spoke of forges with the air replaced by something else, something inert, to prevent such losses to oxidation, minute as they are.

There is greater depth to forging than I can imagine.

My hammer clangs a final time. The rough shaping seems done. I lay the piece down and let it cool to confirm—it turns back to silver and I haven’t made a mistake. The cross-section is a well-formed hexagon, each side the same length, each angle the same angle.

Now to smooth the planes out. I take up a smaller hammer, adjust my runic ears so they’re fitting properly, and once more insert the titanium into the furnace. I feel no need to rest—I’m in a state of bliss, of easy, flowing concentration.

A scream rings out. My runic ears transmit it in excruciating detail. It’s the scream of someone losing something irreplaceable with no warning. I pull the titanium out of the furnace and rush out. Already a small crowd is gathering. A dwarf is being helped out of his forging pit. He’s shouting:

“My eyes! My eyes!”